Damian took a step back and slipped his hand back into his pocket. "Go to your room," he said in an icy voice, it was calm but sharp enough to cut through the heavy silence between them.
Ava didn't move for a second. Her heart hammered so fast she thought he might hear it. But then she nodded quickly, her throat tight, and brushed past him without another word.
Her steps echoed down the hallway, soft at first, then fading until the silence swallowed them whole.
Damian stood in the same spot, his jaw clenched. He didn't move, not even when the faint scent of her perfume lingered in the air. His hand was still fisted tightly at his side, his knuckles turning pale. Slowly, he exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair, trying to calm the restless storm inside him.
He shouldn't have let her get to him.
He shut his eyes, only for her face to flash behind his lids, those stubborn eyes, the fear and defiance mixed in her voice. His chest tightened, and his eyes snapped open. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
What was she looking for? What did she think she'd find in his house? There was nothing here, nothing that could help her, nothing she could understand. He had built walls around his secrets long ago, and no one was meant to cross them.
Not even her.
He scoffed bitterly and turned toward the door, his hand resting on the knob. For a moment, he paused and looked back at the room, at the paintings that covered the walls, they were too many, too personal, something he wanted to shut out of his mind forever.
His gaze stopped on one painting in particular, the one of the woman and the little boy.
His throat tightened. A deep frown creased his forehead as he stared at the woman's soft smile and the boy's innocent eyes. He felt something twist painfully inside him. "I should've destroyed this," he muttered. His voice came out low, almost regretful.
He stood there for another moment, then turned off the light and stepped out, closing the door behind him. The hallway fell into darkness again.
__________
Ava's feet moved fast against the cold marble stairs. She didn't stop until she reached the upper floor. Her hands were trembling slightly, and she clenched them into fists as she hurried down the corridor toward her room.
The second the door shut behind her, she let out a long, shaky breath and pressed her back against it. Her chest rose and fell quickly as she tried to catch her breath. He didn't have to speak to her like that. She had said she was sorry, hadn't she?
Her fingers curled tighter as she tried to calm herself. The anger came before she could stop it, hot, restless, and impossible to swallow.
She started pacing the room, her bare feet brushing against the cold floor. "He didn't have to act like that," she muttered to herself. "I said I was sorry."
The memory of his voice echoed in her mind, it was sharp and commanding. And then the other thing he said, the one that made her blood boil.
Mrs. Cross!
She stopped pacing, her eyes narrowing. "Unbelievable," she whispered, almost laughing in disbelief. "He actually called me that."
Her reflection on the window stared back at her, her lips were pressed into a thin line. She wasn't his wife. Not yet. She was Ava Sinclair, and she wasn't going to let him make her feel small. But the thought hit her like a punch to the gut, no everything was going to change in five days.
In five days, she would be Mrs. Cross.
The realization sent a strange chill through her. She walked toward the edge of the bed and sat down heavily. "Mrs. Cross," she repeated under her breath, testing how it sounded. She hated it. She hated how easily it rolled off the tongue, how it felt like it didn't belong to her.
Her chest tightened at the thought of bearing his last name. There was no escaping it now. The contract had been signed, the arrangements made. The whole world would soon know her as Damian Cross's wife whether she liked it or not.
Ava groaned quietly and pressed her palms against her face. "This is insane," she whispered.
No matter how much she told herself it was for Lily, that she could endure this temporary cage, a part of her still burned with resentment.
And then, her thoughts betrayed her.
They went back to the moment in that room, to the way he had stepped closer, to the warmth of his breath brushing against her skin, to the flicker in his cold eyes that didn't look entirely heartless.
She swallowed hard, pressing her hand to her chest as if that would steady her heartbeat. "Get it together, Ava," she whispered to herself, shaking her head. "You can't let him get to you."
But the memory lingered anyway, it was stubborn and vivid.
Trying to distract herself, she thought about the room she'd found. The paintings and that woman's face. Who was she. who was the little boy. Something about the boy was familiar she didn't know why.
Was Damian the one who painted all of them? He didn't seem like the kind of man who painted anything. He was too cold and controlled. But if he did, then maybe, just maybe there was something human behind that icy shell of his.
Her curiosity itched at her, even though she knew it could get her into trouble again.
Ava let out a soft sigh and fell back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The air felt heavy, like the whole mansion was holding its breath.
Sleep didn't come easily. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Damian's face, the unreadable look in his eyes, the shadow that crossed his expression when he saw her in that room.
And the way his voice sounded when he told her to go to her room.
Ava rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She stared at the faint glow of the moonlight spilling across the floor and tried to calm her racing mind.
She needed to focus. On Lily. That was all that mattered.
When she found Lily, they would leave this city behind. The lies, the deals, the shadows of this house, everything. They'd start fresh, just the two of them, somewhere far away where no one could find them.
But deep down, as much as she wanted to deny it, a small, quiet part of her knew things wouldn't be that simple.
Because Damian Cross was not the kind of man who let go easily.