The world blinked in and out like a dying star.
Voices blurred… one urgent, one low, one sharp with panic but all I could feel were the hands. One behind my back, another against my cheek. Warm. Strong. Real.
"Don't just stand there, Mark… open the door."
Damian. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut clean. No trace of the fight, no trace of the man who told me I didn't matter. Just command. Just fear.
"I've got her," he said, arms wrapping around me like armour, like a net catching something he hadn't meant to lose.
I couldn't open my eyes. Couldn't speak. But I felt it; him. The way he lifted me. Careful. Too careful. Like he thought I might break if he breathed wrong.
Somewhere in the haze, the car door opened. Rain and warmth battled in the air, the storm outside dripping through my consciousness-like memory.
"She's burning up," Mark's voice. Close now. "We should get her checked"
"No." Damian again. Sharper this time. "Not with reporters everywhere."
He pulled me into the car like he was sheltering something rare and ruined. My soaked dress clung to me, but I didn't shiver anymore. I didn't feel anything but heat. A furnace rising in my chest, burning behind my eyes.
I didn't fight when my head landed against his chest.
Didn't move when the door shut and the world outside disappeared.
Only then did I hear it, his heart. Fast. Uneven.
I passed out again.
The next time I woke, it was quiet.
Soft sheets. Dim light. Something cold on my forehead. And breathing slow, steady breathing that wasn't mine.
I opened my eyes. Just barely.
Damian.
He was sitting beside the bed, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, elbows on his knees. He looked like hell. His hair was damp. His eyes were darker than I remembered.
He didn't see me at first. His gaze was on the floor, jaw clenched like he'd been fighting something inside himself for hours. Maybe days.
I swallowed. My throat burned.
He noticed.
"Ava." His voice cracked like glass. He leaned forward. "You're awake."
I tried to sit up.
"Don't." His hand hovered inches from mine, then withdrew. "You've had a fever. Bad. Naomi's been checking in. She says it's exhaustion. Exposure."
"I'm fine," I murmured. I wasn't.
"I'll get her."
"No." I reached weakly, and this time, his hand didn't pull away. His fingers brushed mine, tentative, unsure.
It felt like drowning and breathing at once.
We didn't speak for a moment.
Just air between us.
He finally broke it. "You shouldn't have been out there like that."
"I know."
"I didn't mean what I said."
I closed my eyes. "But you did."
He didn't argue. And somehow that hurt more.
I turned my face toward the pillow. The fever made my skin ache. But it wasn't just that.
It was everything. The glass. The silence. The way he looked at me like I was both a stranger and something sacred.
"I would've come looking," he said quietly. "But Mark called. Said you were there. Said you wouldn't let him take you inside."
"Lily," I whispered. "I just… needed to be near her."
Damian nodded once, slowly. "You scared me."
I turned back. His eyes were locked on mine.
"She's the only thing that makes sense," I said. "All of this, your world, your name, your rules, it's not mine. I don't know who I am in it. But I know who I am to her."
"You matter," he said. It came out hoarse. Raw.
"You told me I wasn't supposed to."
He flinched. Not visibly. But I felt it in the way his breath caught.
He didn't say anything after that.
Just sat there. Watching me like if he looked away, I might disappear again.
Minutes passed.
The clock on the nightstand read 3:04 AM.
The door creaked open.
Naomi.
She froze when she saw him.
He straightened instantly as if caught doing something he didn't want to explain.
Naomi raised an eyebrow. "You're still here."
"She's not strong enough to walk away from this yet," he said quietly. Not looking at her. Not looking at me.
Naomi looked between us. Whatever judgment she had, she didn't voice it. She stepped inside, checked my temperature, and nodded. "Coming down. But she needs rest."
She looked pointedly at Damian. "So do you."
He didn't move.
I let my eyes drift closed again, barely clinging to the warmth of his hand brushing mine.
I think he stayed.
I think I wanted him to.
Miles away, Helena tapped her manicured nail against the edge of her keyboard.
The emails looked perfect clean headers, correct time stamps, internal tone.
Fabricated investor messages, dated weeks prior. Ava Kingsley requesting emergency transfers. Private accounts. Confidentiality clauses.
Forged signatures.
Every detail is in place.
She smiled.
And clicked send.
To the board.
To Damian.
To the world.
Let the fall begin.