...Inside, the fire flared as if echoing their confessions.
Ava leaned back on her hands, letting the silence stretch, not as avoidance—but as something sacred. The kind of quiet that came only after truth had been laid bare. Not all of it, not yet. But enough.
Damien's voice broke it, low and more vulnerable than before. "Do you think we're using each other?"
She didn't answer right away. Then: "Yes."
His jaw tightened.
"But I also think," she continued, carefully, "that sometimes the truth starts in the lie."
Their eyes met. No bravado. No pretenses.
"I don't know what this is," Ava whispered. "But I know it's not fake anymore."
Damien's expression shifted—something fractured, something unguarded. And for a second, the titan, the Ice King, looked like a man just trying not to drown.
"I don't know how to want someone without destroying them," he said.
Ava's breath caught. Not from fear. But from recognition.
"Then we go slow," she said. "Or fast. Or sideways. Whatever it takes. But we don't run."
He looked at her like she'd offered him something more dangerous than love.
Hope.
Morning Light
By dawn, the storm had passed.
The house smelled like firewood and rain. Ava stood barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles, a mug of coffee warming her fingers as the first threads of sunlight stitched across the sky.
Damien entered behind her, quiet.
No suits. No sharp lines.
Just a man.
He slid a second mug beside hers, their fingers brushing.
No one spoke.
They didn't need to.
Last night hadn't changed everything.
But it had changed something.
And whatever came next—boardrooms, battles, betrayals—this was the beginning neither of them had planned.
But maybe, just maybe, the one they needed.
The storm had passed, but something heavier lingered in its wake.
Morning crept into Damien's Hamptons estate like it was apologizing for arriving. Light filtered through the windows in silvery shafts, landing on surfaces that had once felt sterile and untouched. Now the air was charged. Lived in. Disrupted.
Ava stood barefoot at the kitchen island in one of Damien's button-downs, the hem brushing her thighs, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair was tangled from sleep—if you could call what happened between midnight and dawn sleep and her coffee sat untouched. It had cooled an hour ago.
She watched the rain puddle on the flagstone outside, waiting for something inside her to settle. It didn't.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the echo of Damien's hands at her waist, the press of his body against hers. Not urgent. Not impulsive. Deliberate. Like he knew what this would cost him and wanted it anyway.
He hadn't said much after. Just pulled away like he was afraid he'd gone too far—or worse, not far enough. He'd offered her the guest room, distant and polite, then vanished.
She hadn't used it.
Footsteps sounded—measured, quiet. She turned.
Damien appeared in the doorway, damp hair pushed back, sleeves rolled, tension stitched across his shoulders. A towel hung around his neck. There was something different about him in daylight. Not softer—just less guarded.
"You stayed," he said.
"I didn't mean to," she replied, not looking at him.
His gaze drifted to her bare legs, the way her fingers curled around the coffee mug. "Do you regret it?"
She hesitated. "Is that what you want to hear?"
"No," he said. "I want the truth."
She met his eyes, and for a moment, everything in her went still. "I don't regret it. But I don't know what to do with it either."
He stepped closer, slowly, as if unsure whether the floor might give out. "You don't have to do anything. We can pretend it didn't happen."
"Can you?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Ava reached for distance with a practiced smile. "Maybe we should stick to the plan. Public appearances. Carefully timed statements. Fake rings and real smiles."
Damien didn't smile. "Last night wasn't part of the plan."
"That's what makes it dangerous."
He was quiet for a moment, the silence stretching between them like glass. "Do you think I'm dangerous?"
"No," she said. "But you make me want things I've already lost."
His jaw flexed. "Like trust?"
"Like peace."
The air buzzed. Then—Damien's phone buzzed louder.
He checked the screen, and his expression shifted, all warmth draining. He became the Ice King again in a blink.
"Marks," he muttered.
Ava moved to his side. "What now?"
"He wants to meet. Says he has news that can't wait. Something about board votes and... leverage."
Her stomach tightened. "Is he bluffing?"
"Not this time."
Ava set down her cup. "Then let's go."
He looked at her, brows knitting. "You don't have to get dragged into this."
"I already am," she said. "If we're doing this for real—fake engagement or not—then we're in it together."
He stared at her for a long beat. Something flickered behind his eyes, not quite gratitude, not quite fear. "You know, most people would run."
Ava smiled, faint and bitter. "I stopped running a long time ago. Right around the time my father stopped being a senator and started being a headline."
Damien's expression softened just a breath. "Then maybe you understand what it means to lose control of your own story."
A beat.
She nodded. "Let's take it back."
The silence between them was more charged than any argument. Ava stood motionless in the center of Damien Thorne's penthouse, her heels clicking against the marble like a war drum.
"I don't need saving," she said.
"I'm not offering salvation," Damien replied. "I'm offering survival. There's a difference."
Ava's arms crossed over her chest, a shield of steel and silk. "This engagement—how long?"
"Three months. Enough to neutralize Blake's investigations and settle the boardroom. After that, we vanish quietly. No mess."
"You've done this before," she said. "Manipulated the narrative. Used people."
"And you've cleaned up worse," Damien said, his gaze steady. "Your senator father's resignation. The charity fraud. You're not new to this world, Ava. You're just finally sitting at the table."
That stung. Because it was true.
Still, something inside her fought. "And if I say no?"
