The night after the gala, Ava couldn't sleep.
She had walked out with her chin high, her steps strong. But once her heels hit the pavement and the city air brushed her skin, her mask began to crack.
Damien Blackwood hadn't changed. He was still sharp, still unreadable, still dangerous. But there was something in his voice last night—something that crawled under her skin and stayed there.
"Let's see if your revenge can match my patience."
It wasn't just a threat.
It was a promise.
The next morning, Ava arrived at Easton Media earlier than usual, expecting silence.
Instead, she found chaos.
Dozens of interns buzzed around the lobby, arms full of branded tote bags and crisp folders. Executives in suits paced near the conference wing. And at the front desk stood a woman Ava had never seen before—tall, striking, with bone-straight platinum hair and a face that looked like it had forgotten how to smile.
"Is this the right place?" the woman asked, without turning to anyone in particular. Her accent was British, clipped and cool.
Ava approached. "Can I help you?"
The woman's eyes flicked over her. "You must be Sinclair."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "I am."
The woman extended a pale hand. "Clarisse Vane. Director of External Communications for Blackwood Holdings."
A chill swept through Ava's spine.
"Oh," Ava said evenly. "You're the messenger."
Clarisse's lips curled into something that was not quite a smile. "And occasionally, the cleaner. Mr. Blackwood asked me to deliver a few things before today's meeting. We're doing a walkthrough of your offices. Didn't your team tell you?"
No. They hadn't.
And the idea of Damien's people crawling through her space made her stomach turn.
"I'll have my assistant make arrangements," Ava said.
"Perfect." Clarisse tilted her head. "And while you're at it… you may want to hide anything sentimental. Damien doesn't care for clutter."
Two hours later, Ava stood in the glass-walled conference room overlooking Midtown. She watched as Clarisse floated through the space like a ghost—smooth, quiet, but never quite still.
Behind her, Damien entered.
His presence sucked the air out of the room. Dark suit, no tie, and a new smirk that made Ava's blood pressure rise.
She didn't greet him. She didn't move.
He stood across the table, laid down a sleek folder, and opened it without a word.
Clarisse took a seat beside him like a shadow.
"Let's begin," Damien said.
The meeting was brutal.
He poked holes in Easton's expansion plan with cold precision. He asked pointed questions with no visible emotion. Ava held her own—but barely.
At one point, she reached for her tablet and realized her hand was shaking.
She curled it into a fist under the table and smiled.
"You seem awfully prepared, Mr. Blackwood," she said.
"I make it a habit to study the battlefield," he replied, without looking up.
"And I make it a habit to rewrite the map," she shot back.
Clarisse scribbled something on a pad beside him, her face unreadable.
This was no longer a business pitch.
This was war—with every sentence delivered like a blade.
After the meeting, Ava stepped into the hallway to catch her breath. The doors closed behind her, muffling the buzz of the executive team.
"Rough day?"
She turned, startled.
A man stood near the elevator. Tall, lean, with dark blond hair and sharp green eyes that flicked up from his phone just long enough to catch her expression.
He wore a visitor's badge.
"A bit," she said carefully.
He offered a hand. "Lincoln Thorne. I'm part of the advisory team for Blackwood's European expansion."
Ava didn't shake his hand right away.
He smiled faintly. "I'm not here to spy. Actually… I've been following your work since the Easton relaunch. Impressive stuff."
Now she took the handshake. "Ava Sinclair."
"I know," he said. "You're becoming something of a name in our world."
She studied him. Confident, charming, but not smug. Nothing like Damien.
"You work directly with Blackwood?"
"Sometimes," he said. "He doesn't play well with others. But I've managed to stay alive so far."
He paused, then added, "If you ever want an outside perspective on this mess, I'm around."
Ava watched him walk off, unsure what to make of him.
But something about Lincoln Thorne felt different.
Unpredictable.
Maybe even useful.
That night, Ava sat at her kitchen table, sorting through notes from the day. A knock on the door made her jump.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
She opened it to find Julian, holding a paper bag of takeout.
"I figured you hadn't eaten," he said.
She stepped aside to let him in, grateful but distracted.
Julian studied her face. "Rough meeting?"
"More like battle."
"Want to talk about it?"
She hesitated, then nodded. They sat, ate, and fell into an old rhythm—comfortable silence, soft conversation, the kind of bond built from years of loyalty.
But when Julian mentioned Damien's name, something shifted.
"Ava," he said, voice low. "Be careful with him."
"I am."
"No," he said, leaning forward. "I mean it. He's not just powerful. He's strategic. He's… cold."
She looked at him. "You say that like you've dealt with him before."
A flicker passed through Julian's eyes—too fast to read.
"I've seen enough to know," he said. "Don't let him get close. He doesn't care who he breaks."
Ava didn't respond. But her mind was already spinning.
Because Damien Blackwood wasn't just trying to win.
He was testing her.
And she intended to win every round.