The Love Clause

Chapter 8: The Problem with Avena Cross

Damian’s POV



I underestimated her.

It had been one week. Seven days of working side by side with Avena Cross. And already, she was proving to be the biggest enigma I had encountered in years.

I expected her to be good. She was better.

I expected her to struggle under the workload. She handled it effortlessly.

I expected her to ask for breaks. She never did.

Avena was a problem.

Not because she was incompetent, not because she made mistakes, but because she was—annoyingly, frustratingly—exceptional.

And I couldn’t stop watching her.

Monday

She was early.

Not by much—just ten minutes before her scheduled start time—but I noticed.

"You’re learning," I remarked as she sat at her desk, pulling out her laptop.

She didn’t even glance at me. "Or maybe I just wanted a head start before you buried me under more work."

I smirked. Good. She was catching on.

I handed her another stack of reports, expecting at least a sigh, a roll of her eyes, something.

Instead, she took them without complaint, flipping the first page open before I had even finished speaking.

"I need summaries of these by noon."

"Fine." She paused. "Wait—noon? That’s three hours from now."

"Glad to know your math skills are sharp, Cross."

Her jaw clenched slightly, but instead of arguing, she just muttered, "Unbelievable," and got to work.

I watched her for a moment, waiting for her to get distracted, waiting for her to check her phone, to slow down, to make a mistake.

She didn’t.

Intriguing.

Tuesday

Avena worked through lunch.

I hadn’t told her to.

Hell, I had expected her to disappear for at least half an hour, maybe go off to complain about me to some poor soul willing to listen.

Instead, when I returned from a meeting, she was still at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, papers stacked neatly in front of her.

I stopped in the doorway, crossing my arms. "Did I forget to tell you that lunch breaks exist?"

She didn’t even look up. "Did I forget to tell you that I have too much work to do?"

"That’s not my problem."

"Exactly. So why are you still standing there?"

I narrowed my eyes, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. She just kept typing, utterly unfazed.

I should have told her to take a break. I should have walked away.

Instead, I found myself lingering, watching the way her brows furrowed in concentration, the way she chewed her lip slightly when she was deep in thought.

A problem. A very distracting problem.

I exhaled sharply and walked away.

Wednesday

By midweek, something shifted.

I wasn’t just watching her work—I was studying her.

She tackled everything with precision, moving through tasks faster than anyone I had ever seen. It wasn’t just efficiency—it was instinct.

She knew what I needed before I even asked.

By noon, she had already compiled detailed notes on three manuscripts, responded to multiple high-profile authors, and drafted a market analysis for our upcoming releases.

I didn’t say a word as I flipped through her reports.

And then, as I reached the last page, I smirked.

"You missed something."

For the first time that day, she looked up, brow arching.

"Impossible."

I turned the page toward her, tapping the corner.

"You forgot the revenue projections for the new author launches."

She frowned, flipping through her own notes. A beat later, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You just added this today."

"And?"

"And I compiled this report yesterday."

I leaned back. "Sounds like a you problem."

Her eyes flashed with something sharp, something fiery, and for a second, I thought she might throw the entire folder at me.

But instead, she snatched it from my hand and said, "Fine. Give me twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes.

I expected her to need an hour.

She did it in fifteen.

I stared at the updated report when she dropped it back onto my desk.

Everything was there. Perfect. Flawless.

How the hell did she do that?

I looked up, and she smirked. "Problem?"

"No," I murmured. "Not at all."

Thursday

I finally caved.

I had been avoiding it all week, but I needed to know.

Avena Cross wasn’t just a student, wasn’t just my assistant—she was a writer.

And from what I had heard, a damn good one.

So when she left for the day, I pulled up our unpublished submissions and scrolled until I found it.

Her manuscript.

I shouldn’t have done it.

I didn’t have the time, didn’t have the energy.

But the second I read the first page, I knew I was screwed.

Because she wasn’t just good.

She was brilliant.

Her words pulled me in effortlessly, the prose sharp and immersive. The characters breathed on the page, the tension visceral, real.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly.

She had no idea just how damn talented she was.

And if this was the manuscript she had written while juggling school, work, and a sick father?

I could only imagine what she was capable of at full capacity.

I drummed my fingers against my desk, staring at the screen.

I wanted this book.

And more than that?

I wanted her to know just how much potential she had.

Friday

I waited until the end of the day to bring it up.

I could tell she was exhausted. She had barely looked up from her screen all day, pushing through the mountain of work I had given her without a single complaint.

But when she finally stood to leave, I spoke.

"Cross."

She stopped, one hand gripping her bag.

"Your manuscript."

She blinked. "What about it?"

I leaned back, studying her.

"I read it."

A beat of silence. Then—

"You what?"

"I read it," I repeated slowly.

Her expression shifted, like she was deciding whether to be horrified or pissed.

"You weren’t supposed to do that."

"You submitted it through my company. That makes it my business."

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples.

"Okay. So? What’s your verdict, sir?"

I smirked.

"It’s good."

She crossed her arms. "That’s it? Just ‘good’?"

"Good is high praise coming from me."

"Try harder."

I chuckled. "Fine. It’s one of the best manuscripts I’ve read in years."

That caught her off guard.

I saw it—the way her lips parted slightly, the way her fingers twitched at her side.

She recovered quickly, masking her reaction with a scoff. "You’re just saying that to mess with me."

"I don’t say things I don’t mean, Cross."

She studied me for a long moment.

And then, something softened in her expression. Just slightly.

"So what now?" she asked.

"Now? Now it lands on my desk first. Before anyone else sees it. Before it goes through anyone else’s hands."

She hesitated. "Why?"

"Because I want to be the one to publish it."

Silence stretched between us.

For the first time since I met her, Avena Cross didn’t have a comeback.

And as she finally turned and walked away, I found myself smirking.

I had a feeling this was only the beginning.