He hadn't slept in two days.
Every message he drafted for Ava was erased before it ever hit send.
And yet, here he was — standing outside the art gallery where her work was displayed, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, heart jackhammering in his chest like a damn teenager.
He wasn't even sure she'd come tonight.
But something told him she would.
He turned the ring in his pocket over and over again, not because he planned on giving it to her — he didn't even know if he had the right to hope — but because it reminded him of the version of himself she once believed in.
He'd left everything behind.
His father. The name. The empire.
None of it mattered anymore.
Because none of it was real without her.
He stepped inside the quiet gallery. The soft light bathed the room in a muted glow. Paintings of emotion, memory, pain and passion surrounded him. And there — in the far corner — hung a new piece.
A sketch of a man with his back turned, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets.
But the most striking part?
A woman in the background, reaching toward him… but not touching. As if caught between forgiveness and fear.
He didn't need the title to know it was about them.
The sound of soft footsteps made him turn.
Ava.
Her hair was pinned back loosely, her makeup light. But her eyes — they were the same storm he'd always drowned in.
They stared at each other, the air between them thick and fragile.
She stopped a few feet away. "You really did it."
He nodded. "I didn't do it for attention. Or pity."
"Then why?"
He swallowed. "Because I couldn't keep pretending. Because I watched the woman I love walk away — and for once, I wanted to be the one who stayed."
Her lips trembled, just slightly. "You left me when I needed you most, Damien."
"I know," he said, voice low. "And I'll regret that every day."
Silence stretched between them.
Until Ava finally whispered, "And now?"
He stepped forward, slowly. "Now, I'm here. Not as Blackwell's heir. Not as anyone else. Just me. Damien. The man who never stopped loving you. The man who's still learning how to deserve you."
A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn't wipe it.
Instead, she whispered, "I was angry."
"You had every right to be."
"I still am."
He nodded, heart in his throat.
"But I also…" she looked away, blinking quickly, "I also missed you. More than I wanted to."
He reached out — not touching her yet, just letting his fingers hover near hers.
"If there's even the smallest piece of you that wants to try again, I'll wait. For as long as it takes."
Ava looked down at their hands — not touching, just like the sketch.
Then, finally, she closed the distance, fingers threading with his.
It wasn't a kiss.
It wasn't fireworks.
It was quiet. Uncertain.
But it was real.
And for now, that was everything.
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