Ava stirred under a blanket of silk sheets, the hotel suite bathed in soft morning light. Her hand stretched to the side—
Empty.
The space beside her was untouched. Damian hadn't slept there.
Of course he hadn't.
She sat up slowly, heartbeat strangely hollow. Her black slip dress from the night before still hung on the chair. The room was too quiet. Too cold.
She pulled on a robe and padded out to the sitting room.
He was there.
Standing at the window, coffee in hand, suit already on, jaw sharp and unreadable. The kind of man headlines admired and women warned each other about.
"You didn't sleep," she said.
He didn't turn. "Didn't need to."
"You're lying."
He glanced back, just once. "So are you."
The words hung there—raw, sharp, familiar.
She crossed to the kitchenette, pouring herself a cup. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was electric. Waiting.
"You ready for this pitch?" she asked, trying for neutral.
"I am," he said, then added, "You were impressive last night."
She blinked. "Is that a compliment from Damian Wolfe?"
He turned fully now. Eyes steady on hers. "It's recognition. You earned it."
The sincerity in his voice chipped something in her chest. She wasn't used to it—from anyone. Especially not him.
"Thanks," she said, softer now.
He stepped closer.
One step. Two.
And stopped just shy of touching her.
"I'm trying," he said quietly. "To be better than I was with you."
She held his gaze, pulse quickening. "Why?"
"Because for the first time in years… I care what someone sees when they look at me."
Ava's breath hitched.
But before she could answer, his phone buzzed. Loud. Unforgiving.
He checked it. His face hardened.
"Meeting's moved up," he said. "We leave in ten."
Just like that, the walls rebuilt.
But Ava had seen past them. And now she knew what was on the other side.
And she wanted more.
The boardroom on the 32nd floor of the Parker Hotel screamed old money and power. Every surface gleamed. Every man in the room wore a tailored suit, a six-figure watch, and the assumption that Ava Sinclair didn't belong there.
Until she opened her mouth.
"…Wolfe International isn't just a brand," she said, her voice calm, clear, deadly precise. "It's the future of global private capital—and the only company in this room that doesn't need to bluff to prove its worth."
Silence.
Then one of the investors—graying, skeptical—leaned back in his chair. "And you are?"
Ava smiled, unfazed. "The reason you'll sign by the end of the day."
A soft chuckle rippled through the room, but Damian didn't laugh.
He stared.
Not at her file. Not at the investors. At her.
She was electric. Untouchable. A storm in heels and quiet power. And every man in that room knew it—even the ones who tried to dismiss her.
Ava went on, breaking down metrics, market shifts, long-term value. The words flowed effortlessly. She wasn't performing. She was owning the space.
By the time the final slide faded to black, there was only one question left.
"When can we start?"
Damian finally spoke. "We'll send contracts tonight."
The room buzzed with handshakes and follow-up details. But Ava's pulse didn't slow until they stepped into the hallway.
She leaned against the wall, letting out a breath. "I didn't breathe for thirty minutes."
Damian turned toward her. "You didn't need to. You held that room by the throat."
She looked up at him. "You mean we did."
He took a step closer. "No, Sinclair. That was you."
Her heart flipped.
"You keep doing that," she said softly.
"What?"
"Saying the thing that makes it harder not to want you."
He didn't smile. He didn't joke.
He just said, "Good."
The air between them crackled.
But then the assistant interrupted—flight status: cancelled. A summer storm over the eastern seaboard. No takeoff tonight.
They were stuck in Boston.
Together.
One more night.
And no more excuses.
The rain hit the hotel windows like a war drum.
Ava sat curled on the edge of the couch in their suite, barefoot, hair damp from the run back inside. Damian stood across the room, tossing his phone onto the coffee table with a frustrated sigh.
"Still grounded," he said.
She raised a brow. "Private jets aren't weatherproof? I'm shocked."
He didn't rise to the bait. Just looked at her, eyes unreadable. "You could've stayed in another room, you know."
"I could've," she said, voice low. "But I didn't."
The room fell into silence—except for the storm and the heartbeat in both their ears.
She rose, slow, cautious. Crossed the space between them like she was approaching something dangerous.
Because she was.
"I don't want to play this game anymore," Ava whispered.
His gaze burned into hers. "Neither do I."
She stood toe-to-toe with him now. The storm flashed lightning behind his shoulder. The scent of rain curled through the air.
"I see you, Damian," she said. "Not just the title. Not the control. You. And you scare the hell out of me."
He swallowed. "Good."
"Why good?"
"Because I'm scared too."
The admission was quiet. Raw. Like tearing open armor that had been welded shut for years.
"I've spent a long time making sure no one got close," he went on. "Not because I didn't want connection. But because I didn't trust what I'd do if I got it."
Ava's throat tightened.
"And now?" she asked.
He looked at her like she was the first thing he'd ever wanted and been afraid to touch.
"Now I'm breaking my own rules. And I don't care."
She reached up slowly, fingers grazing the lapel of his shirt.
"I care," she whispered. "That's the problem."
His hand closed over hers—warm, steady, trembling.
The tension pulsed like electricity between them. A breath. A heartbeat.
And then—
The power went out.
The lights blinked off. The room plunged into shadow.
But the storm? The storm had already begun.
The suite fell into darkness—except for the flashes of lightning painting the walls in silver.
Ava's breath caught.
Damian didn't move. His eyes were locked on hers, barely visible in the dark, but more intense than ever.
No words. Just heat.
When he touched her, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't careful either.
It was inevitable.
His hand slid along her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip. She leaned into him like gravity had chosen him instead of the earth.
And then he kissed her.
God, he kissed her.
Slow at first—like he needed to memorize it. Then deeper, rougher, the kind of kiss that left bruises and rewrote logic.
Ava's fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring herself as the storm outside roared and the storm between them finally shattered.
He lifted her, effortlessly, carrying her through shadows and breathless laughter to the bed they'd both tried to avoid.
"I told you," he murmured against her neck. "If I started—"
"I don't want you to stop," she breathed.
Clothes hit the floor. Barriers vanished. All that remained was skin and heat and the ache of everything unsaid.
Every kiss was a confession.
Every touch a promise they hadn't dared make before.
And when he whispered her name, half broken, half worshipful—Ava knew.
This wasn't just lust.
It was everything.
Later, wrapped in his arms, heartbeat still slowing, she stared at the ceiling, mind spinning with what they'd done… and what came next.
"I'm not good at this," Damian said softly, voice rough from more than just passion. "But I don't want this to be just one night."
She turned to him. "Then don't let it be."
He exhaled slowly, brushing hair from her face like she was something fragile and precious—things she'd never let herself be.
Outside, the storm began to fade.
But inside, something new had begun. Not safe. Not simple.
But real.
And neither of them would ever be the same.