Wolfe Tower glittered beneath the mid-morning sun, but inside the executive boardroom, the air was arctic.
Ava stood at the head of the table, calm in appearance—but she could feel the pressure behind her ribs like a scream trying to crawl out.
This wasn't just another Monday. This was an ambush.
Across from her sat Cecilia Monroe—Damian's ex-fiancée.
Polished. Cold. Smiling like a knife.
She wore navy couture and diamond studs that probably cost more than Ava's annual rent. She looked every bit the legacy heiress she was—born into money, power, and a pedigree Damian had once been expected to marry into.
And now? She was back. With a seat at the table.
"Miss Sinclair," Cecilia said, voice honeyed and cruel, "it's lovely to finally meet you. Though I must admit… I expected something more."
Ava didn't blink. "Expectations have a way of disappointing you when they're built on outdated assumptions."
A flicker of irritation passed over Cecilia's face, but it vanished quickly. "I suppose we'll see whose expectations hold up."
Damian stepped in then, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Cecilia," he said coolly. "You're early."
"I never miss an opportunity to support the company," she replied sweetly, "especially now that my family's firm has increased its stake."
Ava's eyes narrowed.
This wasn't a social call. This was a strategic move.
Damian's expression didn't change, but Ava could see the flicker of muscle in his jaw. The message was clear:
This wasn't his doing.
Later, in his office, Ava paced while Damian leaned against his desk, arms crossed.
"You should've told me she was back in the picture."
"She's not," he said firmly. "Her father invested behind my back—probably to force her into proximity."
"And now she's sitting on the board," Ava snapped. "Watching. Plotting."
"She's not the threat you think she is."
Ava spun around. "Maybe not to you. But Damian… if she's trying to undermine me, she won't play fair. You of all people should know that."
He crossed to her, quiet intensity in every step.
"I'll handle her."
Ava stared at him.
"No," she said. "We will."
Because whatever war Cecilia had just declared… Ava wasn't backing down.
Not this time.
Ava's phone buzzed during the Tuesday strategy meeting. She ignored it once. Then again. By the third vibration, her gut twisted.
She excused herself, stepping into the hallway. One glance at her notifications, and her pulse spiked.
Three missed calls.
Two texts.
And a photo.
From an unknown number.
She opened it.
And there it was:
A shot of her and Damian on her apartment balcony, his hand tangled in her hair, their mouths locked in something too raw to be mistaken for business.
It was grainy. Zoomed in. But unmistakably them.
Then came the text:
"He always comes back to power. You were just the intermission."
Ava's stomach dropped.
The photo hadn't gone public—yet. But the threat was clear.
Someone wanted to rattle her. Humiliate her. And they knew exactly how.
She didn't have to wonder long.
Back in her office, her assistant was pale. "There's a reporter from The Daily Ledger on line one. They say they're doing a story on Wolfe Tower's executive relationships."
Ava didn't answer. She was already dialing Damian.
When he picked up, she didn't wait.
"We've been compromised."
By noon, Damian had the security footage. By one, they had the building's visitor logs. And by two, Nora confirmed what Ava already suspected.
The leak had come from someone with access to Wolfe Tower's internal security team.
And that team?
Had just hired a new private contractor for "discreet observation and crisis prep"—signed off by a Monroe Capital proxy.
Cecilia's fingerprints were all over it.
That night, Ava stood by her apartment window, staring at the skyline, arms wrapped around herself. Not because she was cold—but because she hated feeling small.
The knock came soft.
She opened the door to Damian—no suit, no tie. Just him.
He held up his phone, the photo pulled up on screen.
"I'll make this disappear," he said. "Tell me you want that, and it's done."
She looked at him, eyes steady.
"I don't want it erased. I want to own it."
"You sure?"
"Yeah," she said, lifting her chin. "Because the only thing more dangerous than a scandal… is a woman who refuses to be shamed by one."
By morning, Ava was already dressed in war paint.
