Chapter 4
Ava
I stood frozen in the doorway of Damian Blackwood's private penthouse office bathroom, mop handle clutched like a lifeline, suds dripping from my elbows onto the marble floor I had just polished for the third time. The clock on the wall read 9:47 p.m. Everyone else on the executive floor had gone home hours ago. Except him.
He leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie long gone, top buttons undone, staring at me like I was a puzzle he hated solving.
"You're still here," he said, voice low enough that it vibrated through the quiet space.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "You said one fingerprint left and I'm gone. I'm making sure there isn't one."
His gaze dropped to my knees—still damp from kneeling to scrub the baseboards—then flicked back to my face. Something dark flickered in those storm-gray eyes. Anger? Annoyance? Something hotter I refused to name.
"Most people would have quit by now."
"I'm not most people." I forced a shaky smile. "And I really need this job."
He pushed off the frame and stepped inside. The bathroom suddenly felt too small. He stopped two feet away, close enough that I caught the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the sharp bite of whiskey he must have poured himself earlier.
"Stand up."
I obeyed slowly, legs aching, back screaming. My wet shirt clung to my skin in embarrassing places. I crossed my arms over my chest like that would hide anything.
He studied me for a long beat. "You look exhausted."
"I am."
"Then why are you still scrubbing my bathroom at ten o'clock at night?"
"Because you told me to." My voice cracked on the last word. I hated how small it sounded.
He exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking. "Go home, Ava."
"But—"
"Now."
I hesitated. "If I leave and you find one speck tomorrow—"
"I won't." He stepped closer. Too close. His hand lifted like he might touch my cheek, then dropped again. "Go. Before I change my mind about keeping you."
I grabbed my bag from the corner, slung it over my shoulder, and walked past him. Our arms brushed. That stupid electric jolt shot through me again. I pretended it didn't.
The elevator ride down felt endless. My reflection in the mirrored walls looked wrecked—hair frizzy from the rain earlier, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks flushed. I looked exactly like what he thought I was: a walking liability.
Outside, the February wind sliced through my thin coat. I pulled my phone out with shaking fingers.
Three missed calls from Mrs. Delgado.
One text: Liam got into another fight after school. The principal called. He's okay, but he's asking for you. I kept them fed. Come when you can.
My stomach dropped.
I ran the six blocks to the subway instead of waiting for a cab I couldn't afford.
Damian
I watched the elevator doors close on her retreating figure and felt something twist hard in my chest.
She was a disaster in human form.
She talked too much.
She dropped things.
She cried when she thought no one was looking.
And yet every time she walked out of my sight, the office felt colder. Emptier.
I crossed to my desk, opened the locked drawer, and pulled out the slim folder my investigator had couriered over an hour ago.
Ava Monroe.
Born March 15, 1998.
Mother: Elena Monroe (estranged).
No father listed.
Employment history: spotty. Coffee shops, retail, temp agencies. Fired or quit by every one.
Financials: drowning. Eviction notice five years ago. Three months of no paper trail. Then reappearance with infant twins.
Medical: prenatal care started late at a free clinic in Queens. Twins born November 12, 2020. Boy: Liam. Girl: Lily. Both healthy. No father named on certificates.
November 12.
Nine months and five days after June 17.
The night I still woke up tasting her skin.
I slammed the folder shut.
Coincidence.
It had to be.
I poured another two fingers of whiskey and downed it in one swallow. The burn didn't help.
My phone buzzed.
Investigator: Hotel security finally released the footage from that night. Grainy, but I'm sending stills. You'll want to see frame 47.
I opened the attachment.
A blurry image: me in the hotel hallway, arm around a woman whose face was turned into my shoulder. Dark hair spilling over my sleeve. Cheap navy dress soaked from rain. Her hand clutching my jacket like she was afraid I'd disappear.
I zoomed in.
The curve of her jaw. The way her fingers curled.
My pulse roared in my ears.
I enlarged the image until pixels fractured.
Same nervous grip she'd had today when she clutched that mop like it could save her.
I dropped the phone on the desk.
No.
Impossible.
I grabbed my coat and stormed to the elevator.
I needed air.
I needed answers.
I needed to stop thinking about how her voice cracked when she said she needed this job.
The elevator doors opened in the lobby.
She was gone.
But the ghost of her stayed behind—clinging to every surface she'd touched, every corner she'd scrubbed on her knees.
And I hated her for it.
Ava
I burst through the apartment door at 10:38 p.m.
Mrs. Delgado was asleep on the couch, knitting needles still in her lap.
Liam sat on the floor hugging his knees, eyes red. Lily curled against his side, fast asleep.
He looked up when I dropped my bag.
"Mom?"
I crossed the room in three strides and pulled him into my lap even though he was getting too big for it.
"I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry I wasn't here."
He buried his face in my neck. "Tommy said I'm a liar. Said if I had a dad he'd come to school and punch him back. I told him my dad would crush him. Then he shoved me. I shoved harder."
I rocked him slowly. "You can't solve everything with fists, Liam."
"But they won't stop."
Tears burned behind my eyes. "I know."
Lily stirred. "Mommy?"
I reached over and smoothed her hair. "I'm here, sweetheart."
She yawned. "Did you bring cookies from the fancy office?"
I laughed despite everything. "Not tonight. But maybe tomorrow."
Liam pulled back just enough to look at me. "Why can't Dad come? Just once?"
The question stabbed deeper than any bully ever could.
I cupped his cheek. "Because he doesn't know where we are yet. But I promise—I'm going to fix this. Somehow."
He nodded, but the doubt in his gray eyes killed me.
Mrs. Delgado stirred awake. "You look dead on your feet, mija."
"I feel it."
"Go shower. I'll tuck them in."
I kissed both kids' foreheads and stumbled to the tiny bathroom.
Hot water hit my skin and I finally let the tears fall.
I cried for the little boy who fought because he thought no one loved him enough to show up.
I cried for the little girl who drew families that didn't exist.
I cried for the woman who still felt that stranger's hands on her skin every time her boss brushed too close.
And I cried because tomorrow I had to walk back into that glass tower and face the man who might fire me on sight.
When I stepped out wrapped in a towel, my phone lit up on the counter.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
Tomorrow. 6:45 a.m. My office. Do not be late. We need to talk.
No name.
But I knew exactly who it was.
My stomach plummeted.
I stared at the screen until it went dark.
Whatever he wanted to talk about at dawn—it wasn't going to be good.
And deep down, some terrified part of me wondered if he had finally started connecting the dots I'd spent five years burying.