The Fine Print of Us

Chapter four - Ink in Water

Damien grabbed the phone on the second buzz, jaw tight, voice low.

“Blackthorn.”

He paced toward the window, one hand raking through his hair as his team rattled off updates motions filed, media probes heating up, whispers of a rebuttal from the opposing counsel. He gave quick, clipped responses, eyes flicking to the skyline but mind not really seeing it. His attention kept drifting.

Back to the figure in his bed.

Mara, tangled in his sheets, her hair wild against the pillow, one leg bare and just visible beneath the blanket. She slept like someone unbothered by the storm she left in her wake. It shouldn’t have disarmed him, but it did. She looked... unguarded. Soft. Like maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t meant to affect him the way she had.

But she had.

And it was a problem.

He ended the call, tossed the phone back onto the nightstand, and pressed his palms against the cool glass of the window. His reflection stared back at him, stone-faced and calculating. He didn’t like complications. He didn’t invite vulnerability.

And Mara Lennox? She was the embodiment of both.

Last night wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be something which would confirm that he temporarily lost his mind. A well-lit evening, a little chemistry and be something that would show just enough sparks to sell the press on a rehabilitated rogue who’d found something, or someone, to tether him down.

It was supposed to be something short-lived. They would explore things and agree that they couldn’t continue things because it wouldn’t be right.

Not this.

Not the way she’d unraveled him with nothing but a look. The way her laugh slipped beneath his skin. The way her body responded to his touch like they’d been made to fit. He didn’t do connections. Not like this. Not where it could hurt.

And now she was in his bed. And he didn’t want her to leave. He exhaled sharply, rubbed the tension from his jaw.

This was dangerous.

He needed to put space between them. Reset the line.

A soft rustle behind him told him she was waking. He turned just in time to see her stretch, lazy and catlike, pulling the sheet higher up her chest as her eyes fluttered open.

Damn it. Even half-asleep she managed to knock the breath from his lungs.

“Morning,” she said, her voice husky, still threaded with sleep.

“Morning.” His tone came out cooler than he intended.

She picked up on it instantly. Of course she did.

“Already running off to save the world?” she asked, brow arched.

“Something like that,” he said, forcing a small smirk. “Trial prep waits for no one.”

She studied him quietly, and he hated how much he wanted to crawl back into bed, press his mouth to her shoulder, trace the curve of her spine.

Instead, he crossed the room, crouched beside the bed, and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“This was…” He paused. Carefully choosing his words. “Not what I expected.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me neither.”

Silence settled between them, warm but uncertain.

He should walk away.

Instead, he said, “Dinner. Again. After court this week.”

She blinked. “That’s not like you.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

Her lips quirked into a smile that felt like trouble.

“Fine,” she said. “But next time I pick the place.”

“Deal,” he said, already knowing he’d let her take far more than that.

He leaned in and kissed her, quick, restrained, but his fingers lingered just a moment too long against her cheek. Then he straightened, grabbed his suit jacket, and walked out the door. Because if he stayed another minute, he wasn’t sure he’d ever leave.

Mara stared at her phone like it had personally betrayed her. She’d sent the text three hours ago. Simple. Casual. Breezy, with just enough charm to camouflage the nerves twisting like wire in her stomach.

Friday night? My turn to pick the place. I promise, no jazz, no existential lighting.

And then… nothing.

No read receipt. No reply. Not even the ghostly promise of three gray dots blinking and vanishing. Just digital silence. Cold and empty.

She hated that it bothered her. Hated the way her thumb hovered over the screen, refreshing the chat like it would summon him. She wasn’t the type to wait around for a man, especially not one who knew how to weaponize silence.

When she’d left his penthouse that morning, flushed and tangled in his sheets, she thought it meant something. That look in his eyes, the way he kissed her like she was the only thing anchoring him to this planet it felt real.

Apparently, so did a good PR stunt.

Her phone buzzed again. Her heart jumped, traitorously hopeful.

Not him.

It was Ivy.

No text. Just a link. And one ominous sentence: “You need to see this before it spreads further.” Mara stared at it, her thumb frozen. A cold knot coiled low in her stomach. She tapped it.

Blackthorn Reignites Old Flames?

The headline hit like a slap. Beneath it, a carousel of glossy photos: Damien in that charcoal suit, of course, he had a charcoal suit…and her. Tall, blonde, laughing like the camera didn’t exist. Zoey. Perfect, polished Zoey, looped into his arm like she belonged there.

And Damien? Damien wasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking at her.

That smirk.

That knowing tilt of his head. Like he was letting the world in on a secret only he and Zoey remembered.

And that’s when it cracked. Something inside her. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly. Like the dull snap of thread unraveling. Compared to them, she didn’t stand a chance. The pictures of her and Damien? Safe. Boring. The kind you’d attach to an HR-approved LinkedIn update.

Mara Lennox: Ghost of a one-night press stunt.

She closed the browser. Let the phone slide from her fingers onto the couch cushion. She sat back, blinking at the ceiling like maybe it had answers she didn’t.

