Chapter5:First Window
873 Words
Ava sat at her desk, the glow of her computer screen lighting her face, but it was her heart that felt on fire. The “Ava Clause” Damien’s personal safety net stared up at her from her printed contract, calling her name like a confession she wasn’t ready to admit. The inclusion was out of place, intimate in an arrangement made to be cold. And yet, she couldn’t shake the warm, careful thought behind it.
She fidgeted with the contract’s corner as if it might bite her. She could almost hear a high-pitched inner voice shouting, You have to say no. But another voice, softer, whispered, What if this is more than business?
She glanced around the office. The usual hum of late-afternoon tech didn’t hide the quiet tension. Everyone else was heads-down. No side glances. Everything Thomas or Margo asked went unanswered. Just the faint click of keyboards in the distance. Perfect background for secrets.
Her phone buzzed.
Join me for a photo shoot. Studio, 42nd floor, 3 p.m. sharp. —D
Photo shoot? No one else got that. Only the couple expected to look married for the press. For the cameras. For the people who’d never know the real story.
She stared at the message. The words echoed: “Photo shoot.” She hadn’t heard that in a regular assignment.
She stood and walked toward his floor, her heart thundering awkwardly but steadily. Each step on the marble felt like a countdown.
The studio smelled like anticipation, dry concrete, hot lights, and the sour sweetness of burning coffee. Props were scattered: two mismatched mugs, scattered faux mail, an elegantly distorted wedding photo on a chipped frame. They had tried. It felt like a living room that someone forgot to live in.
Damien was already there. Shirt sleeves rolled, collar button undone, hair slightly messy at the edges the only time she’d seen him look less like a CEO and more like a person just out of bed.
Their eyes met. Not formal. Not rehearsed.
“Good afternoon,” he said, but the corners of his mouth softened, almost a twitch of regret hiding beneath the suit.
“Hi,” she replied, clearing her throat she didn’t know was tightening. “Here.”
The photographer barked something words irrelevant. Camera lights drilled through her nerves. “Sit here. Natural posture, yes.”
Natural. Like it wasn’t foreign.
She perched on the edge of a small sofa. He picked a cushion from behind her, squaring it for her comfort. Flashes began.
Between shoot intervals, fleeting moments happened. A glance, a soft laugh. The photographer wandered out for a moment, giving them unexpectedly a chance to breathe.
Damien reached across and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. He didn’t think, didn’t ask. Just… did.
Her breath stuttered. She forced a laugh. “Must be rough,” she teased, her voice brittle.
His lips quirked sideways. “Every hero’s journey is cruel,” he teased back. Unauthorized banter and strangely, safe.
The rest of the shoot blurred. She felt like glass jars under scrutiny, but when his hand settled once more on her shoulder steady, light it felt… wrong and right.
Later, they shared coffee and bagels—the corporate version of comfort food—in a small staging area.
“I feel like an imposter,” she admitted, staring down at half-eaten cream cheese ring. “You ever feel that?”
He paused. Looked at the coffee cup as if it held the answer. “All the time,” he said quietly. “But today, I didn’t. Not really.”
Her pulse hammered in her chest. Did he mean here, or tonight, or with her?
“Good,” she whispered, her voice louder in her head than in real life. She blinked fast. “That’s… good.”
A beat. Silence. Then he said:
“We need a name for what this is,” he said low. “Contract wife is… depressing.”
She laughed, short and genuine. “How about partner? Business partner? Co-wife? Co-everything?”
He drained his cup, and his expression got serious again. “Co heart?”
Her throat clenched and she huffed a laugh
ridiculous, nonsensical, but it landed. “Too much.”
He stood, extending a hand. “So we call it whatever doesn’t suck.”
She took it. And for one split second, she saw Damien not as her boss but as someone chasing connection in all the wrong ways.
Back at their separate elevators, they paused. Their hands still connected in the lingering handshake.
“I…,” she started, voice careful. He only waited. So she took a breath and said, “I want to know you.” Not as my boss. As a person.
He nodded and said, softly: “I want to know you, too.”
They parted ways, stepping onto different floors. She pressed her back against the cold elevator wall, stomach swirling, breath shaky.
She leaned her head back: Am I getting closer to something real? Or setting myself up for a disaster?
She didn’t know.
But she had a feeling, deep and dangerous, that she was stepping off the ledge and she wasn’t sure there was ground underneath anymore.
- Writer
