Damian let out a tired sigh as he stepped into his mansion, Maxwell trailing behind him with a tablet in hand. His shoulders felt heavy, the weight of endless meetings pressing against him even now. Work had become his second skin, something he couldn't peel off no matter how much he wanted to.
"Get the contracts ready before the end of the month. I don't want any mistakes," he said, his voice firm. "Not on their part or ours."
"Yes, sir," Maxwell replied immediately. He knew his boss too well, Damian liked order. Every detail had to fall into place, no matter what it took.
As they walked past the hallway, Damian's gaze caught the faint light spilling from the dining room. His steps slowed. For a moment, his eyes lingered there. his eyes trailed to the clock and he saw that it was dinner time..
He wanted to walk in and ask how her first day had gone, maybe even try to sound civil. But his jaw tightened. He wasn't ready for that, not yet. She wasn't ready for him either.
He still remembered the look on her face that morning after he had given her the ring. it was a mixture of anger and maybe hatred.
She was the last person who should matter, and yet, there she was… sitting under his roof, haunting his thought.
He turned away sharply and headed toward his study.
Maxwell followed, saying nothing. He had seen that flicker in his boss's eyes, the hesitation, the quiet storm he always tried to bury behind that cold composure.
Inside the study, Damian removed his coat and loosened his shirt collar. The faint clink of glass echoed as he poured himself a drink.
"Make sure Clara helps her settle in," he said suddenly, his tone quiet but edged.
Maxwell blinked. "Yes, sir."
He knew what that meant, watch her.
Damian lifted the glass to his lips, the whiskey burning down his throat. He didn't even flinch. "Have you found her yet?" he asked, placing the glass down.
"Not yet, sir. It's like she vanished into thin air. No records, no calls, no trace. But…" Maxwell swiped through the tablet and stepped closer. "I did find something you'll want to see."
Damian's brows drew together as Maxwell handed him the tablet. He stared at the screen and for a brief second, his expression shifted.
"She used to work for Scott?" His tone was low and a bit dangerous.
"Yes, sir. A few months before she disappeared. I think he might be connected to the gala night, the night she went missing."
Damian leaned back, his mind piecing together the fragments. "So that was what the footage was trying to show us," he muttered.
He opened his laptop and pulled up the security feed from that night. "Come here," he said, motioning Maxwell over.
The grainy footage flickered to life. They both watched in silence, it was the back gate of his sceond residence where the gala had taken place, it was dimly and many people wouldn't notice there was a security camera unless they looked closely.
Lily Sinclair stood there, a file in hand. She kept glancing over her shoulder, her body tense, like someone running out of options. Then, a black car stopped in front of her. She froze for a moment and there seemed to be a brief exchange between her and whoever was in the car before she opened the door and got in.
No one forced her. She went willingly.
And that was the last time anyone saw her.
Damian stared at the screen long after the video ended. The light from the laptop cast a faint glow across his face, highlighting the cold fury in his eyes.
He'd seen this footage a more than a dozen times over the past month and still, no answers.
Ava wanted the truth, but how could he tell her he had none?
He didn't know whether Lily was alive or dead. And until he found out, Ava would stay close. There was a high chance that whoever took Lily could take ava if they foun her snooping around too much trying to find her sister.
Maxwell broke the silence with a quiet sigh. "Do you think she's still alive, sir?"
Damian didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on the empty screen, on the face that looked so much like Ava's.
"…I hope so," he said finally. His voice was softer this time, barely audible. "For her sake."
---
Hours passed. The whiskey was long gone, but the weight in Damian's chest remained. By the time he looked up again, it was almost 3 a.m. His study was filled with scattered files, the entire house quiet.
He shut his laptop and stood. His temples ached, and sleep felt far away. He was about to marry a woman who hated him, who believed he had destroyed her world. Maybe he had, in a way.
He rubbed his neck and stepped into the hall.
Just as he reached the staircase, a faint sound caught his attention. There were soft footsteps echoing down the corridor of the west wing. His gaze followed the sound until he saw her.
Ava.
Her figure slipped through the shadows of the west wing. She moved quietly, like someone searching for something she wasn't supposed to find. Damian's lips curved slightly, but there was no amusement in his eyes.
So she couldn't help herself, could she?
He stayed hidden for a moment, watching her open door after door until she reached the last one at the end of the hall, his restricted room.
When the door clicked open, the faint smirk vanished from his face.
He'd ordered that room locked for a reason.
He strode forward silently, the sound of his footsteps barely audible against the marble floor. When he reached the doorway, he stopped. Ava stood in the center of the room, the faint light falling across her face. She looked frozen, like she wasn't sure what she'd just stepped into.
"Did you finally find what you were looking for?"
The sound of his voice made her spin around. Her breath hitched, her eyes wide when she saw him standing there, his figure framed by the doorway. His tone was calm, almost quiet but there was danger underneath.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
The click echoed through the room.
"Have you found it?" he repeated, his voice lower now, mocking yet measured. "The truth you keep digging for?"
Her throat tightened. She wanted to speak, but words refused to come. His eyes, sharp and unreadable pinned her in place. The space between them seemed to fill with tension, unspoken anger, and something she didn't want to name.
The silence that followed felt heavy and alive, the kind that could shatter with a single word.