THE ONE NIGHT STAND

💫Chapter 11 – Shattered Lines

(Ava’s POV)

The first thing I felt when I woke up was the weight. Not the usual heaviness of morning, but the oppressive, suffocating kind—the one that comes when the whole world has seen something they shouldn’t.

The whispers were already crawling through the internet like a disease.

Damien Voss’s latest scandal. Damien Voss’s latest woman. And her name? Mine. Ava Cole.

I sat up in bed, the hotel sheets twisted around me like I’d fought them all night—which I had, in my dreams. I’d dreamed of cameras flashing, of microphones shoved in my face, of strangers knowing me. But it wasn’t just a dream anymore.

My phone blinked on the nightstand. Notifications stacked on top of each other like a tower ready to collapse.

Headlines. Messages. Missed calls.

Some were from people I hadn’t spoken to in years—classmates, old coworkers—suddenly “checking in.” Others were venom disguised as curiosity.

I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until a knock sounded at the door. Sharp. Demanding.

“Ava.” Damien’s voice. Low. Controlled. Too controlled.

I opened the door halfway, enough to see him standing there in a dark suit that looked too formal for a Sunday morning. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable, but his presence was magnetic as always—dangerously so.

“We need to talk,” he said, stepping inside before I could answer.

I crossed my arms, holding myself together. “If this is about the scandal, I’ve already seen it.”

His gaze sharpened. “You think this is just about a scandal?”

“What else would it be?” I shot back. “The pictures are everywhere, Damien. Us at the gala. You leaning in like—” I cut myself off before my voice could crack.

“Like I wanted to kiss you?” he finished, his tone maddeningly calm.

My chest tightened. “Don’t. Just—don’t do that. Don’t pretend this doesn’t have consequences for me.”

He moved closer, closing the space between us. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not already tearing apart my entire PR team for letting this happen?”

“I don’t care about your PR team,” I said, my voice shaking. “This isn’t a game for me, Damien. I’m not some socialite who lives for this kind of drama. I have a career—”

“You had a career before you met me,” he interrupted, and the words landed like a slap.

I froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His expression softened, but not enough. “It means that I’ve seen how people treat you. They underestimate you. They dismiss you. But they won’t anymore.”

“That’s not the kind of attention I want.”

We stood there, locked in a battle neither of us could win. His presence was overwhelming—part of me wanted to push him away, the other part wanted to sink into the safety he always seemed to offer when the world closed in.

Before I could decide, my phone buzzed again. Another message. Another headline.

This time, the photo was worse—cropped close, it showed Damien’s hand on my lower back, the expression on my face soft, almost intimate. And in the corner of the frame? Celine, watching us.

I swallowed hard. “She was there.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Celine. In the background.” I turned the phone so he could see, my pulse racing.

His jaw flexed. “Of course she was.”

The way he said it made my skin prickle. “You think she did this?”

“I don’t think,” he said grimly. “I know.”

Something cold settled in my stomach. “Then why is she still here, Damien? Why do you keep letting her circle us like a vulture?”

“Because she’s not easy to remove,” he said, his voice dark. “And if I push too hard, she’ll do worse.”

I laughed bitterly. “Worse than this? What’s left—blackmail? A tell-all interview?”

His silence was answer enough.

I stepped back from him, the space between us suddenly feeling like a chasm. “You can’t keep me safe from her, can you?”

His jaw tightened. “I can. I will.”

“Then start proving it,” I whispered.

We stared at each other for a long moment. Then he turned and left, his footsteps heavy against the marble floor.

When the door shut, I let myself sink to the bed. The world was watching, judging, spinning its own story about me. But there was one thing they didn’t know—not yet.

I wasn’t going to be the quiet, compliant woman in their narrative. If Celine wanted a war, I’d give her one.

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