Chapter 9: The Line I Shouldn’t Cross
1021 Words
Avena’s POV
He read my book.
Damian Carter—arrogant, insufferable, dangerously intelligent Damian Carter—read my book.
And he liked it.
I should have been thrilled. Or at least pleased. But the only thing I felt as I left his office that night was a slow-burning panic twisting in my chest.
Because this was him.
This was the man who spent an entire week testing me, pushing me, throwing every impossible task at me just to see if I would break.
And now, he had read my most personal work—something I hadn’t even let my professors see yet.
I hated that his approval meant anything to me.
But, God help me, it did.
I barely slept that night.
I tossed and turned, staring at my ceiling, replaying our conversation over and over.
"It’s one of the best manuscripts I’ve read in years."
He had said it so casually, like it was nothing.
Like his opinion hadn’t just cracked something inside me.
Because the truth? I didn’t believe in myself the way other people did.
Professor Graham told me I had a gift. My friend Sarah swore I’d be a bestseller one day. But I had never let myself hope, not really. Writing was my escape, my way of staying sane in a world that didn’t give me a break.
But Damian Carter? He wasn’t someone who handed out compliments lightly.
And that terrified me.
Because if he thought I was good, if he really meant it…
Then maybe I wasn’t wasting my time after all.
By the time my alarm blared at 4:30 AM, I was already awake.
I didn’t bother lying in bed any longer. I had things to do.
I forced myself up, stretching the sleep out of my bones before heading straight to the kitchen.
Same routine as always.
I made breakfast for Dad, set out his meds, wrote him a note reminding him to take them. I checked his doctor’s schedule, made sure everything was in order.
Then I sat at the kitchen table, pulled out my laptop, and tried to write.
Tried.
The words wouldn’t come.
Because all I could think about was him.
His voice, steady and calm, when he told me my book was good.
The way his gaze held mine, unwavering.
The way something inside me had shifted when he said, "Now it lands on my desk first."
I groaned, slamming my laptop shut.
"No. No, no, no. We are not doing this."
Damian Carter was not going to live rent-free in my head.
I had a full day ahead. Classes. Work. Studying. Taking care of Dad.
No time for distractions.
And certainly no time for him.
I arrived at Carter Publishing on time. Not early, not late—exactly on time. Because if I was early, he’d think I was trying too hard, and if I was late, he’d smirk and say something infuriating.
I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction.
The second I stepped inside, I felt it again.
His presence.
It was impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend it didn’t affect me. The way the air seemed heavier when he was near, the way his attention—when it landed on me—felt like a silent challenge.
I walked toward my desk, determined to pretend last night hadn’t happened.
"Cross."
Damn it.
I turned to find him leaning against his office doorframe, arms crossed.
"My office. Now."
I bit back a sigh, but I went, keeping my expression neutral as I stepped inside.
"Is this about work, or do you just enjoy bossing me around?"
"Both." He shut the door behind me, his movements slow and deliberate.
I ignored the way my stomach twisted at the sound of the latch clicking into place.
"I meant what I said last night," he started, leaning against his desk. "Your book. I want it."
I swallowed hard.
"You don’t even publish my genre."
"I do now."
My heart kicked against my ribs.
"That’s ridiculous."
"No, it’s business. You have talent, Cross. I don’t ignore talent."
I crossed my arms. "And what if I don’t want you to be the one to publish it?"
He tilted his head slightly, studying me.
"Then I’d have to wonder if you’re scared of success."
I stiffened.
Because that? That was too close to the truth.
I was scared.
Scared that if I tried and failed, I wouldn’t recover.
Scared that if I let myself dream, reality would crush me.
Scared that someone like him—a man who had everything—would never understand what it was like to fight for something and still come up short.
"I’m not scared," I said, my voice quieter than I wanted it to be.
"Then prove it."
I swallowed hard.
"I’ll think about it."
"Good." His lips curved into something almost resembling a smile.
I exhaled sharply, turning to leave—
"Oh, and Cross?"
I froze.
"Try to eat today."
I frowned, glancing back at him. "Excuse me?"
"You skipped lunch yesterday. Don’t make it a habit."
Something warm and unwanted curled in my stomach.
"You don’t need to worry about me, Carter."
"I don’t. But you’re no use to me if you collapse at your desk."
I scowled. "And here I thought you cared."
"Not in the slightest." His smirk deepened. "Now get back to work."
I left without another word, ignoring the way my pulse had picked up.
Ignoring the fact that, for the first time in years, someone had noticed.
I got home late.
Dad was already asleep.
I was too tired to eat, too wired to sleep, so I did the only thing I could think of.
I sat at my laptop.
And I started to write.
And for the first time in weeks, the words came easily.
Because now, when I imagined my main character’s rival—the one she hated, the one who drove her insane, the one who might just ruin her life—
He had stormy gray eyes and a smirk that made her want to strangle him.
And I hated how effortless it was to picture him.
- Writer
