The office lights dimmed as the last of the team filtered out for the evening. Only two people remained on the top floor of Easton Media: Ava Sinclair and Damien Blackwood.
Ava hadn't meant to stay late. But something about letting him win—letting him walk into her space, throw his power around, and leave like nothing mattered—made her blood boil.
So she stayed.
Worked harder.
Refused to flinch.
Until she heard the low click of a door opening behind her.
She looked up. Damien stepped into the glass-walled executive lounge with two tumblers in his hand and a bottle of scotch under one arm.
"No one's here to impress anymore," he said, setting the glasses down. "Join me."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "That's your idea of a peace offering?"
"Think of it as an observation deck. A truce for one night."
She hesitated, then stood, crossing the floor with slow, deliberate steps.
"Ten minutes," she said. "And only because I'm too tired to fight."
He poured them each a drink and handed her a glass.
For the first time since their reunion, they sat quietly. No daggers in their words. No walls—at least for a moment.
The silence stretched, thick with something new. Something neither of them could name yet.
Damien leaned back, his eyes on the skyline.
"You really don't remember me, do you?" Ava said suddenly.
He glanced at her, then looked away. "I do now."
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
"You didn't back then."
"I did," he said quietly. "I just didn't let myself."
The words caught her off guard.
He didn't explain. He just looked at her now—not like a rival, not like an opponent. Like someone trying to read a language he'd long forgotten.
"You were different then," he added. "Brighter. Softer."
She scoffed. "And you were colder."
He didn't deny it.
"You still are," she said.
He turned to her. "And yet you're still sitting here."
The air shifted.
He was close—too close. She could see the slight tension in his jaw, the flicker of restraint behind his eyes. Something raw lived just beneath the surface of that calm exterior. Something dark and sharp.
And she hated that it pulled at her.
"I'm not here for you," she said.
"No," he murmured. "You're here because you want to beat me."
Their eyes locked.
And suddenly, the room felt too warm. The space between them too small.
She stood quickly. "I should go."
But when she turned, he stood too—blocking her path. Not with force. Just presence.
She felt it in her chest.
"I hurt your father," he said. "But I didn't know it would hurt you."
"That doesn't fix anything."
"I know."
He stepped aside, letting her pass.
But just before she reached the door, his voice stopped her.
"You're dangerous, Ava."
She looked back, hand on the knob.
"And that's why you won't win."
The elevator ride down felt too long.
Her heart raced.
Not with fear.
With something else.
She hated him. She meant to hate him.
But then why did his voice echo in her mind?
Why did she remember the way he looked at her—not like prey or rival—but like a man starved for something he didn't dare touch?
She stepped into the night air.
Julian's car was parked at the curb. He stepped out, opened the door for her, always thoughtful, always predictable.
She slid in.
But her thoughts weren't with Julian.
They were three floors above.
In a glass room with a man who had ruined her life.
And who was starting to ruin her all over again.