The Honeymood Clause
1410 Words
They didn’t go anywhere fancy.
No private island. No Europe.
Damien booked a small cottage in Ada. 2 hours from Accra. Beach. Quiet. No signal.
“Are you sure?” Ava asked in the car. “Your company—”
“My company survived without me for 24 hours,” Damien said. “It can survive 3 days.”
He was wearing jeans. T-shirt. No suit.
Ava hadn’t seen him like this. Ever.
The cottage was small. 1 bedroom. Wooden deck. Ocean 20 steps away.
Mrs. Clarke packed their bags. “No work phones, Mr. Cole,” she said. “I hid them.”
Damien didn’t argue.
---
Day 1: They cooked. Badly.
Ava burned the fish. Damien burned the rice. They ate jollof from a nearby stand instead.
Day 2: Beach. All day.
Ava in a sundress. Damien shirtless. They built a sandcastle. It looked terrible. They laughed anyway.
“Why are you doing this?” Ava asked, lying in the sand. Head on his chest.
“Because you deserve it,” Damien said. “Because I want to remember you like this. Not crying in a hospital. Not fighting my board. Just... you.”
Ava traced his jaw. “No contract. No rules?”
“No rules,” Damien said. “Except one.”
“What?”
“Don’t leave me,” he said. Quiet. Real.
Ava’s heart cracked. “I’m not going anywhere.”
---
Night 2: Rain.
No power. Just candles.
They sat on the floor. Blanket. Wine.
Ava was wearing one of his shirts again.
Damien was watching her.
Not the way he watched contracts, or stock prices, or people at a board meeting. This was different. Slower. Heavier.
Ava felt it. The weight of his stare on the curve of her neck, on the bare skin where his shirt had slipped. She pretended not to notice. She stared at her wine instead.
The rain hadn’t stopped. If anything, it was harder now. It ran down the glass walls of the villa in silver sheets, making Accra look like a city underwater. The power was still gone. No AC hum. No city lights. Just the three candles on the floor between them, and the storm.
“Your shirt looks better on you,” Damien said finally. His voice was low, rough at the edges like he hadn’t used it in a while.
Ava’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t look away. “It does. Navy suits you.”
She pulled the hem down harder, like that would make the comment mean less. It didn’t. “I’m cold. My clothes are wet. That’s all.”
“Lies,” he said, but there was no bite to it. He took a sip of wine. “You could’ve asked for a robe. You chose this.”
Ava opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Because he was right. The housekeeper had offered a robe an hour ago. She’d said no.
Silence fell again. Not awkward. Charged.
The blanket was between them, but not really. Their knees were almost touching through it. Every time Ava breathed, she smelled him on the cotton. Cedar. Rain. Him.
“Clause 4.3,” she said, because saying the contract out loud made it feel safer. “Shared accommodation. That’s all this is.”
“Is it?” Damien set his glass down. The clink made her jump. “Because accommodation doesn’t usually feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re one wrong move from breaking it.”
Ava’s throat went dry. She reached for her wine, but her hand was shaking. Damien saw it. Of course he did. He noticed everything.
“Give me that,” he said, and took the glass from her before she could spill it. He set it beside his, then shifted closer. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that the candlelight caught in his eyes.
“Damien, don’t,” she whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want something the contract didn’t buy.”
The words hung in the air. Honest. Dangerous.
Damien’s jaw flexed. For a second, she thought he’d pull back. Be cold again. The CEO. The man who bought her signature for a year.
Instead, he reached out.
His fingers found the collar of his shirt on her. He didn’t pull. He just held it, right at her shoulder, where the fabric had slipped. His thumb brushed her skin. Bare. Warm.
Ava stopped breathing.
“This shirt,” he said quietly. “It’s mine. But right now… you’re wearing it.”
“What’s your point?” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
“My point is,” he leaned in, just an inch, “tonight there’s no boardroom. No cameras. No lawyers reading Clause 7.1. There’s just rain. And you. And me.”
The candle closest to them flickered as if it heard him.
Ava should’ve moved back. Should’ve quoted the contract, reminded him this was temporary, that he’d leave in ten months and she’d be fine.
She didn’t.
“One night,” she said instead. The words surprised her as much as him. “That’s it. No promises. No… after.”
Damien’s eyes darkened. “One night.”
He didn’t kiss her right away. He waited. Like he was letting her change her mind. When she didn’t, when she just stared at his mouth instead of running, he closed the distance.
Slow.
His lips touched hers like a question. Soft. Testing.
Ava answered.
She kissed him back.
The blanket fell away. The wine was forgotten. The rain was the only sound in the world as she slid her hands into his hair and he pulled her against him, careful, like she might break, like he was afraid she would disappear if he held her too tight.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t in the contract.
But in the dark, with no power and no one watching, Ava stopped pretending she didn’t want him.
And Damien stopped pretending he didn’t want her too.
End of Chapter 11.And Damien stopped pretending he didn't want her too.
The rain softened outside, but neither of them moved. The air in the villa was thick with wine, candle smoke, and the kind of silence that only happens after something you can’t take back.
Ava sat back slowly, her chest rising and falling too fast. His shirt was still on her. It was damp at the collar, wrinkled from his hands. She looked down at it, then at him, like she didn’t know what to do with either.
Damien didn’t look away. He watched her like he was trying to figure out if she was going to run.
"You regret it," he said. It wasn’t a question.
Ava opened her mouth. Closed it. "I don’t know what I am."
"Honest?" He shifted, reaching for the blanket on the floor and pulling it over both of them again. Not seductive. Just… warm. "Because that’s new for us."
She let out a shaky laugh. "Clause 4.3 didn’t cover this."
"Clause 4.3 is a liar," Damien said, and for the first time, he smiled. Not the boardroom smile. A real one. Tired. Soft around the edges. "It said shared accommodation. It didn’t say shared consequences."
Ava pulled the blanket tighter. "What happens now?"
"Now?" He leaned back against the couch, keeping one arm around her shoulders. "Now we sit here until the power comes back. Or until sunrise. Whichever is worse."
"And tomorrow?"
Damien was quiet for a long time. The last candle popped. "Tomorrow we pretend. For breakfast. For his mother. For the contract." His thumb brushed her shoulder, over the cotton. "But tonight…"
"Tonight is ours," Ava finished for him.
He nodded. "Tonight is ours."
She rested her head on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat again. Slower now. Not panicked. Just real. His fingers moved through her hair, slow, absent-minded, like he’d done it a hundred times before.
"I’m scared," she whispered.
"I know," he said. "Me too."
"Of what?"
"Of what happens when the lights come back on."
Ava closed her eyes. The villa was quiet. Accra was dark. The contract was ten months long, but right now it felt like zero.
She didn’t count the days. Not tonight.
She fell asleep to the sound of rain and Damien’s breathing.
**End of Chapter 11**
- Writer
