Damien Blackwood stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office, his sharp eyes fixed on the skyline of Manhattan. The sun dipped low behind the buildings, casting golden light across the city, but Damien saw none of it. His thoughts were elsewhere—always moving, always calculating.
The silence in the office was perfect. He liked it that way. It was the only place he could think without interruption. No noise. No mess. Just numbers, deals, and control.
Behind him, the clock ticked softly.
He turned away from the window and walked to his desk—sleek, black marble with not a single paper out of place. A fresh file waited at the center. His assistant must've dropped it off while he was on the phone earlier. He opened it with one hand, scanning the first few lines.
Merger proposal – Easton Media Group.
His jaw tightened.
Easton.
That name still stirred something in him. Not emotion—he buried those long ago—but memory. He remembered the man behind Easton Media. Jonathan Sinclair. A businessman who once stood tall in the industry before collapsing under the weight of a bad investment… one that Damien himself had greenlit.
He dropped the file and pushed it aside.
That was a long time ago. A necessary decision. Nothing personal. Business never was.
Still, the past had a way of crawling back, even when he wanted it dead and buried.
A buzz came from the intercom.
"Mr. Blackwood," his assistant's voice crackled, "Mr. Bennett is here for your 6 p.m. briefing."
"Send him in," Damien said, his voice low and steady.
The door opened a second later. Charles Bennett, his longtime advisor and closest thing to a friend, stepped in with his usual calm energy and crisp grey suit.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Charles said, raising an eyebrow as he took the seat opposite Damien.
"Easton Media is trying to merge," Damien said, his tone flat. "They must be desperate."
"Actually, they're bouncing back. A new investor stepped in last year. Young, ambitious. There's buzz around their rebranding."
Damien didn't answer right away. He opened the file again and flipped through the pages. Somewhere deep in the fine print, the name Sinclair appeared again.
He stared at it. Something pulled at him, like a thread waiting to unravel.
"Do we know who's managing the company now?" Damien asked.
Charles hesitated. "Not yet. But I'll have a name by morning."
"Good. I want everything—background, education, deals made, partners, enemies. Leave nothing out."
"You think it's personal?"
Damien didn't respond. He just closed the file, leaned back, and stared at the skyline again.
Sometimes the past didn't stay buried. Sometimes, it clawed its way back in the form of names you thought you'd never hear again.
Later that night, Damien walked into his apartment. High above the city, surrounded by glass walls and dim lights, his home was quiet—expensive, cold, and empty.
He loosened his tie and tossed it onto the couch. He walked straight to the bar, poured himself two fingers of whiskey, and downed it in one shot.
He'd built his empire from the ground up. No shortcuts. No favors. Every contract, every acquisition, every dollar had been earned—sometimes with blood, sometimes with broken promises. People didn't understand that. They called him ruthless. Heartless.
They weren't wrong.
Love? Relationships? Family?
They were weaknesses. And he didn't have time for weakness.
He stared at a photo on the wall—a black-and-white shot of the old Blackwood Holdings building, the first office he'd bought. Back then, he'd been hungry. Broke. Angry.
He still was.
But the anger was quieter now. Focused. Deadlier.
He poured another drink, but this time he didn't drink it. His mind drifted back to that name—Sinclair.
He hadn't thought about the Sinclair family in years. Not since the day he signed the contract that forced Jonathan Sinclair into bankruptcy.
The man had begged for more time. Damien didn't give it.
It was business. Nothing more.
But even now… something about that day left a shadow on his conscience. A moment he couldn't quite shake, even after all this time.
He grabbed the drink and walked to the window.
The city blinked below him like a machine that never stopped. People rushing, chasing, falling. Just like he once did.
And somewhere out there, someone from the past was moving a piece on the board again.
He didn't know who yet.
But he would find out.
The next morning, Damien arrived at the Blackwood Holdings tower before sunrise. His meetings were stacked from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m., and that was how he liked it—no time to think, no time to feel.
By mid-morning, Charles entered his office again, holding a fresh file.
"You were right to be curious," he said, placing it on the desk. "The current operations manager for Easton Media is Ava Sinclair."
Damien froze.
He looked up slowly, the name hitting him like a slap.
"Sinclair?"
"Jonathan Sinclair's daughter," Charles confirmed.
Damien reached for the file, flipped it open.
There she was.
Ava Sinclair.
Age: 25
Education: Columbia University
Background: Marketing, public relations, social impact strategies
Current position: Lead operations & PR manager, Easton Media Group
Her photo was clipped to the top of the file.
And for the first time in years, Damien Blackwood's steady heart skipped a beat.
He remembered her now.
It wasn't just the last name. It was the eyes. The same eyes that once looked up at him from across a ballroom when they were both younger… before the scandal… before the fall.
He closed the file slowly.
This wasn't just business anymore.
And he knew—without a doubt—this woman was going to change everything.