The boardroom at Easton Media buzzed with quiet energy as the executives filed in, papers in hand, coffee cups steaming.
Ava stood at the head of the table, heels planted, back straight, sharp black suit tailored to perfection. Her presentation was ready. Slides timed. Every number accounted for. But what she felt wasn't nerves—it was control.
Until she heard the voice at the door.
"I hope there's a seat left for me."
Damien Blackwood stepped in without hesitation, a slim black folder in hand, his expression unreadable.
And he wasn't alone.
At his side was a woman—tall, poised, silver-blonde hair pulled into a flawless twist, pearl earrings that glinted beneath the soft light.
She moved like a queen. Sat like one, too.
And every head in the room turned to acknowledge her.
Ava's breath caught, but her expression didn't shift.
"Everyone," Damien said smoothly, "this is Eleanor Blackwood. Founder of the Blackwood Foundation and co-chair of the Sinclair Recovery Trust."
Sinclair.
Ava blinked, stunned.
Why was a Blackwood connected to her father's memorial fund?
Eleanor didn't smile when she was introduced. She merely nodded once, her eyes sweeping the table before landing on Ava.
"I've heard of you," she said coolly. "Your work at Easton has been impressive."
Ava nodded. "Thank you."
Her throat was dry.
Damien didn't look at her. Not yet. He slid into the chair beside his mother and opened his folder.
Ava took a breath, lifted the clicker, and began her presentation.
But her voice didn't sound like her own.
Her mind was chasing questions she didn't know how to ask.
The meeting ended two hours later. Applause followed her closing remarks. Deals were proposed. Strategic synergies outlined.
But all Ava could think about was Eleanor Blackwood's silence.
After everyone else had cleared out, Eleanor remained seated, legs crossed, sipping from a porcelain teacup someone had delivered without being asked.
Damien stood at the far end of the room, flipping through documents as if none of this mattered.
Ava hesitated, then approached Eleanor.
"You're part of the Sinclair Recovery Trust?"
Eleanor looked up. Her eyes—ice blue and unreadable—met Ava's.
"I co-founded it after your father's death," she said. "It wasn't publicized. Too… political at the time. But he was an old friend."
Ava's heart stumbled.
"My father never mentioned you."
"He wouldn't have," Eleanor replied. "He and Damien had… history. And not the kind that survives boardroom politics."
Ava glanced at Damien.
He still didn't look up.
"I believed in Jonathan's work," Eleanor said quietly. "Even when my son didn't."
That landed like a slap.
Later, Ava found Damien alone in the Easton courtyard, leaning against the stone railing, cigarette between his fingers though he didn't smoke it.
"You didn't tell me," she said.
"I don't owe you a list of my mother's affiliations."
"You owe me the truth."
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer. "Why would she support my father's legacy after what you did to him?"
Damien exhaled, slow and sharp. "Because she's spent her life trying to undo my choices."
Ava blinked.
Damien glanced over his shoulder. "Eleanor Blackwood believes in redemption. She's just never managed to find mine."
"That sounds personal."
"It is."
He stubbed the cigarette out on the stone.
"I didn't bring her here for you," he added. "She asked to be involved. She heard about your work. She respects it. That's rare for her."
Ava crossed her arms. "So she thinks I'm worth saving, but you don't?"
Damien turned fully, his face more tired than she'd ever seen it.
"I think you're worth everything. That's the problem."
Eleanor Blackwood was born into money but built her empire alone.
At least, that's what the business magazines said.
She ran a philanthropic empire, served on international boards, and consulted for governments. But behind her elegant exterior was a woman with sharp instincts and a colder kind of power.
She and Damien hadn't spoken publicly in years.
No one knew why.
But now she was back—and Ava knew instinctively: Eleanor didn't do anything without reason.
That evening, Ava stood outside Easton Media's front doors, her bag slung over her shoulder, her thoughts spinning.
Julian texted twice.
Dinner again? Or is it a "glass of wine and spiral into your own head" night?
She didn't respond.
She didn't know what night it was.
She pulled out her phone instead and googled Eleanor Blackwood + Jonathan Sinclair.
What she found chilled her.
There were photos—one from a gala in 1999. Her father and Eleanor, smiling, standing far too close. Newspaper archives quoting her as a major investor in Sinclair's early expansion. Rumors that they'd once been romantically linked.
Her stomach turned.
Was that why Damien hated her father?
Was this deeper than business?
That night, Ava couldn't sleep.
She sat at her desk, rereading the Sinclair file Damien had given her. This time, she paid closer attention to the signatures. The timestamps. The dates.
One letter, tucked deep in the back, caught her eye. It wasn't corporate.
It was personal.
Typed. But signed by hand.
To Jonathan—
If you refuse the bridge, the fire will burn you. Not me.
You taught me to build. But I learned faster than you ever thought I would.
Don't mistake my silence for forgiveness.
—D.
Ava closed the folder with trembling hands.
It wasn't just business.
Damien hadn't destroyed her father out of greed.
It was something else.
Something personal.
And if she didn't find out what it was soon…
She might fall for the enemy without even knowing who he truly was.