Ava sat on the edge of Damien's leather desk chair, that old photo clutched in her hands like a fragile secret. The leather was cold beneath her, but the warmth of the memory in her hands burned hotter than she expected.
It felt strange to see him so… human.
Younger. Softer. There was no icy sharpness in his gaze, no cruel smile twisting his mouth. The boy in the photo hadn't yet become the razor-edged man who now dictated her every move like a god deciding the fate of mortals.
His parents had looked tired — but loving.
And Damien? He had looked lonely.
That look… she recognized it far too well.
She'd seen it on herself. In the mirror. In the silence after her father's empire crumbled. In the days when her name became ash in the mouths of men who once begged for her attention.
For a moment, she almost forgot to hate him.
Almost.
The soft click of the door broke her thoughts like glass underfoot.
Damien entered, pausing mid-step as his gaze locked on the photo in her hands. The look on his face wasn't anger. It was something closer to... resignation.
"You've been digging again," he said, voice low.
She didn't stand. Didn't flinch. "You kept this hidden."
"I keep a lot of things hidden."
She stared at him — really stared — as if peeling back the layers might make sense of the man in front of her. "You loved them."
His eyes flicked away, then returned. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded like armor. "They were my foundation," he said quietly. "And my curse."
Ava rose, the photo trembling slightly as she held it out to him. "Your father didn't deserve what mine did to him."
Damien stepped forward and took the photo from her, his fingers brushing hers. Just a graze, but enough to light a fire under her skin. His gaze flickered — just for a second. "No," he agreed. "He didn't."
"And neither did I."
That made him look up — sharply.
Their eyes locked.
Something shifted in the space between them. Not forgiveness. Not warmth.
But recognition. A shared fracture. As if they were two broken mirrors trying to reflect the same pain.
Ava folded her arms across her chest. "So, what now? You keep me here like a pet until your revenge tastes stale?"
"I keep you here," Damien replied, his voice quiet but edged with something darker, "because I don't know what you'll do if I let you go."
She blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're dangerous, Ava. Not with knives or secrets. But with your mind. Your mouth. The way you look at people like they owe you the world… and somehow make them believe they do."
He stepped closer, his presence pulling at her like gravity. "You could burn down empires if you wanted."
She swallowed. Her heart was pounding now, confused and angry and alive.
"And you?"
Damien's voice was almost reverent. "I'd let you."
---
Later that evening, Ava couldn't sleep. Restlessness clawed at her skin.
The penthouse was too quiet. Too polished. A castle made of ice.
She wandered through the halls of her new wing, then left it behind, drifting like a ghost until soft notes of music reached her ears — faint, delicate, haunting.
She followed them like a thread, stopping at the partially open door of the music room.
Inside, Damien sat at the grand piano, bathed in golden light. His fingers moved over the keys with a tenderness she wouldn't have believed him capable of. The melody was slow, raw — not composed, but remembered.
Ava stood in the shadows and just… watched.
This wasn't the Damien who cornered her with threats. This was someone else. Someone human.
"You always stare when you think no one's watching," he said suddenly, still not looking at her.
She jumped slightly. "You play piano," she said, stepping in.
He nodded, fingers still gliding.
"Let me guess," she said, arms folding again. "Your tragic villain origin includes classical training?"
He chuckled, the sound rough but real. "Mother insisted. Said it would keep me civilized."
"And did it?"
He paused — then stopped playing altogether. "No."
The silence after the music felt louder than the notes themselves.
Ava stepped closer. "What was the song?"
Damien looked up. His expression was unreadable. "A memory. Nothing more."
"You keep doing that," she said. "Showing me pieces of yourself, then retreating the second I see too much."
"Because it's safer."
"For who?"
He rose slowly from the piano bench, his height and presence swallowing the room. With every step he took, Ava's heart thudded louder.
"You want honesty, Ava?" he said, voice low and rough.
She met his gaze, her chin high. "Try me."
Now he stood just inches from her, his breath brushing her skin.
"Every time I look at you," he said, "I remember what it felt like to be powerless. To want something I could never have. To hate you for what you were born into… and hate myself more for wanting you anyway."
Her breath caught in her throat. Her hand clenched at her side.
His voice was softer now, jagged. "And now that I have you, I don't know if I want to ruin you… or keep you."
Ava stared at him, frozen by the honesty — the cruelty wrapped in confession.
"You don't get to say things like that," she whispered. "Not after what you've done."
"I know."
"But you did."
"I meant every word."
---
The moment tilted.
Not toward tenderness.
But toward hunger. Toward something forbidden, forged from shared damage. A need that lived beneath the skin, shaped by rage and stitched together with regret.
Ava turned, breath unsteady, heart trembling.
But Damien caught her wrist — gently. Not enough to trap her. Just enough to make her stay.
"If I kissed you right now," he murmured, "would you hate me?"
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
Because the truth scared her.
Instead, she pulled away — slow and deliberate — and walked out of the room, her pulse still echoing the melody he'd left behind.
---
That night, sleep never came.
Not because of guilt.
Not even because of fear.
But because Damien Blackwood — the man she was supposed to hate — had started showing her pieces of the boy he u
sed to be.
And she didn't know which version of him terrified her more:
The monster who broke her world…
Or the broken soul who once played piano to forget it.