Cruel Hearts, Golden Lies

Ava Elwood had always believed that silence could be louder than any scream. It could c***k the bones of the strongest person, twist in the air like smoke, and settle in places where even grief couldn’t reach. And in this moment standing in her modest little floral design studio, hands stiff with cold from an early winter morning silence curled between her and the last man she ever wanted to see. Damian Wolfe. He stood framed in her doorway like he belonged there, like he hadn’t burned half her life down six years ago and walked away without looking back. He hadn’t changed much still crisp, composed, dressed like wealth was something that clung to him naturally. His charcoal coat stretched perfectly over broad shoulders, and his silver-gray eyes swept over the room with all the interest of someone inspecting a minor investment. “I expected something… warmer,” he said eventually, gaze flicking to a line of flower arrangements. “For someone whose work revolves around beauty, this place feels... sterile.” Ava resisted the urge to throw the watering can in her hand. “Funny. I was just thinking how your face brings the temperature down by ten degrees.” The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Still sharp, I see.” “You're not welcome here, Damian.” “I won’t take long.” She didn’t move, didn’t offer him a seat, didn’t even bother hiding her loathing. The scent of lilies and eucalyptus lingered in the room, soothing her nerves but not enough to undo the tension thickening in her chest. He shouldn’t be here. Not after everything. Six years ago, Wolfe Corp had swallowed her father’s business like it was a casual snack. Elwood Designs, a company her father had spent decades nurturing, was reduced to a footnote in Wolfe’s empire. Her family’s savings disappeared. Her father’s health collapsed. And her future? Rewritten in unpaid bills and legal nightmares. Now here he was, standing in her studio like it was just another day and she was just another vendor. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” he said, stepping further into the studio despite her body language daring him not to. “I’m wondering if I need to call security.” “There’s a charity gala,” he began, ignoring the threat.“International sponsors. Media coverage. My team wants to give it emotional impact. Meaning. And your work came up in the meeting.” Ava blinked. “You want me to decorate your corporate circus?” His gaze remained unreadable. “That’s a dramatic way to put it. But yes.” She let out a short laugh, not even trying to hide her disbelief. “You think you can just walk in here, wave a fat check in my face, and I’ll forget what you did?” “No,” he said calmly. “I think you’re smart enough to know when to take an opportunity—regardless of personal history.” She clenched her jaw. “You mean regardless of personal ruin?” “If you want to call it that.” He pulled out a black folder and placed it gently on her worktable, between a half-finished bouquet and a pair of garden shears. “Three-month contract. Full creative freedom. Leading role. Public credit. You’d be in charge of everything—venue aesthetics, floral design, ambiance. It’s high visibility.” “And what do you get?” she asked, folding her arms. He looked at her for a long moment, then said quietly, “You.” Her breath caught. “I mean,” he corrected smoothly, “your name. Your talent. The heart behind your designs. It’s the kind of story that makes people care about the event. A redemption arc.” “I don’t need redemption.” “No,” he said. “But your business might.” The words landed hard. She didn’t need him to list the bills piling on her desk, the weddings postponed, the flower shipments she could barely afford. She’d built this studio from nothing but lately, nothing had been fighting back. He knew. Of course he did. He was Damian Wolfe. He didn’t show up without knowing exactly how broken the ground was beneath her feet. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she muttered. “Confidence,” he corrected. “Delusion.” He smirked again barely but it made something twist in her stomach. Not attraction. Something uglier. Anticipation. Wariness. That feeling you get when you know the game has started but you don’t know the rules yet. “Also,” he added, “you’d be expected to attend the gala. As my date.” She stared at him. “Excuse me?” “Optics,” he said, as if that explained everything. “We need to look cohesive. Storytelling matters. Designer and donor working side by side. It plays well in the media.” “You want me to pretend to like you?” He shrugged. “You already pretend not to.” That shut her up. Not because he was right. But because of the way he said it low, intimate, like he was already inside her walls, pushing against the parts she didn’t let anyone near. “I won’t be bought,” she whispered. “You won’t be controlled,” he corrected. “But you’ll take the deal.” “You don’t know me.” “I know desperation. I know pride. And I know people who hate me... rarely stay away from me for long.” She stepped closer, just enough that she could smell the subtle spice of his cologne. It was too crisp, too clean for someone who played as dirty as he did. “Let me be clear,” she said, voice like glass. “I don’t trust you. I don’t want your help. And I certainly don’t want to play dress-up at your side for a night just so your stock value ticks up.” He didn’t blink. “Good. That makes two of us.” Before she could respond, he turned and walked toward the door. Just before he stepped out, he said over his shoulder, “You have until tomorrow to decide.” And then he was gone. That night, Ava sat curled on her worn-out couch, the folder unopened beside her. The TV played some mindless drama, but her thoughts kept circling the same point. She should say no. Should throw the offer in the trash and sleep better knowing she hadn’t bent for a man like Damian Wolfe. But it wasn’t that simple. The offer would cover her loans. Pay off overdue invoices. Keep her business open through the slow season. She’d be able to hire back her part-time staff. Upgrade her aging tools. Buy flowers without holding her breath over each invoice. And yet… accepting meant letting him back into her life. Into her space. Into her. She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear dropped onto her hand. Across the city, in a penthouse high above the streets, Damian stood in front of a large monitor filled with images from her website. Photos of her hands delicately placing petals. Of children holding her bouquets at charity weddings. Of a smiling bride hugging her, eyes full of grateful tears. He reached out and traced a photo where she was laughing, sunlight in her hair. She looked... untouched by the world. And that wouldn’t do. “She’ll come around,” he said softly to the empty room. “She always does.”