Chapter 5
Ava
I stared at the dark phone screen until my reflection turned ghostly in the glass, Damian's message still burning behind my eyelids: Tomorrow. 6:45 a.m. My office. Do not be late. We need to talk. No emoji, no signature, just a cold command that made my stomach knot tighter than it already was. I set the phone face-down on the bathroom counter like ignoring it might make morning disappear, then slipped into yesterday's jeans and the only clean sweater left in the drawer—a faded blue one with a tiny hole near the elbow that I always covered with my hair when I remembered.
By 5:30 a.m. I was already dressed, hair twisted into a messy bun, kissing the twins' sleeping foreheads while Mrs. Delgado brewed coffee in her robe. "You look like you're going to war, mija," she whispered, pressing a travel mug into my hands. "Whatever he wants, breathe first. You're tougher than he thinks."
I nodded even though my throat felt full of glass. The subway ride was a blur of fluorescent lights and strangers' elbows; I clutched the pole so hard my knuckles turned white, replaying every mistake I'd made in his office—the spilled pens, the smeared ink, the way his voice dropped when he told me to go home. By 6:42 a.m. I stood outside his office door again, heart hammering loud enough that I was sure the night security guard could hear it from the lobby.
I knocked once. The door swung open before my knuckles left the wood.
Damian stood there already in a charcoal suit that looked freshly pressed, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, eyes sweeping over me like he was cataloging every flaw before I even opened my mouth. "You're early. Good."
I stepped inside and the door clicked shut with finality. "You said not to be late."
He gestured toward the visitor chair without sitting himself. "Sit."
I obeyed, perching on the edge like I might need to bolt any second. He remained standing, leaning against the front of his desk so his thighs were only inches from my knees. The proximity made every nerve in my body spark uncomfortably.
He set his coffee down with deliberate slowness. "I ran a background check on you."
The words landed like ice water down my spine. I forced my face to stay neutral even though my pulse roared in my ears. "Isn't that… normal for new hires?"
"Not this deep." His gaze never wavered. "Eviction five years ago. Three months where you vanished from every system—credit, utilities, leases. Then you resurface with newborn twins and no father listed anywhere. Care to explain the gap?"
My mouth went dry. I licked my lips and tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strangled. "I was… between places. Couch-surfing. Staying with friends who didn't mind cash under the table. It's not glamorous, but it's not a crime."
His eyes narrowed. "And the father?"
"Doesn't matter." I met his stare even though every instinct screamed to look away. "He was never in the picture. Never will be."
Something flickered across his face—anger, suspicion, maybe something sharper I couldn't name. He straightened and walked around the desk, pulling open a drawer. When he turned back he held a thin stack of printed pages. He dropped them in front of me without ceremony.
I glanced down. Grainy black-and-white security stills from a hotel hallway. A man in a dark suit with his arm around a woman in a soaked navy dress. Her face was turned into his chest, but the way her fingers gripped his lapel, the curve of her wet hair spilling over his sleeve—it was unmistakable. Me. Five years ago. The night I still felt in my bones when I closed my eyes.
My breath caught so hard it hurt. "Where did you get these?"
"Doesn't matter." He echoed my earlier words back at me, voice dangerously soft. "The question is why you're pretending you don't recognize the man in the photo."
I forced my hands to stay flat on my thighs instead of snatching the picture. "Because it was one night. One stupid, drunken night. I didn't even know his last name. He left before I woke up. End of story."
Damian leaned forward, palms flat on the desk between us. "And if I told you the man in that photo is me?"
The room tilted. I gripped the chair arms to keep from sliding off. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" He tapped the photo once, right over his own blurred face. "Same hotel. Same date. Same woman clinging to me like I was the only thing keeping her from falling apart."
My mind raced backward—rain-soaked dress, whiskey burn, strong hands lifting me against a wall, a whispered name in the dark. Damian. I had whispered it once, right before everything blurred into heat and need. But I'd convinced myself it was a dream-name, not real.
I shook my head slowly. "You're lying."
"I don't lie." His voice dropped lower. "But you do. Or you're hiding something bigger than one forgotten night."
I stood up so fast the chair scraped backward. "I'm not hiding anything that concerns you. My kids are mine. My past is mine. This job is all I need from you."
He rounded the desk in two strides and blocked my path to the door. Not touching me, but close enough that I felt the heat radiating off him. "You think you can walk out after I show you proof we've met before?"
"I think you're trying to scare me into quitting." My voice shook but I lifted my chin anyway. "It won't work. I've survived worse than a boss with trust issues."
For one long second we stood there, breathing the same air, tension crackling between us like live wires. Then he stepped aside—just enough for me to slip past.
"Get to work," he said quietly. "And Ava? Don't disappear again. I will find you if you do."
I fled into the hallway on legs that felt like jelly, heart slamming so hard I thought it might bruise my ribs. The elevator doors closed and I leaned against the wall, replaying his words, the photo, the way his eyes had darkened when he said my name.
He knew.
Or he suspected.
And if he kept digging, he would find the twins' birth certificates, the prenatal dates, the math that screamed connection.
I pressed my forehead to the cool metal and whispered to myself, "Please don't figure it out. Not yet."
Damian
I watched the elevator numbers tick downward until they hit the lobby, then turned back to my desk and picked up the phone.
The investigator answered on the first ring. "Sir?"
"Deeper," I said. "I want the prenatal clinic records. Ultrasound dates. Anything with a name attached to those twins. And pull the original hotel reservation under my card from June seventeenth, 2020. Every charge. Every timestamp."
"Already working on the hotel. The clinic might take a warrant or a very cooperative nurse."
"Make them cooperative." I ended the call and stared at the still-open folder.
Ava's face in the hallway photo stared back at me—half-hidden, vulnerable, clinging.
The same way she'd looked last night on her knees scrubbing my bathroom, refusing to quit even when she was shaking with exhaustion.
I dragged a hand over my jaw.
If she was the woman from that night…
If those twins were…
I shoved the thought down hard.
Not yet.
I needed proof. Ironclad. Undeniable.
Because if I was wrong, I'd just terrorized an innocent single mother for no reason.
And if I was right…
I'd spent five years hating a ghost.
While the real woman had been raising my children alone.
My phone buzzed again—security feed alert from the lobby camera.
Ava stepped out of the elevator, pausing to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of that worn blue sweater, then squaring her shoulders like she was marching into battle.
She glanced up once—straight at the camera, straight at me.
Our eyes met through the lens for half a second.
Then she turned and walked away.
And something inside me cracked wide open.
I wasn't letting her go this time.
Not until I knew everything.
My finger hovered over the intercom to my assistant.
"Cancel my nine o'clock. And get me the name of the best private DNA lab in the city."
The line went quiet for a beat.
Then my assistant's voice, careful: "Sir… are we talking voluntary collection or…?"
I stared at the empty doorway where Ava had disappeared.
"Whatever it takes."
I ended the call.
And the hunt that had simmered for five years just turned lethal.