Damien stepped forward, slowly. "Then Marks wins. And you'll be in headlines by Friday—portrayed as the PR strategist who broke a grieving heir's heart and orchestrated a fake campaign. No one will care about the truth."
Ava's heart thudded. She hated being cornered. She hated that part of her admired how cleanly he did it.
She turned away, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretched beneath her like a lit battlefield.
"Three months. Public appearances. Matching lies," she said finally. "But I keep my firm. And Lena stays out of this."
Damien's voice was quiet. "Done."
She turned. "And you answer to me in interviews. No surprises."
He gave the faintest nod. "You'll have a schedule by morning. Wardrobe fittings start tomorrow. I'll send the stylist."
"Don't bother," she said. "I know how to play the part. I've been pretending my whole life."
He looked at her then—truly looked. And for a heartbeat, Ava saw something in Damien's expression soften. Not pity. Not interest. Recognition.
And maybe that was worse.
Ava brushed past him, her scent a trace of wild orange and something darker—like the edge of a match just struck. Damien didn't follow, but he watched.
She circled the open-plan living room, letting her fingers trail along the cold steel of the bar counter. "You already had this planned," she said.
"I had contingencies," Damien corrected. "You just stepped into one."
A wry smile flickered across her lips. "Tell me—what do I get for pretending to fall for the Ice King? Fame? Power? A matching set of cuffs?"
He didn't rise to the bait. "You get three months of protection. And your name, intact."
Ava spun to face him. "And yours?"
Damien's expression was unreadable. "I don't care about my name. Only what it buys me."
A moment of silence stretched between them. Not cold. Not warm. Just… held—as if the room itself waited.
She stepped closer, heels silent now on the rug. "You don't trust people."
"No."
"You think everyone has a price."
"They do."
"What's yours, Damien?"
His jaw tightened. But he didn't look away. "Not something you can afford."
The words should have chilled her. But Ava only tilted her head, eyes glittering. "Good. I hate cheap things."
Something shifted between them then. Something quiet, dangerous. Not attraction, not yet—but recognition. As if two predators had circled, sniffed the air, and found the same blood in each other.
He stepped aside, giving her space—but it felt like surrender. Or strategy.
"There's a guest room down the hall," he said. "If you need to stay."
"I don't," she replied, already walking toward the elevator. "But thanks for pretending to care."
He watched her go, and for a moment—just a flicker—his hand twitched toward the piano by the window.
But he didn't play.
Not yet.
The elevator doors closed with a soft hiss, and Damien stood alone in the vast silence of the penthouse. The city blinked beneath him, indifferent. Somewhere, a siren wailed and faded.
He moved to the window, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. This wasn't part of the plan. Not entirely. Ava Hart was supposed to be a smart solution to a messy headline. A clean, professional arrangement. But now she was in his space, under his roof, and her fire didn't extinguish—it seeped.
He turned toward the piano. His mother's Steinway. His one unspoken vow. He sat, the keys cool beneath his fingers, and played a single chord.
Minor. Sharp. Unfinished.
Meanwhile, in the back of the black car whisking her away from the tower, Ava stared out the tinted window. Her reflection wavered in the glass, almost unrecognizable. She didn't know if she was furious or electrified.
She'd said yes because she had to. But deep down—beneath the instincts of survival, reputation, and strategy—something else was stirring.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But interest.
Curiosity laced with danger.
She took out her phone and typed a message to Lena.
Ava: I agreed. Three months. Pretend engagement. Keep the firm running.
Lena's reply came quickly.
Lena: You sure?
Ava: Not even a little.
She tucked the phone away and looked out again.
The skyline blurred as the car turned. Somewhere high above, the man with winter in his veins was playing a melody no one else ever heard.
And for the first time in years, Ava didn't know whether she was falling… or being pulled.
The following morning, Ava woke to the sound of heels clicking across hardwood floors—her own. She was pacing. Wide awake before dawn, her mind replaying every second in Damien's office. Every stare. Every measured silence. Every veiled threat wrapped in civility.
She hadn't even unpacked, though her overnight bag sat by the door of her small apartment like it was ready to run.
A knock.
She froze.
No one knocked at this hour.
Peering through the peephole, she found a uniformed courier holding a sleek, black envelope. Not company-branded. Personal.
She opened the door. He handed it over with a nod. "Mr. Thorne asked this be delivered before eight."
Inside was a key card. And a note on heavy embossed paper.
"Tomorrow. 7 PM. Wear black. And don't be late. – D."
Ava stared at the words, irritation crawling over her skin like heat. No explanation. No address. Just an assumption: she'd come.
And of course… she would.
---
At exactly 7:00 PM the next evening, Ava stepped into the grand ballroom of the Halcyon Hotel, a glittering fortress of wealth and power. The press was already there, cameras flashing. She moved through it like smoke, dressed in a sleek black gown with a high slot and barely-there sleeves elegance weaponised.
Then she saw him.
Damien stood beneath a crystal chandelier, black suit tailored like armor, speaking to board members with the kind of command born of solitude and strategy. But the moment he saw her, everything stilled. The corner of his mouth lifted—half challenge, half something she couldn't name.
He offered his arm. "Miss Hart."
Ava took it.
"Mr. Thorne."
They were on display now. Every look, every touch, every word would be scrutinized. But Damien leaned down slightly, murmuring against her ear.
"Smile, darling. Our audience is watching."
She smiled.
Not because of the cameras.
But because for the first time, she realized something dangerous.
She was enjoying this.