(Fame is her crown. His bed is her ruin. But the real game is played in shadows she hasn't dared to look into.)
Damien's Hotel Suite. 4:06 AM.
Ava awoke naked, tangled in sheets that smelled of sex, smoke, and something far more dangerous—him.
Her thighs ached from the night before. Bruises bloomed like secrets across her hips. The room was dark, the curtains drawn tight, a whiskey glass half full on the nightstand beside a black lighter engraved with his initials.
The silence was suffocating.
Damien was gone.
She sat up slowly, her body marked by the truth she couldn't speak.
The world saw her as untouchable.
But here—under his touch, under his weight—she was nothing but want and weakness.
She didn't understand it.
Why she crawled for him. Why she begged when she should be walking away in heels and pride.
Why she couldn't stop coming back to the man who made her feel like the whole world was a stage and she was burning on it.
Later That Day.
The cameras loved her.
Ava stepped onto the stage at the Saint Laurent Global Gala, her designer gown flowing like moonlight and murder. Her smile was flawless, her voice charming, her answers rehearsed to perfection.
The crowd gasped, whispered her name like it was prayer.
"Miss Sinclair," a reporter asked, "You're rumored to be starring in the 'Saint' biopic. Anything you want to share?"
She smiled like a queen hiding a gun.
"I only play saints when the devil gives permission."
The press laughed.
No one noticed the way her hand trembled slightly when she reached for her champagne.
No one saw the shadow that lingered by the pillar.
No one knew Damien was watching.
Meanwhile, in an underground parking garage.
Damien lit a cigarette and leaned against a sleek black car. Another man stood across from him, face hidden beneath a baseball cap, shadows swallowing half his features.
"She's slipping," Damien said coldly. "The dreams are returning. The fire, the name, the boy."
The man chuckled. "Let her burn a little longer. You know what happens if she remembers too fast."
Damien's jaw clenched. "She was never supposed to remember at all."
"And yet," the man said, tossing a file into the backseat, "she's starting to crawl toward the truth like she crawls to you."
Damien didn't reply.
The man stepped closer. "You're getting too close, Damien. That's not what we agreed on."
A pause. Smoke. Silence.
Then Damien's voice, low and dangerous:
"Touch her… and I'll gut you where you stand."
The man laughed. "You already did."
He vanished into the dark.
Back in Ava's suite.
She showered, letting the water scald her skin, trying to wash him off—but he was under her skin. In her blood. In her bones.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
"Do you believe in saints, Ava?"
She froze.
Another text followed:
"Because you used to be one."
She stared at the mirror, water dripping from her lashes, her breath fogging the glass.
For a split second—
She saw a flicker of something behind her.
A girl.
Ten years old.
Screaming as flames ate through a door.
A boy's hand gripping hers—silver eyes, blood on his face.
Then—gone.
She backed away, trembling.
On the table sat the folder she'd brought back from Damien's suite. She hadn't opened the second envelope inside.
Her fingers hesitated.
Inside was a photo of her mother. Younger. Bruised. Standing beside a man in a priest's collar.
Behind them…
Damien.
As a child.
Bleeding.
Smiling.
Written across the back:
"Project Saint - Phase II: Grooming begins."
Cliffhanger:
Damien returned to his hotel room that night.
Ava wasn't there.
But the walls still echoed with her breathless moans and whispered curses.
He poured himself a drink, staring out at the city lights.
His phone rang.
Same unknown contact.
A voice, warped: "She'll hate you when she knows, Damien."
He didn't flinch.
"She already does," he whispered.
Then he looked to the mirror, where something had been etched while he was gone.
"We Remember. We Rise."
And in the corner, a symbol she'd never seen before.
A broken halo, bleeding.
To be continued