The safehouse was nothing like Damian's penthouse. No glass walls, no sparkling city skyline—just peeling paint, dim light, and the faint scent of old wood. It felt like the kind of place ghosts would hide.
Ava sat on the edge of the worn sofa, her pulse still racing from the chase. Across from her, Damian leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as if even in this hidden corner of the city, he was still calculating, still in control.
Except for his eyes. His eyes betrayed him.
"You're alive," she whispered, breaking the silence. "The world thinks you're dead. I thought—" Her voice cracked, the weight of the last few days pressing down on her. "I thought I lost you."
Damian's jaw tightened. "That was the point."
Ava stood abruptly, anger mixing with relief. "You vanished without a word. Do you have any idea what that did to me? To everyone? You let me grieve you."
His gaze softened for just a fraction of a second, but then the mask returned. "It was the only way to keep you safe."
She let out a bitter laugh. "Safe? You call tonight safe? I was nearly dragged into a van by men who wanted to use me as leverage. Safe would've been telling me the truth before my life got ripped apart."
Damian pushed off the wall, closing the space between them. He was taller, broader, shadows clinging to him like armor. "The truth, Ava, would have destroyed you."
Her breath caught. There it was again—that wall he always built between them. She hated it, hated how he hid behind power and secrets. But what she hated more was how her heart still raced whenever he was near.
"What is it you're hiding from me?" she asked, voice low. "What's worth all this? The fake death, the Syndicate, dragging me into your shadow games?"
For the first time, Damian looked almost human. His shoulders sagged, and a flicker of something vulnerable crossed his face. "If you knew what I've done… what I've had to become… you wouldn't look at me the way you do now."
Ava's throat tightened. She didn't even realize she had stepped closer until she was only inches away from him. She could see the faint scar along his jawline, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the tension coiled beneath his skin.
"Try me," she whispered.
Damian's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a low growl. "You don't understand the danger, Ava. The Syndicate isn't just after money or power. They want control of everything—politics, corporations, entire nations. And I—" He stopped himself, as if the confession was a blade too sharp to hand her.
"And you what?" she pressed.
His hand shot out, not in anger but desperation, fingers brushing against hers. The contact sent a shock racing through her. "And I've been fighting them from the inside. Every deal, every lie, every mask I've worn—it's all been part of a war you don't even know exists."
Her lips parted, the weight of his words crashing into her. This wasn't just about wealth or reputation. Damian Cross was living a double life not just to protect himself, but to take down something far bigger.
Her voice trembled. "Then why involve me?"
"Because you were already involved," he said, his voice rough. "From the moment you stepped into my world, Ava, you became the one thing they could use against me. The one weakness I can't afford."
The air between them thickened, charged with something dangerous and undeniable. Ava's heart hammered as his hand lingered against hers, neither of them pulling away.
For a moment, it felt like the world outside—the Syndicate, the lies, the shadows—didn't exist. There was only him. Damian Cross. Alive. Real. Burning with secrets.
And the terrifying truth that no matter how much she wanted to walk away, she couldn't.