Velvet Traps
1454 Words
Ava wasn’t sure why she came in early that morning. Maybe it was the weight of the flowers left at her door. Maybe it was the way Damian had said her name before brushing that strand of hair back — like it belonged to him, not her.
The city was quiet at dawn, painted in ash-blue light and fogged windows. Her studio smelled like fresh lilies and cinnamon — her usual calming blend. But nothing about her heartbeat felt calm.
She kicked off her flats and walked barefoot on the wooden floor, trying to ground herself. Her steps echoed too loudly, like the building itself was warning her: you’re slipping.
She hated how Damian made her feel. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even l**t. It was a collision of memory and anger, of something unresolved crawling back with a tuxedo and polished shoes.
They hadn’t been equals back then. He was two years ahead of her in college — already infamous for buying out a failed startup and selling it for a profit before he graduated. She was the dreamer with coffee-stained sketchbooks and paper cuts from too many sleepless nights. He was the headline, and she was the margin note.
He had noticed her anyway.
Ava walked into her design bay and opened her latest centerpiece mockup, rearranging it without really seeing it. Tulips. Orchids. She plucked one stem out, then shoved it back harder than necessary. The petals trembled.
She loathed how he looked at her now — like she was some unfinished story he was determined to rewrite.
At 9 a.m. sharp, her phone buzzed.
Damian Wolfe: Conference Room A. 10 minutes.
No greeting. No name. No context.
Of course.
She arrived three minutes late on purpose. Let him stew a bit.
Damian stood at the window, dark suit, sleeves rolled just slightly, jaw tense. He didn’t turn when she entered.
“You’re late.”
She dropped her folder on the table. “You’re early. Again. Seems like you’ve got nothing better to do than wait for me.”
That got his attention. He turned slowly. His eyes swept over her, not lasciviously, but like he was scanning a barcode. Measuring. Calculating.
“I have entire companies to run, Ava. But some things—” his gaze landed on her lips before flicking back up “—are worth prioritizing.”
She felt a chill coil around her spine.
“Let’s be professional.”
He smiled. “Define professional. I remember your final year thesis — florals with emotional symbolism. You nearly set the dean’s patience on fire during your presentation.”
“Because I didn’t kiss his a*s like you did?”
His jaw twitched. “You think that’s all I do?”
“I know that’s all you do.”
There was a beat of silence. Not awkward — dangerous.
“I offered you this contract because you’re talented,” he said, voice low, eyes burning. “Don’t flatter yourself into thinking it’s personal.”
She crossed her arms. “You showed up at my apartment with croissants and sent me flowers without a note.”
“They were just flowers.”
She stepped closer, letting venom edge her tone. “You don’t do just anything, Damian. Not when it comes to me. You want something. You always have.”
“I want results.”
“Liar.”
He took a step forward — just one — but it was enough to bridge the space between animosity and something darker.
“I hate how you talk to me,” she said quietly. “Like I owe you for the past.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I hate that you make me feel like I missed something I never should have let go.”
She blinked.
A flash of silence passed. Ava took a step back.
“Meeting adjourned,” she snapped.
As she turned to leave, he said softly, “You left first, Ava. But I’m not letting you leave again. Not this time.”
Later that evening, Ava made a visit home. Her father's apartment had the warm scent of cardamom tea and old books. She placed her purse down and greeted him with a forced smile.
"You're late," he said gently, eyeing her with concern. "You look... tired. Everything okay at the studio?"
"Yeah, Dad," she said too quickly, brushing a stray hair from her face. "Everything’s just been hectic. New clients. Some big names."
He leaned back into the sofa, squinting. "You're not getting involved with those corporate sharks, are you? Didn’t you say once you'd rather die than work for Damian Wolfe?"
Her fingers twitched around her teacup.
"I’m not working for him, exactly," she lied. "It’s a partnership. Temporary. My work gets more exposure this way."
He didn’t buy it. But he didn’t push.
"Just be careful," he murmured. "People like Wolfe don’t play fair."
She nodded, but inside, something curled in guilt.
By the time she returned to her studio, the sky had turned violet and dusky gold. She was fumbling with her keys when she noticed it — a sleek black car parked across the street.
Then movement. A man stepped out.
He wasn’t Damian. Too tall. Too smooth.
He crossed the road slowly, confidently. Dressed in all black, flanked by two suited guards behind him.
Ava froze.
“Ms. Whitmore,” he said, voice coldly smooth. "Jack Roswell. We haven’t met, but I’ve been following your work."
She instinctively stepped back, hand tightening on her keys. “Do I know you?”
“No. But I know Wolfe. And you’re tied to him. Which means you’re relevant to me."
He didn’t smile. Just stared. Like she was something he intended to claim.
“I’m not available for new contracts,” she said, trying to mask the tension in her voice.
"That’s unfortunate. I don’t usually repeat offers, Ava. But I’m offering you more than Wolfe can. Triple. Full freedom. And no emotional strings."
Her breath caught. "That’s very generous, but—"
"Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not generosity. It’s strategy."
Something about the way he said it made her stomach knot.
“I already signed with Wolfe,” she said, voice firmer now. “And even after that ends, I don’t want to be part of this ego war you two have going on."
His eyes darkened just slightly. Like rejection wasn’t a word he heard often.
“Don’t let personal bias cost you a future,” he said quietly. “You have until Friday. Think carefully."
He turned and left, his guards following silently.
Ava stood rooted. Heart pounding. What had she just walked into?
That night, she was sketching on her couch when a knock thundered through her apartment.
Not a tap.
A commanding knock.
She rose slowly, every inch of her body on edge. Peering through the peephole—
Damian.
Wearing black. Expression unreadable.
She opened the door halfway, blocking the rest with her body.
“Seriously?” she said flatly.
He stepped forward. She didn’t move. The hallway light caught the sharp cut of his jaw.
"What did he say to you?" he asked.
Her chest tightened. “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
She crossed her arms. “Jack Roswell showed up with his guards and made a dramatic offer. Is that what you’re here to warn me about?”
His jaw clenched. “Don’t accept. Even when our contract ends — you’re not joining him.”
She laughed — sharp, bitter. “Wow. So now you’re dictating what I do after we’re done? You don’t own me, Damian.”
He stepped in closer. “He’s dangerous.”
“So are you.”
His voice dipped low. "But you already chose me. And I don’t share."
She blinked. “Are you jealous?”
He leaned in, hand braced against the doorframe beside her face.
“I don’t get jealous. I get possessive.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You don’t understand what kind of man Roswell is. He doesn’t take rejection well. And you — you’re in the middle now.”
“Because you put me here,” she snapped. “You walked into my life and dropped history like a grenade.”
They stared at each other. Something electric crackled between them.
Damian stepped back first, slowly, eyes never leaving hers.
“I’ll deal with him,” he said quietly.
“Don’t,” she warned. “I don’t need saving.”
He smiled — not soft. Dangerous. “I know. But I still will.”
He left.
Ava stood there for a long time.
Her heart was chaos.
And outside, the city held its breath.
- Writer
