By the next morning, the headlines had shifted.
"Ava Callahan Shakes the Gala—Calla Luxe Officially Steps Onto Blake Corp's Turf"
"Fashion Queen Returns: Ava Callahan Declares Corporate War With a Smile"
Killian sat at the head of the mahogany conference table, his board of directors flipping through printouts, clippings, and digital snapshots of Ava's grand return. Across from him, Madison Rhee presented the data.
"Engagement metrics have doubled since last night. Calla Luxe's stocks surged by twelve percent this morning. Meanwhile, our own luxury division has seen a four-point dip. Press assumes competition. Investors assume tension. Twitter assumes scandal."
Killian remained silent.
Jameson, the CFO, cleared his throat. "Do we treat this as a threat, or leverage the attention for our benefit?"
Madison tilted her head. "We can pivot it as a healthy rivalry. Unless, of course, there's… personal history we need to consider."
Killian's gaze darkened. "There's nothing personal about business."
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Across the city, Ava was already two steps ahead.
Her suite at The Whitmore was buzzing with energy. Her creative director was reviewing press coverage. Her legal advisor was on the phone, discussing trademark expansion. And Ava?
She stood in front of the mirror, applying her lipstick slowly, the color the same crimson that had set the gala on fire.
"Everything as expected?" she asked.
"Yes," said Alina, her assistant. "Your appearance dominated every news outlet. The photos trended before you even left the ballroom. Blake's PR director tried to spin it this morning as a surprise alliance, but no one's buying it."
Ava smiled faintly. "They shouldn't."
Alina hesitated. "And the necklace? That was a bold move."
"I wore it because he'd notice."
Alina blinked. "To provoke him?"
"To remind him," Ava said, voice smooth. "That not everything he discarded stayed buried."
She turned away from the mirror. "Let's finalize the Fifth Avenue lease. I want the Calla Luxe flagship store open before Christmas. Across the street from Blake Department Holdings."
"You're declaring war."
"No," Ava said coolly. "I'm building my throne where he built his castle."
Later that afternoon, Killian returned to his penthouse. He rarely came home before dark. But today was different.
He needed silence.
But the silence was not kind.
The penthouse still had traces of her. That painting she chose. The marble sculpture she had insisted on placing by the window. He had never moved them. At the time, he claimed it was indifference.
Now he realized it was memory.
His phone buzzed.
An anonymous message.
She's not done with you.
He stared at it.
No name. No number.
But he didn't need to ask who it was about.
He walked to the window, looking down at the city pulsing beneath him.
She wasn't done with him.
And neither, perhaps, was he with her.
That evening, the boardroom murmurs had transformed into executive whispers.
Madison had done her best to manage the media, but the narrative had already shifted without their control.
Killian's mother, Vivienne Blake, called just before sunset.
"You let her in through the front door," she snapped over the phone. "And now she'll come for the entire house."
"This isn't your war, Mother," he replied, voice cold.
"Everything is my war, Killian. Especially when it concerns the name Blake. You know what she's capable of."
He said nothing.
Vivienne continued, her voice sharpened by years of power. "If she opens that store across from us, our investors will think you're losing control. The image of Blake Corp is tied to stability, legacy. You already failed once—with her."
He clenched his jaw. "I didn't fail."
"Then prove it."
Back at The Whitmore, Ava sat in silence after her final meeting of the day. The lights of the city glinted in her wineglass as she studied her own reflection.
She could feel the storm coming. Not just from the press or from the boardrooms—but from deeper shadows. The kind of shadows that knew secrets, and whispered old debts.
A knock on her suite door broke her reverie.
Alina answered. It was a courier.
A simple black envelope. No seal. No markings.
Inside: one photo. A surveillance still. Her and Killian talking at the gala balcony. Cropped tightly.
And on the back, a message scrawled in sharp ink:
Still think you can outrun the past?
Ava stared at it. Her lips parted slightly—but not in surprise. Only in recognition.
Some wars were about business. Some were personal.