No tears. Not yet.

But they were coming.

She'd let herself feel it tonight, every jagged inch of it. And then, tomorrow? Tomorrow, she’d remember who the hell she was. Damien Blackthorn would become what he clearly intended to be all along, a footnote in her story. A beautifully wrapped mistake. And as for her mother? If Clarissa so much as mentioned another “eligible bachelor,” Mara would burn that whole bridge down and salt the earth behind it.

Because this time, she was done being someone else’s pawn in someone else’s game.

When Friday night rolled around, Mara made a decision, she wasn’t going to sit around in her sweats, nursing heartbreak and a pint of overpriced gelato. She had her dignity, after all. And Wi-Fi.

Instead, she let her bubbly roommate, Leah, drag her out to some new, buzzy cocktail lounge downtown. The kind of place with overpriced drinks, neon signs, and Instagrammable corners. Leah had rounded up a few friends too, and the four of them made a night of it. Laughing over old rom-coms, trading hot takes on prestige TV, passing drinks with sugared rims back and forth like war medals.

Mara didn’t check her phone once. That, in itself, felt like a revolution.

She didn’t need Damien Blackthorn. Not his smirks, not his silence, and definitely not his PR scandals. She wasn’t some discarded side character in the epic saga of his ego.

She was doing fine.

She was more than fine.

So, when she slid up to the bar, sassy blue dress, hair perfectly curled, skin glowing like she had her life together, she felt something close to peace. Until the past tapped her on the shoulder.

Literally.

“Mara?”

She turned.

And of course, because life had a sick sense of humor, it was Andrew Reinhart. Ex-boyfriend. Ex-mistake. Still annoyingly tall, still dressed like he thought he was two years away from running the entire city. But the arrogance had dulled a little in his eyes.

The surprise on his face was genuine. So was the wide, disarming smile. Before she could even process it, he pulled her into a hug.

His cologne hit her, same as ever. Sharp, smug, expensive.

“You look good, Mara.”

Of course she did. The dress was killer, her legs were moisturized within an inch of their life, and her eyeliner hadn’t smudged despite the humidity. But coming from him? It landed sideways.

Still, she managed a polite smile. “Thanks. You look… like someone who just found out his favorite brand of ego isn’t on the shelves anymore.”

Andrew laughed, actually laughed. “Fair. Deserved. I earned that.”

“Yeah,” she said, c*****g her head. “You did.”

He looked down, sheepish in a way she didn’t trust. “I’ve been good, actually. Got a new job after that overconfident asshole fired me. Ironically, best thing that could’ve happened.”

Mara tilted her head slightly, arms crossed, one brow arched just enough to let Andrew know she wasn’t impressed. She remembered those long nights vividly, her curled up on the couch, half-listening while Andrew paced and ranted. His boss this, his workload that. The guy was a tyrant, he said. An egomaniac breathing down his neck, riding him until he couldn’t think straight.

Then came the day he was fired.

According to Andrew, it was out of nowhere, unfair, even cruel. But standing here now, the truth hit her like a drink with too much bite and not enough sugar.

The boss? The “overconfident asshole”? That had been Damien Blackthorn.

Of course it was.

She was sure Andrew had mentioned the name before. Once. Maybe twice. But she’d tuned most of it out, back then, their nights weren’t about connection. They were routines. Empty conversations that started with wine which she didn’t even like and ended with frustration. She couldn’t even remember the last time they laughed. Really laughed.

Their relationship hadn’t ended in a fiery explosion. It had bled out slowly, like ink in water. She stopped trying. So did he. And now here he was, looking at her like maybe he wished he hadn’t let her go.

Too late.

Way too late.

Andrew’s voice cut through her thoughts. “I know I messed up, Mara. I just—I didn’t realize what I had until it was gone.” She blinked slowly. The old Mara might’ve softened. Tonight’s Mara had nothing left to give.

“Andrew,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “you didn’t realize what you had because you never looked up from your own mess long enough to see me.”

He looked wounded. But she didn’t flinch. She’d spent too long trying to fix broken people. She was done taping over bullet holes.

“I hope your new job’s working out,” she added. “But don’t confuse regret with nostalgia. And don’t rewrite history just because I look good in this dress.”

With that, she gave him a polite, cutting smile and turned away, rejoining Leah and the others.

Later that night...

Back in her apartment, the bravado had worn off. Her heels were on the floor, her dress hung over the back of a chair, and she was wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big. Her hair was a little messy, her makeup slightly smudged but her eyes were dry.

Damien hadn’t texted.

Not even a lousy excuse. Not even an emoji.

She picked up her phone again. Still nothing. Mara bit her bottom lip and sat on the edge of her bed, thumb hovering over his contact. She could call him. Demand an explanation. Ask why he ghosted her after everything they shared.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she blocked his number. No rage. No tears. Just a quiet decision.

Damien Blackthorn had kissed her like a promise and walked away like a stranger. Let him be one, then. She deserved someone who showed up. Not someone who vanished the second the world stopped watching.