Broken Crowns Breathe Quietly

Chapter 4 – Broken Crowns Bleed Quietly

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Damon King rarely woke to chaos. He was the kind of man who orchestrated silence even in war.

But that morning, the world burned.

He opened his phone to over 90 notifications. Missed calls from his PR chief, three lawyers, his COO, and a name he hadn’t seen in years:

Celeste Monroe.

He didn’t answer any of them.

Instead, he opened the news app.

KING GROUP LAWSUIT LEAKED: Sexual Harassment Cover-up Resurfaces

“Billionaire Damon King’s Old Demons Return” — NY Financial Times

CEO Under Fire as 2018 Victim Steps Forward with New Evidence

Anonymous Source Blows the Whistle — Karma or Corporate War?

He dropped the phone onto his bed.

His world wasn’t cracking.

It was collapsing.

And someone was pulling the thread with perfect timing.

---

He stormed into his office at 7:12 a.m., unshaven, in a black coat and no tie. The building buzzed with silent fear — his staff already anticipating blood.

Celeste Monroe was waiting in his office, legs crossed, coffee untouched.

“I assume you’ve read the morning paper,” she said coolly.

“Get to the point.”

Celeste stood, walked to him slowly, and whispered, “She’s back, Damon.”

He froze. “Who?”

She gave him a look so sharp it cut straight to bone. “Don’t insult me.”

He said nothing.

“You always thought your guilt was buried deep enough,” she continued. “But guilt has roots. And it grows back mean.”

“I don’t know who she is.”

“You do. You just can’t face it.”

She stepped closer, her voice low. “And if you don’t stop her now, she won’t just ruin your empire — she’ll ruin you.”

He turned away.

But her next words landed like a blade:

“She’s not Aria anymore, Damon. She’s what you made her.”

---

Later that evening, Manhattan buzzed with the annual Women in Power Gala, streamed online and swarmed with media.

Damon wasn’t there.

But the woman he feared most was.

Ava.

Dressed in midnight black with a high slit, a diamond pin in her hair, and her calm like ice, she stood at the podium and addressed the press — not as a victim, not as a lover left behind, but as a force.

“I believe silence protects predators,” she said. “And that rebuilding is not about revenge, but redirection. We burn down broken systems so we can build better ones.”

The room clapped. Cameras flashed. Hashtags trended.

But Damon?

He watched from his penthouse, drink in hand, pain in his eyes.

He didn’t just recognize the cadence of her voice.

He remembered whispering vows into it.

---

That night, at 2:44 a.m., Ava’s phone rang once.

She didn’t pick up.

A second time.

She hesitated.

Third time.

She answered. “Wrong number.”

“I need to see you,” Damon said.

“No, you want to see me. That’s not the same thing.”

His voice cracked. “Please.”

A silence passed between them. Old. Sacred. Bleeding.

“I’ll send you the address,” she said.

And hung up.

The apartment she rented for him to see her wasn’t hers.

It was cold. Minimal. A stage.

White walls. No pictures. No memories. Just curated emptiness. A place where ghosts could visit without touching anything.

He arrived exactly at 3:12 a.m.

No coat. Hair messy. Eyes red.

She opened the door slowly. No words.

He walked in like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like the years hadn’t happened. Like betrayal could be undone with breath and silence.

She said nothing.

He looked around, confused by the absence of her. “This… isn’t your place.”

“No,” she said. “It’s yours. For tonight.”

“For what?”

“For confession.”

---

Damon’s throat tightened. “Why now?”

“Because I need to hear it. Out loud. From your mouth.”

“Hear what?”

“That you killed me.”

His breath stopped.

“Aria—”

“No,” she snapped. “Say it. Say what you did.”

He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

“I thought you were guilty,” he said, voice cracked. “I saw the evidence. I trusted what I saw.”

“And not me,” she whispered. “You didn’t trust me.”

His hands clenched. “It wasn’t just the files. It was… Celeste. My board. The pressure. I was scared.”

She laughed — broken and bitter. “You were scared. I was alone.”

“I didn’t know you’d—”

“Die?” she finished. “You didn’t know I’d what, Damon? Disappear? Break? Try to drive off a cliff?”

“I hated myself.”

“Not enough to come looking for me.”

---

Silence.

Then he stood. Walked toward her like gravity was failing.

“I see you now,” he whispered. “I see everything I ruined.”

She stared at him. Silent. Eyes wet.

“I think about you every damn night.”

Her voice was barely audible. “Then you must sleep like the dead.”

“I don’t sleep.”

Another pause.

He moved closer. Inches now.

“I shouldn’t have let you go.”

“You didn’t let me go,” she said. “You pushed.”

And that’s when he touched her.

One hand on her jaw. Soft. Terrified.

“I can’t stop looking at you,” he said. “Even when you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said. Her voice broke. “I hate that I ever loved you.”

And then it happened.

He kissed her.

Not soft. Not tender.

But like drowning. Desperate. Raw.

She let him. For a second.

Then she pulled away.

Breathless. Trembling.

“This kiss,” she whispered, “isn’t forgiveness. It’s evidence.”

He looked shattered.

She stepped back. “Go home, Damon. We both know the ending of this story.”

He didn’t argue.

Because deep down — they both did