The morning after the gala felt heavier than any hangover. Ava sat at her desk with a mug of coffee she barely touched, scrolling through reports without actually seeing the numbers. Every time she blinked, she remembered the press of Ethan’s mouth on hers, the heat of his hands, the way he had claimed her in the hallway as though the world outside didn’t exist.
She had sworn it couldn’t happen again. Yet the memory still clung to her like a second skin.
“Ava.”
His voice came from the doorway. She stiffened, clutching the mug harder than necessary.
“Mr. Blackwell,” she said, her tone clipped.
One brow arched at her formality, but he stepped inside anyway, closing the door with deliberate calm. “Still pretending?”
She set the mug down with a soft thud. “This is an office. Not your per
