Ava hesitated outside the glass doors of Blackwood Tower, staring at her reflection in the polished steel frame. Her hair was tied back, blazer sharp, heels clicking with confidence—but she didn't feel strong. Not tonight.
She had left Julian behind in a coffee shop full of old memories.
She wasn't running to Damien.
But she wasn't avoiding him anymore either.
Maybe that was worse.
The receptionist looked up in surprise when Ava gave her name. "Mr. Blackwood said to send you straight up."
The elevator ride felt longer than usual, each floor blinking by like a silent countdown. Her heart beat slower now, but heavier—like her chest knew something was about to shift.
When the doors opened, Damien was standing by the window of his office, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of untouched whiskey.
He turned when she stepped in.
He didn't smile.
Didn't move.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
The question landed with more weight than she expected.
"I don't know," she said.
He nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
She walked in slowly. "I talked to Julian."
Damien raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask.
"He said he was trying to protect me," Ava added. "By not telling me about the recording."
Damien turned back to the skyline. "That sounds like him."
She moved to the other side of the office, leaning against the far table.
"He said he loved me."
That made Damien pause.
But still, he said nothing.
"I didn't say it back," she said.
There was a silence.
Not awkward.
Just real.
Damien finally set the glass down and walked over to her—carefully, like he didn't want to push too far.
"You don't owe him that."
"I don't know what I owe anyone anymore," she whispered.
Damien stopped just a few feet from her.
Close enough that she could feel the quiet power in him. Not just his presence. But the emotion he never said out loud.
His voice dropped. "You owe yourself the truth."
"And what if the truth hurts everyone?"
"Then at least it's honest."
Ava let out a slow breath and turned to look at him.
"Why did you bring me here tonight?" she asked.
"Because I thought you'd want to ask questions without cameras. Without an audience."
"You thought right."
"And because I knew what it felt like to walk out of a room not knowing who you are anymore."
That part caught her off guard.
She studied him carefully now—not the public face of Damien Blackwood, but the quieter version. The man behind the empire. The man who had stood across from her father once and tried to stop a storm no one saw coming.
"You carry guilt," she said.
He nodded.
"But you're not trying to fix it."
"No," he said. "I'm trying to understand it."
They stood there for a moment, surrounded by glass and silence, New York City glowing below them like a living map of every decision they'd ever made.
Then Damien broke the stillness.
"I want to show you something."
They took a private elevator to a floor Ava didn't even know existed.
The lights were dim, and the hallway was narrow. But when he opened the door at the end, she stepped into a room that looked nothing like the rest of the building.
It was warm. Soft.
A long, wooden table in the center. Books lining the walls. No screens. No suits. No cold surfaces.
"This is my father's original study," Damien said. "I had it rebuilt, exactly as it was before he sold this floor off during the expansion."
She turned slowly, taking it all in.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
He nodded. "He hated everything I did to the company. Said I was turning it into a machine."
"Were you?"
He smiled faintly. "Sometimes. But machines don't feel guilt. I do."
Ava moved toward the shelf and pulled out a copy of The Art of War—worn at the edges, pages marked.
She flipped through a few, then looked back at him.
"Why are you really showing me this?"
Damien's voice was low. "Because it's the only room I can still breathe in."
Her chest tightened.
Because she understood that.
All too well.
She placed the book down and walked slowly back to where he stood.
"You don't have to carry all of it alone," she said.
His eyes met hers.
"Neither do you."
They didn't touch.
They didn't move closer.
But the air between them felt warmer. Softer.
Like something was growing there.
Not rushed.
Not demanded.
Just real.
They returned to his office after a while, both quieter now.
He poured her a glass of water. No wine. No assumptions.
She sat on the couch while he leaned on the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled, jaw tense.
"I used to think the only way I could live with what happened was to bury it," he said. "But now... I'm not sure."
"What changed?" she asked.
His voice was steady.
"You."
Ava's heart pulled tight.
Not because she didn't see it coming.
But because she didn't expect to feel anything back.
Not yet.
But something was there.
Not love.
Not yet.
But warmth.
Trust.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Later, when she stood at the door ready to leave, he didn't follow her out.
He just looked at her one last time, hands in his pockets, voice quiet.
"You don't have to decide anything tonight."
"I know."
"But if you ever need a place to think... this room is always yours."
Ava nodded, words caught in her throat.
And then she stepped into the elevator.
Not because she wanted to leave.
But because some things needed space to grow.
Even this.