Slate-gray power suit. Sharp heels. Red lipstick like a warning flare.
She didn't come to survive. She came to dominate.
The press had started circling, but before they could frame her as the reckless woman who slept her way to the top, Ava made the first move.
At 9:00 a.m. sharp, her team released an exclusive statement to Forbes Women:
"I have never apologized for being ambitious, strategic, or female. What happens between consenting adults outside the boardroom is not a scandal—it's life. Wolfe International values integrity, transparency, and equity. And I will continue to uphold that, personally and professionally."
— Ava Sinclair, Senior Strategist, Wolfe International
By 9:20, the story had flipped.
By 9:45, #PowerWithPassion was trending on X.
By 10:15, Ava walked into the quarterly board meeting with the confidence of a queen walking into court.
Cecilia was already there. Perfectly poised. All smiles and poison.
"Well," she purred. "I see you've embraced the spotlight."
Ava didn't sit. She placed a folder in front of Cecilia. "I also embraced due diligence."
Cecilia opened it. Froze.
Inside were confidential emails between Monroe Capital and a shell security firm—one that had installed surveillance tech in Ava's neighborhood without a license.
"It's illegal," Ava said coolly. "And sloppy."
"You can't prove it was me."
"True," Ava said, tilting her head. "But the press doesn't care about proof. They care about patterns. Which is why, in exactly ten minutes, your board seat will be under review. Conflict of interest. Ethics breach. You'll spin it, of course. But you'll step down before the week ends."
Damian watched from across the table. Silent. Proud.
Cecilia's face cracked, just slightly.
"This isn't over," she hissed.
"No," Ava said. "It's just getting interesting. The difference is, I don't need to destroy you to win. I just need to expose you."
Later, after the boardroom cleared, Damian cornered her in the hallway.
"That was ruthless," he said.
She met his eyes. "Still scared of me?"
He leaned in, voice low.
"More than ever."
And when he kissed her—slow, deep, with affection—it felt like victory.
The sun dipped behind the skyline, casting golden shadows across Damian's penthouse office. Ava sat curled on the edge of the leather couch, Damian beside her, silent for once. He was staring down at his phone, jaw tense, unreadable.
She nudged his arm gently. "You've been staring at that screen for ten minutes. Something worse than Cecilia?"
He didn't answer at first.
Then he turned the phone toward her.
It was a message. Just a single line.
No sender. No number.
"She knew. And so do I."
Ava frowned. "What does that mean?"
He leaned back, eyes dark. "It's not about us. It's about Isabelle."
Ava's breath caught.
Isabelle Wolfe. Damian's sister. Dead six years. Her name barely spoken—except once, in the bitter silence after the gala.
"I thought she died in an accident," Ava said softly.
"She did," he said. "Officially."
She turned toward him, fully now. "And unofficially?"
He hesitated.
Then he pulled open the drawer in his desk, pulled out a slim black file. Inside, a faded police report. Photos. A handwritten note in feminine script.
"I got this two years after her death," Damian said. "No return address. Just… that. A theory. That her death wasn't an overdose, but a warning."
Ava stared at the handwriting.
It looked familiar.
No—intentional.
"I never told anyone. Not even my father. I buried it because I couldn't face it."
"And now?" she asked.
"Now someone's trying to dig it back up. Maybe Cecilia. Maybe someone else."
Ava stood slowly, pacing. "You think this is connected to the company?"
"I think it always was," Damian said, voice low. "My father built Wolfe International with enemies in every corner. He thought control was power. Isabelle didn't. She tried to fight it. And maybe she paid the price."
A chill ran through Ava.
"So what do we do?" she whispered.
Damian looked up at her. The playboy mask was gone. The CEO mask, too. What was left… was a brother.
"We find the truth," he said. "No matter what it costs."
Ava nodded.
Because she was in this now. Not just for love. Not just for lust.
But for justice.
For Isabelle.
And maybe—for the version of Damian no one else had ever bothered to fight for.