And some were just beginning.
***
The envelope stayed on the table long after Alina had left her alone.
Ava sat with her back straight, fingers drumming lightly against her thigh, her mind moving faster than her pulse. That photo wasn't from the press. The angle, the distance, the framing—it was surveillance. Professional. Possibly criminal.
She tapped her phone, and within seconds, the call connected.
"Dimitri."
"You got it?"
"Yes. I need to know who took it."
"Already working on it. There's a watermark buried in the pixel range. Not a news agency. Private network."
"Threat level?"
"Medium. Whoever sent it wanted you rattled. Not destroyed."
Ava's jaw flexed. "They underestimated me."
"Always do."
She hung up and looked at the skyline. Somewhere out there, someone was watching. That was fine. Let them.
She was done hiding.
Meanwhile, inside Blake Corp's lower level—far beneath the glittering marble and press-polished elevators—a dim conference room hummed with digital monitors and surveillance feeds.
A man in a tailored charcoal suit sat alone, watching the replay of the gala.
Pause. Rewind. Zoom.
Killian and Ava. That balcony moment.
Ava's lips curled in a smirk on the screen. The man tilted his head, amused.
"She hasn't lost her edge," he murmured.
From the shadows, a second figure stepped out.
"Sir, do we engage?"
"Not yet. Let them entertain themselves. If she disrupts the plan, we'll act."
"And Mr. Blake?"
"He'll protect his empire, as always. Even if it means burning her again."
They watched the screen in silence, eyes fixed on the ex-lovers locked in tension. Chess pieces moved.
Killian's mood darkened with each headline. He paced his private study, rejecting two calls from his legal team and one from a shareholder. He finally stopped when his eyes landed on an old photo on the shelf.
It was of him and Ava in Milan, during better times. Her laughter frozen in time, his arm around her waist. A memory he had left untouched.
Until now.
He picked up the photo and stared long. Then, slowly, placed it face down.
Moments later, he opened his laptop.
He logged into the confidential corporate monitoring system—normally reserved for high-stakes mergers.
And there it was.
Project C.L.
The file folder contained compiled intelligence: Calla Luxe expansion, Ava's board, her investors, suspected black-book partners.
Someone had started this file before he ordered it.
He froze.
Someone inside Blake Corp had already anticipated Ava's return.
And they were one step ahead of him.
In a dark car speeding across Midtown, Vivienne Blake sat in silence while her driver navigated traffic. In her lap, a tablet showed news updates.
Her finger hovered over a photo of Ava.
"She's dangerous," she muttered. "And worse—she's patient."
She turned to her assistant beside her.
"Have you contacted Loughlin?"
"Yes, ma'am. He's flying in tonight."
Vivienne smiled tightly. "Good. It's time we reminded her what it means to challenge the family."
The assistant hesitated. "And Killian?"
Vivienne's smile faded. "He's still too soft where she's concerned. He forgets she's a threat. I won't."
The car sped faster, slicing through the veins of the city.
Back at The Whitmore, Ava poured herself a second glass of wine. But the taste, rich and full-bodied, didn't reach her.
The knock on the door this time was different—two sharp raps.
She opened it herself.
Outside stood a man in his forties, lean, scarred, eyes scanning like a soldier's.
"Liam," she said, surprised.
"You asked for a ghost," he said, stepping inside.
She closed the door. "Didn't expect you to come in person."
"It's safer."
He handed her a phone. "Encrypted line. Use only this. And stay away from the Fifth Avenue office until we secure the perimeter."
Ava stiffened. "You think it's compromised?"
"Not yet. But it will be. They're watching. Not just you. Me. Your staff. Even your suppliers. Someone's funding deep surveillance. And it's not just Blake Corp."
She swallowed. "How bad?"
He looked her dead in the eyes.
"Someone wants to erase you. Not just ruin your name—remove you entirely."
She tightened her grip on the phone.
"Then let them come."
Liam smirked. "That's the spirit."