Chapter6: Echoes and Edges
882 Words
Ava stared at the contract every time she passed it on her desk. No longer just paper it felt like a border between her old life and… whatever was next. Somewhere between security and surrender.
By Wednesday, she was already feeling stretched thin. Work piled up. Texts from friends reminding her that she hadn’t replied. Her calendar was a razor’s edge: meetings, dinners, photo shoots.
None of her phone alarms made it halfway through the beep sequence before she dismissed them. She didn’t want reminders of a life outside this spiral.
She found herself in the elevator again, heading up to Damien’s floor. Not business. This time… she wasn’t sure why.
The doors opened. He was waiting. Not in his suit today he wore a navy cardigan, sleeves pushed up, collared shirt still crisp but soft-looking.
He smiled. Just once. Flicker of warmth or what she hoped was warmth.
“Ava.” He nodded. Not formal. Just… recognition.
“Hi,” she said. Pause. “Got a minute?”
He tapped the door. “Come in.”
Inside, the office felt smaller than usual. Intimate. Charged.
She didn’t say anything. She stared at his desk: empty coffee cup, her “Ava Clause” contract, a framed photo, Damien and his father, years ago, both smiling.
She swallowed. “Why is that up there?”
He followed her gaze. “I… forgot you might notice.”
He moved to pick it up. She held up a hand.
“It’s fine. Just… didn’t expect to see him.”
He paused. Quiet for too long.
“It’s from before I was really me. Before the company. Before everything.”
A lesson in pause. Then he cracked his voice: “I used to smile.”
She had never heard him say that before. A confession, bare and brittle.
Her heart ached. Capsule of his pain in four words.
“It’s hard to imagine now,” she said. “After all this… damn.”
He breathed. “Yeah.”
Silence fell. Thick and awkward. But not empty.
She said, quietly, “You know… about last night? Yesterday morning?”
He looked at her, expectant.
“It was real,” she said. “Not fake staged smiles. Something… shifted.”
He stood. Crossed behind his desk he felt different when he paced. Human.
She swallowed. “I felt it.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
They were in confession now. Heads lowered, with truths too fragile to shout.
She met his gaze. “Do you…?” She trailed off.
He sighed. “Do I what?”
“Think about it. Us.”
Her pulse thrashed.
He took a step closer. Close, but not over the line. “More than I should.”
She swallowed again. “Me too.”
And there it was the forbidden admission.
But it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t magic. It felt messy and personal and dangerous in that way real things are.
He rubbed his neck. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“Neither do I.”
They crossed the line without touching. Their eyes locked, familiar strangers.
Later that day…
Ava was back at her desk when her phone buzzed quietly on silent mode (thank goodness). It was a photo notification: Damien’s driver had sent a lock-screen picture, a cropped image of them on the photo shoot: her laughing with head tilted, and Damien staring at her, raw curiosity in his eyes.
Did he send this? She stared at it. A casual snapshot meant for public. Or not.
She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Not yet.
Text followed: Check the contract’s final page. I added something. D.
Oh no.
She stared at the desk, at the clock (2:47 p.m.), and felt sharp behind her chest like she’d been hit by something she couldn’t name.
After hours…
They met again. Same elevator. Same floor. This time, she had the contract in one hand, her bag in the other.
He glanced at them. “I added another clause.”
She looked at him. “Let me guess.”
“Your clause on public appearances expanded.”
Her heart raced. “Explain.”
He took the contract. “If at any point you don’t want to there’s a public event just say so. No penalties. And I’ll walk it back publicly. I’ll take responsibility. Fully.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Felt exposed.
He added, “I mean it. I’d rather protect you than put you in a front you hate.”
Her breath caught.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I care,” he said. “More than I expected.”
Her throat closed. There it was. She felt the chill of truth.
She swallowed, thinking of his photo driver’s silent gift. His photo told her he was thinking about her even when she wasn’t there. He was paying attention. He was human.
She reached out, trembling. Grasped the contract. And folded it. Slowly. Carefully.
“I’m in,” she said. “On our terms.”
He nodded. Softly. “Mine, too.”
The weight lifted slightly two broken people making fragile promises.
He looked at her like he meant every word. Like she was more than just a contract. Like she was real.
She felt more, too like she wasn’t alone.
- Writer
