The days passed like water pressing against glass, constant, building pressure. Ava felt it in everything: the silence behind Damien's eyes, the unspoken tension in his every movement, and the feeling that she was being watched, even when alone.
She hadn't returned to her apartment. Damien hadn't said it aloud, but she knew why. The public was still rabid, the press still hungry, and Damien's mother? A shadow behind every closed door.
The Wolfe penthouse had become her reluctant sanctuary.
Still, the quiet luxury began to feel like a golden cage.
She stood before the mirror now, wearing a silk robe one of Damien's assistants had left for her, staring at herself...
at the woman the world had suddenly decided was someone. The reflection looked polished, but the thoughts behind her eyes were stormy.
Who am I to them? To him? A pawn? A placeholder?
Behind her, the door opened.
"You have fittings in thirty," Damien said.
She didn't turn. "Fittings for what?"
"For meeting my mother."
Ava let out a breath, sharp. "And she needs to approve my outfit too?"
"She'll dissect everything," he said simply. "Best she starts with silk, not blood."
Ava turned then. "And what about me? What do I get in all this? My job is on pause. My life is... paused. But I'm playing along , for your business. Your image!" she yelled out loud.
Damien stepped closer, calm but unreadable. "You're not playing along. You're surviving. We both are."
"And after we 'survive' this dinner with your mother?" she asked. "Then what, Damien?"
His jaw flexed. "I don't know."
She stared at him, wounded frustration rising. "That's the first honest thing you've said in days."
Damien didn't flinch, but something in his gaze softened. "The moment I brought you into this, I started calculating outcomes. I had plans. I had control. But now... I'm not so sure anymore."
She hated how her chest tightened at his words.
A phone buzzed in the corner. Damien glanced at it, then back at her.
"She'll expect you to know the rules of the house," he said. "What to say, when to speak. I've arranged for a protocol tutor. She'll meet you after the fitting."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "A tutor? Damien, I'm not auditioning for a royal wedding."
"No," he said, stepping away. "But in her world, this is war. And every war needs preparation."
***
Later that afternoon, Ava sat in a velvet chair in the penthouse lounge, letting a soft-spoken etiquette trainer drone on about the Wolfe family codes. She nodded at all the right parts, even smiled, but her mind wandered.
What did Damien see when he looked at her? A shield? A weakness? She hated that feeling of vulnerability so bad.
Or worse... a threat to his carefully built empire?
And yet, despite everything, he still made sure she ate, rested, dressed well. Still glanced her way in that quiet, protective way when he thought she wouldn't .
The man she was preparing to defend herself from... was the same man guarding her from the world.
God, she was in trouble.