Ava woke to the scent of rain and him.
Damian lay beside her, still asleep. One arm slung across her waist, his face softer in rest than she'd ever seen it. The powerful CEO. The cold executive. The man who'd kissed her like she was salvation.
Now he looked like a man trying to hold on to something he didn't think he deserved.
She lay still for a moment, afraid to move and break whatever spell the night had cast.
But eventually, reality tugged at the edges.
Meetings. Flights. Complications.
Consequences.
She slipped out of bed slowly, carefully. His arm fell away. She reached for her robe, wrapping it tightly around herself like it could protect her from what was coming next.
Damian stirred behind her. "You always run?"
She froze.
Then turned slowly.
He was watching her—eyes open now, voice battling with sleep but sharp with awareness.
"I wasn't running," she said. "I was thinking."
He sat up, bedsheets slipping low on his hips. "About what?"
"About what happens now."
He stood, crossing the space between them with quiet ease, like a man who had no regrets.
She wasn't sure she could say the same.
"We don't have to figure it all out this morning," he said. "We just have to be honest."
"Are you ready for that?" she asked, eyes locking on his. "For people to know?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes."
It shouldn't have shocked her. But it did.
Because for all his power, she hadn't expected him to risk control—not for her.
Before she could respond, his phone rang on the nightstand.
He checked it. Jaw clenched.
"What is it?"
He looked up, voice clipped. "Gavin Worth just sent a formal complaint. HR flagged it."
Ava's stomach turned. "Already?"
"They know we're involved. Or suspect it."
He moved fast, dressing, already in damage-control mode.
The moment was gone.
And just like that, it dawned on Ava—
The afterglow was over.
Now came the fallout.
By the time Ava stepped into Wolfe Tower Monday morning, the building felt colder. Sharper. Like it knew.
Eyes followed her down the hall. Too curious. Too sharp. Too smug.
She didn't flinch.
She wore black silk, bold heels, and a stare that dared anyone to say it out loud.
Inside her office, her assistant was already at her desk, wide-eyed.
"Three voicemails from Legal. Two from HR," she whispered. "And… Gavin Worth is in the conference room."
Ava didn't blink. "Of course he is."
She strode in.
Gavin turned from the window, smirking like a man who thought he'd finally won.
"You look well-rested," he said. "Boston must've agreed with you."
"Cut the crap," Ava snapped. "You filed the complaint. What do you want?"
He raised a brow, feigning innocence. "Just concerned, Ava. The optics. Your judgment. Sleeping with the boss—"
She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Watch your mouth, Gavin. You don't get to weaponize my success just because you never earned your own."
The door opened.
Damian walked in.
Dark suit. Stormy eyes. Absolute command.
But he wasn't angry. Not even surprised.
He looked at Gavin. "Leave."
"I was just—"
"I said leave."
Gavin went pale. He left without another word.
When the door shut behind him, Damian turned to her.
"You okay?"
"No," Ava said honestly. "But I'm done hiding."
She crossed her arms. "We slept together. The office knows. So what now?"
Damian held her gaze for a long moment. Then reached into his jacket and pulled out a document.
Her heart skipped.
"What's that?"
"My formal recusal from direct supervisory over you. Effective immediately. Signed and filed."
She blinked. "You're… stepping back?"
"I'm not losing you over a policy. You'll still lead the Worth account, but from here forward, you'll report to Nora in Strategy."
She stared at him, stunned. "You're giving up control for me?"
He stepped closer. "You gave me something no one ever has—clarity. I'm not risking that. Not even for my own ego."
Something shifted in her chest.
A crack of fear. A flash of awe. And the terrifying hope that this—they—might be real.
The rooftop terrace of Wolfe Tower was quiet—lit only by golden city light and the steady thrum of summer traffic below.
Damian had texted her to meet him there after hours.
Ava arrived to find a small table set with two glasses of wine, a folded blanket, and Damian Wolfe… not in a suit.
He wore a black sweater, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly tousled like he'd been running his hands through it. The powerful CEO looked human. Touchable. Hers.
"You're late," he said, but there was no bite to it.
"You're wearing cotton," she replied. "I'm more shocked than sorry."
A smile tugged at his mouth—rare, real.
He poured her a glass. "I thought we'd try something radical tonight."
She arched a brow. "What's that?"
He looked at her. "A real date."
Her heart stuttered.
They sat, and for a moment, the world was quiet. Just city lights. Just the hum of possibility.
Then Ava asked, "Why me?"
He didn't pretend not to know what she meant.
"I don't know how to be good at this," he admitted. "But you… you cut through the noise. You don't care about power or pedigree. You see right through me—and you stay anyway."
She didn't look away. "That scares you?"
"Terrifies me."
He took a breath, eyes fixed on the skyline.
"My father ran Wolfe International like a goddamned empire. Fear and dominance. The man could manipulate anyone—except my mother. She left when I was sixteen. And I learned two things: power keeps people close, but never safe. And love leaves when it gets tired of waiting for you to be better."
Ava's chest tightened.
"Is that what you think I'll do?" she asked softly. "Leave?"
He looked at her then—really looked.
"No," he said. "I think you'll stay as long as it's real. And that's what scares me. Because I don't know how to fake it anymore."
Ava stood, walked to him, and took his hand.
"Good," she said. "Because I don't want fake. I want this. Messy. Complicated. Honest."
He pulled her close, his forehead resting against hers. "Then you'll get all of me, Ava Sinclair."
She smiled, quiet and fierce. "God help us both."
Ava's apartment had never felt like more than a place to sleep—until tonight.
Damian leaned in her doorway, tall and quiet as she unlocked it. She glanced back at him, a teasing smile curling her lips.
"You've never been here before," she said.
"I noticed," he replied. "Though I've imagined it."
"Oh really?"
"Frequently. Especially the part where you open the door wearing nothing but your sarcasm."
She laughed, and it softened something sharp between them.
Inside, the space was modest. Minimalist. A touch of warm color on the walls. One half-drunk glass of wine from last week still by the sink.
"You don't do this often, do you?" Damian asked, stepping in behind her.
She locked the door. "What? Bring dangerous men into my home? Not since college."
He turned her around slowly. "And I'm dangerous?"
She looked up at him. "You scare the hell out of me, Damian Wolfe."
His hand slid along her hip. "Likewise."
But this wasn't like Boston.
It wasn't frantic or stolen. It was hers.
They were hers now. Not a product of a storm. Not something born of crisis. But choice.
She kissed him like she meant it. Pushed his jacket from his shoulders. Pulled him toward her bedroom without asking permission.
He let her lead.
This time, she took control—not to prove a point, but because he let her. Trusted her.
Clothes dropped like secrets. Hands found skin like answers.
And when she straddled him, breathless, golden light spilling in from the street—he looked up at her like a man finally home.
"I've never let anyone in like this," she whispered.
He gripped her hips gently. "You're not 'letting' me. You're choosing me."
The words cracked something open in her.
She moved slowly, purposefully, until they were nothing but sensation and truth and heat.
It wasn't just sex.
It was intimacy. Power. Worship.
Later, when she lay against his chest and his fingers traced lazy patterns across her back, Ava said the one thing she hadn't let herself admit.
"I'm falling for you."
Damian's chest rose. Fell.
Then he whispered, voice hoarse—
"Then I'll catch you."