CHAPTER 3
1711 Words
AVA'S POV
The next morning, I woke up to three missed calls from my mother.
I stared at my phone from beneath the covers.
For a moment, I considered pretending I hadn't seen them.
Then it rang again.
“Mum?”
“Finally.”
I rubbed my eyes.
“What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
I sat up.
“You called me three times at ten in the morning?”
“I've been calling since eight.”
“Why?”
“You're supposed to be ready.”
“For what?”
There was a pause.
“Did you forget?”
I frowned.
Then remembered.
Shopping.
Damian.
“I told you I don't need anything.”
“And I told you Damian wants to take you.”
“I can buy my own clothes.”
“Ava.”
There was that tone.
The one that meant she wasn't asking.
“Fine.”
“Good. He'll be there at eleven.”
I looked at the clock.
“It's ten.”
“Exactly. Get dressed.”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
One thing about my mother: she could turn a simple invitation into an order without ever raising her voice.
I got out of bed.
By eleven, I was standing outside the house wearing jeans, a cream blouse, and flats.
A black car was waiting at the gate.
I stopped.
Damian stepped out.
He was dressed casually today, although casual for him probably cost more than everything I owned.
Dark trousers.
A white shirt.
No tie.
His sleeves were rolled to his forearms.
I hated that I noticed.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
His eyes moved over me briefly before returning to my face.
“You're ready.”
“My mother threatened me.”
A faint smile appeared.
“I suspected that might work.”
“You're enjoying this.”
“Perhaps a little.”
I walked toward the car.
“I still don't understand why you're doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Taking me shopping.”
He opened the passenger door.
“Your mother mentioned you haven't bought anything for yourself in months.”
I stopped.
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
I sighed.
“Of course she did.”
He waited until I got inside before closing the door.
A moment later, he slid into the driver's seat.
I looked at him.
“You're driving?”
“I prefer to.”
“Don't you have a driver?”
“I do.”
“Then why are you driving?”
“Because I wanted to.”
I looked out the window.
Everything about him seemed deliberate.
The way he spoke.
The way he moved.
Even the silences.
It was frustrating.
“So where are we going?”
“Wherever you want.”
I laughed.
“I don't know where rich people shop.”
He glanced at me.
“You're sitting beside one.”
“That doesn't mean I know where you shop.”
“Fair point.”
The car moved through the city.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
I watched buildings pass outside the window.
Eventually, Damian broke the silence.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Why did you refuse your mother's help?”
I looked at him.
“Because I don't want to owe her.”
“She's your mother.”
“Exactly.”
He waited.
I sighed.
“My mother likes helping people when she can use it against them later.”
His expression became thoughtful.
“Has she done that to you?”
“Many times.”
“And your father?”
I looked out the window.
“Not around.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.”
He didn't press.
I appreciated that.
Most people asked questions because they wanted gossip.
Damian asked questions because he actually listened to the answers.
That made him dangerous.
Because I was beginning to feel comfortable around him.
And I shouldn't.
The first store we entered made me want to turn around.
Everything was beautiful.
Everything was expensive.
I looked at one dress and nearly laughed when I saw the price.
“Absolutely not.”
Damian glanced at the tag.
“Why?”
“Because that's more than my rent.”
“Then don't look at the price.”
I stared at him.
“That might be the most billionaire thing anyone has ever said to me.”
He smiled.
“Try something on.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Damian.”
“Ava.”
I folded my arms.
He raised an eyebrow.
I hated that I was smiling.
“Fine.”
The afternoon became a strange blur.
He didn't buy everything I touched.
He didn't force me to accept anything.
Instead, he asked what I liked.
For once, someone seemed genuinely interested in my opinion.
At one point, I held up a black dress.
“This one.”
He looked at it.
“Good choice.”
“You don't even know what it looks like on me.”
“I trust your judgment.”
I looked at him.
That simple sentence caught me off guard.
“You trust my judgment?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you haven't given me a reason not to.”
I looked away.
It shouldn't have affected me.
But it did.
We stopped for lunch at a quiet restaurant overlooking the city.
I sat opposite him, staring at the menu.
“Everything here is expensive.”
“Then don't pay.”
“I know you're paying.”
“Exactly.”
I frowned.
“You really don't understand what it feels like to count every coin.”
His expression changed.
“You're right.”
I looked up.
“I didn't mean—”
“No. You were right.”
He closed the menu.
“I've lived differently from you for a long time.”
There was no arrogance in his voice.
Just honesty.
“Doesn't it ever get boring?”
“What?”
“Having everything.”
He thought about it.
“Sometimes.”
I smiled.
“Poor billionaire.”
He laughed.
The sound surprised me.
I'd never heard him laugh properly before.
It made him seem younger.
Less intimidating.
More human.
And suddenly, I understood something.
Damian Cross wasn't just a billionaire.
He was a man.
A man I was beginning to enjoy talking to.
That realization frightened me.
I looked down at my plate.
“I should probably tell you something.”
He waited.
“I don't want you to think I'm trying to take advantage of you.”
His brows drew together.
“I don't.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“My mother probably thinks I'm going to ask you for money.”
“I don't.”
“She does.”
“That's between your mother and me.”
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
He studied me.
“You don't have to thank me for treating you with respect.”
My chest tightened.
I looked away.
For the rest of lunch, I avoided his eyes.
When he dropped me back at my apartment that evening, I expected him to leave immediately.
Instead, he got out of the car.
I looked at him through the open window.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking you to the door.”
“I can manage.”
“I know.”
He still followed.
We stopped outside my apartment.
I turned toward him.
“Thank you.”
“For?”
“The clothes.”
“You're welcome.”
“And lunch.”
“You're welcome.”
“And everything else.”
He nodded.
I reached for the door.
“Ava.”
I turned.
He looked at me for several seconds.
Then he said quietly, “You should smile more.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You look happier when you do.”
I didn't know what to say.
So I smiled.
A real one.
His eyes lingered on my face.
For one dangerous second, neither of us moved.
Then he stepped back.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I went inside.
I closed the door.
And immediately leaned against it.
My heart was racing.
I hated that.
I hated that one conversation with him could affect me so much.
I hated that I had started looking forward to seeing him.
Most of all, I hated that he seemed to notice.
Three days later, my mother called again.
“Wedding preparations are starting.”
I sat at my desk, surrounded by textbooks.
“Okay.”
“I want you involved.”
“Sure.”
“And Damian wants you there.”
My pen stopped moving.
“Why?”
“He says you're family.”
That word again.
Family.
I swallowed.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
I sighed.
“I have class.”
“Skip it.”
“No.”
“Ava.”
“I have an exam.”
“Fine. After your exam.”
“Okay.”
She paused.
Then added casually:
“By the way, Damian is staying at the house this week.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He has business in the city.”
“So?”
“So he'll be around.”
My fingers tightened around the pen.
“That shouldn't concern me.”
“It doesn't.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“You sound strange.”
“I’m tired.”
“Alright. I'll see you tomorrow.”
The call ended.
I sat there staring at the wall.
Damian would be staying at my mother's house.
The same house where I was expected to spend the weekend.
I told myself it didn't matter.
He was my mother's fiancé.
Nothing more.
I repeated that to myself until I almost believed it.
Almost.
Because somewhere deep inside me, there was another voice.
One I didn't want to hear.
One that whispered that seeing Damian every day might make resisting him much harder.
And for the first time, I wondered whether staying away from him was actually going to be enough.
Because I was beginning to suspect that the real danger wasn't Damian Cross.
It was how I felt whenever he looked at me.
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