Ava’s POV
I was running late, which wasn’t tragic in and of itself, but considering everything that had happened yesterday—the near-kiss, the frigid aftermath, Liam’s sudden mood swings and increasingly unreadable expression—it felt like showing up five minutes late to a burning building I might’ve accidentally set on fire.
I hadn’t factored in how much I hated the metro. Or how much I hated myself for having to take it. But I also couldn’t exactly call a rideshare every morning when I was trying to prove I was just a scrappy tech girl and not, you know, a political heiress with unlimited black car accounts and a small army of chauffeurs.
The building rose in front of me, all glass and teeth, and I swiped my badge against the scanner with the same hope I once reserved for confessional booths. Please, please let today be uneventful. Please let Liam not look at me like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway through solving and already resents.
The scanner beeped.
And then the world went to hell.
“Fancy running into you, Ava,” came a voice so familiar and so absolutely unwelcome that I stopped breathing for a second. Maybe longer.
I turned slowly. And of course—of course—there he was.
Jeremy Callahan.
The smug smile, the perfect hair, the shirt that was one button too open. He looked like a business-casual cologne ad, and I hated that I still remembered what his breath smelled like when he was drunk. I hated that my first instinct was still to shrink.
But I didn’t.
Mostly.
“Let go,” I said when he reached out to grab my arm, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to remind me who he was. Who he had always been.
He didn’t.
“Relax,” he said, already pulling me toward the elevator. “I figured we could catch up. Grab a coffee. For old time’s sake.”
“I’m late,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. Professional. Not at all like I was seconds from launching myself through the glass door just to get away from him. “I don’t have time for this.”
He gave me a knowing smile that curled at the edges like a dirty secret. “Sure you do.”
I should’ve stopped it there. Should’ve said something. Loudly. But I didn’t. Because it was still him. And no matter how many layers I’d put between Avelina Sinclaire and Ava Green, some part of me still remembered what it felt like to be powerless around him.
He steered me into the company café like we were just two colleagues grabbing a casual latte. He didn’t need force—he had charm. That false, syrupy confidence that always made other people trust him and made me feel like I was drowning in something warm and sweet and rotten.
He chose a table by the window. Too public. Too visible. My skin prickled.
“This is a bold move,” he said, settling in across from me and nodding at the barista. “Hiding out like this. Pretending to be one of the peasants.”
I didn’t answer.
“And Duarte? Not bad. Did you seduce your way into the position, or is this some kind of extended gap year fantasy?”
My teeth clicked together. I could already feel my pulse climbing, the past and the present folding in on each other like pages in a book I never wanted to reopen.
He leaned in, and lowered his voice, still smiling. “Your mother’s losing her mind, you know. You always did have a flair for dramatics, but this? This is something else.”
I kept my hands in my lap. Flat. Still.
“I’m not who you think I am,” I said quietly, because what else was there to say?
He chuckled. “Oh, please. Don’t insult me. Avelina Sinclaire doesn’t just vanish into a mediocre wardrobe and a fake resume. Especially not after what happened.”
My entire body tensed.
Then—his hand landed on my thigh.
My first reaction wasn’t rage. It was paralysis. That old, familiar feeling of being watched, being owned, being silenced by the knowledge that he could ruin me in one sentence. One name. One smile.
“You help me,” he said, almost kindly, “and I’ll keep your little secret. Otherwise... who knows? People talk. People listen. Especially when a girl like you pretends she’s something she’s not.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My skin burned under his hand, and all I wanted was to scream, to claw, to break something. But I couldn’t afford to crack. Not now. Not here.
Because people were watching.
I could feel it before I saw it.
Tina and Ashley, standing near the sugar station like they just happened to be there. Pretending to stir their coffees, not even bothering to hide the way they were devouring the scene with their eyes.
I knew what they were thinking. What they were already whispering. The way their smiles twisted.
The moment I stood, their phones were already in their hands. A photo was probably already on its way to Slack by the time I pushed back from the table.
“I have to go,” I said, keeping my voice calm, my expression neutral.
He smirked. “You’ll want to think about this, Ava. This is me being generous.”
Liam’s POV
I’d been watching her all morning. Quietly. From a distance. Telling myself it was curiosity, or irritation, or some other excuse that didn’t sound like obsession. She was late. Distracted. Moving like her body wasn’t syncing with her brain. And not once—not in the hallway, not in the meeting, not even when our eyes almost met through the glass of her office—did she look at me.
She was avoiding me.
Fine. Expected. Meaningless.
Until Tina showed up, eyes gleaming like she’d found the perfect spot to twist the knife. Her voice was light, almost amused, but every word was aimed.
“She was in the café with that guy—Jeremy,” she said. “He had his hand on her thigh. She didn’t pull away.”
I just stared at her.
“She looked… into it.”
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t trust myself to. I just turned back to my screen, clicked open the security file that had landed in my inbox, and there it was—grainy footage that still managed to gut me.
Ava. Sitting across from the guy I already couldn’t stand. Her shoulders tight. Her expression too blank—so careful it screamed effort. And Jeremy—smiling, leaning in, touching her like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything. Like he had the right.
And Ava—my Ava, the one who used to look at me like she wanted to kiss me, the one who made me laugh when I forgot how—didn’t move.
She didn’t push him away.
She didn’t even flinch.
One thought slammed into me like a wrecking ball: What if none of it was real? What if every moment we had—every argument, every glance, every breathless second of heat—was just another one of her games? What if she’d been playing me from the start, hiding behind the underdog brilliance while keeping guys like Jeremy close—the ones who didn’t ask questions because they already assumed they owned her?
I felt sick.
Not just angry. Not just betrayed.
Jealous.
The kind I hadn’t let myself feel since Lindsey. Since everything fell apart.
Because the truth—the one I couldn’t say out loud—was that I wanted her. I wanted her. And for a second, I almost believed she wanted me too.
But maybe she was just doing what she was taught to do. Smile. Distract. Control the room.
Maybe none of it meant a damn thing to her.
And if this was a game?
Fine.
I’d play it better.
And this time, I wouldn’t forget what she was.