The rain had started hours ago and showed no sign of stopping. It slid down the penthouse windows in silver sheets, a steady whisper against glass that only amplified the silence inside.
Ava sat curled on the chaise lounge in her new wing, legs drawn beneath her, eyes open but unfocused. The soft hum of the city was distant, a muffled heartbeat beneath the storm.
She hadn't slept. Not really. Not since Damien's words had carved their way into her.
>" I don't know if I want to ruin you… or keep you."
It shouldn't have affected her. She was the one playing along, acting the part of the perfect, ruined wife. But then he went and said that — looking at her like she was both his poison and his cure.
Ava stood abruptly, needing to move. To breathe.
The penthouse was dark, save for the subtle glow of wall sconces casting golden light down the marble halls. Her feet carried her toward the indoor terrace — the winter garden. She hadn't been back there since her arrival, not since discovering the faint smell of night jasmine and the echo of something softer than either of them admitted to having.
She wasn't alone.
Through the wide archway of glass, Damien stood with his back to her, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something amber and expensive. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, rain-light kissing the bare V of his chest.
Lightning pulsed across the sky, backlighting him like a painting too sharp to be real.
He didn't look up. Didn't need to.
"You're not the only insomniac in this house," he said, without turning.
Ava stepped into the garden slowly, arms crossed over the thin cardigan she'd thrown over her nightdress. "Didn't realize I needed permission to breathe air at night."
His lips curved. "You don't. But you always move like you're sneaking into enemy territory."
"Am I?"
That made him glance at her, just briefly. "You tell me."
They stood there, distance thinning between them as the rain whispered against glass. The scent of jasmine lingered, heavy and sweet — the kind of scent that settles in memory long after it's gone.
Damien set his drink aside. "My mother planted these," he said, motioning to the blossoms. "Told me they only bloomed when the world was dark enough."
Ava traced one of the petals. "Did they help?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, "They were beautiful. And temporary. That's all I remember."
Ava turned toward him fully. "That's not all. You still remember the smell. The way it felt. The fact that she planted them."
His gaze drifted to her. "I remember that she cried a lot. Quietly. Always at night."
"And your father?"
"Too proud to break. Too broken to bend." His eyes darkened. "He died trying to prove something. To the world. To himself. Maybe even to me."
A silence stretched, taut and fragile.
Ava took a step closer. "Is that why you hate mine so much? Because he beat him?"
Damien's eyes flickered. "Your father destroyed him. With lawsuits. Lies. A smear campaign in the media that killed any chance of rebuilding what he lost. And he used you—your image, your name—to sell the fairytale. You were his doll. His weapon."
"I didn't ask for that," she said softly. "I didn't choose the pedestal."
"No," Damien admitted. "But you stood on it."
The words weren't cruel. Just true.
Ava closed the last of the distance between them. She reached up and plucked a jasmine bloom from a nearby vine, then lifted it to his chest, where the rain-warm skin peeked through his shirt.
"You think I'm still her? That girl from the interviews? The one who said all the right things because someone else wrote the script?"
Damien didn't move.
"I don't know what you are," he said. "That's the problem."
"Then find out," she whispered.
His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—and brushed the hair from her face. The jasmine flower slipped from her fingers as he leaned in, not kissing her, just breathing her in.
"If I touch you again," he said, voice like sandpaper against silk, "there won't be any going back."
"Maybe I don't want to go back."
He exhaled. "This is a mistake."
"Then make it twice."
And then his mouth was on hers.
There was no hesitation this time. The kiss started slow, but it ignited with every second that passed. His hand gripped the back of her neck, pulling her closer as his other wrapped around her waist. Ava melted into him, her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, nails digging into the muscles beneath.
The storm outside raged louder, but it was nothing compared to the thunder inside her chest.
His lips moved down her jaw, her throat, teeth grazing skin as she gasped softly.
"Tell me to stop," he breathed against her collarbone.
"Don't."
He lifted her then—just a little—onto the marble ledge beneath the tall jasmine vine, so she could straddle his hips, legs wrapped around him, bodies flush. The rainlight cast silver across their skin as they kissed again, deeper now. Hungry. Unforgiving.
For a moment, Ava forgot the arrangement.
Forgot the past.
Forgot her name.
There was only him—hot, solid, possessive.
And her—aching, unraveling, alive.
But just as quickly, Damien broke away, breathing like a man pulled from deep water.
"No," he said, more to himself than her. "Not like this. Not tonight."
"Why?" Her voice was breathless. Her hands clung to him.
"Because if I don't stop now," he said, stepping back, "I won't stop at all."
Ava stayed still, heart hammering.
And when he walked away, she didn't chase him.
She just sat there on the marble ledge with rainlight in her hair, a crushed jasmine petal clinging to her thigh.
---
In her bedroom, she stared at her reflection.
Flushed cheeks. Kiss-swollen lips. Wide eyes filled with something dangerously close to longing.
She hated him.
Didn't she?