The Woman In Red

Chapter 2 – The Woman in Red

---

Damon couldn’t sleep.

The ceiling of his penthouse condo stared back at him like it held answers he didn’t have.

Midnight passed. One. Two. He didn’t close his eyes once.

The image of her — the woman in red — was seared behind his eyelids. The curve of her lips. The cruel calm in her voice. The way her gaze sliced through him like she knew all his sins.

It was the eyes.

God, it was always the eyes.

They weren’t exactly Aria’s, but something in them felt like home and hell combined.

---

He poured himself a glass of scotch and stood by the tall window overlooking the Manhattan skyline. The city was quiet now — its ambition asleep. But his past wasn’t.

Aria Sinclair had died five years ago. That truth was carved into stone, cremated, buried with all the apologies he never said.

He hadn’t gone to the funeral. Couldn’t.

Or wouldn’t.

What was the difference, really?

The bottle was half-empty before the thoughts slowed. But the ache in his chest didn’t fade.

---

By morning, he was in his office at King Group Tower — sharper suit, duller eyes. His assistant, Marlowe, entered quietly with a tablet in hand.

“You asked for a background check,” she said.

He looked up quickly. “On?”

“The woman from the gala. I ran a full scan using security footage, facial rec, the guest list, social matches. Her name is Ava Steele. Independent investor. British-American. No scandals, no dirt. But…”

“But?” Damon stood.

Marlowe shifted slightly. “Her identity only appears three years ago. Before that? Nothing. No public data, no history, no trace.”

He took the tablet and stared at the file. Ava Steele. Picture-perfect. Controlled. Too clean.

He zoomed in on the photo.

Those eyes again.

---

“Get me a meeting with her,” he said.

Marlowe raised a brow. “Under what pretense?”

“Business.” He paused. “Offer her something. An investment pitch. Get creative.”

“Anything else?”

Damon looked back at the photo and murmured, “Find out what she wants. Everyone wants something.”

---

Scene 2: Ava’s Office – Day

Kensley Media’s new private office smelled like citrus wood and war plans.

Ava sat in a minimalist leather chair, tapping her manicured fingers against the desk as her assistant, Nari, placed a folder in front of her.

“King Group’s public contract with Ashford Tech closes in two weeks,” Nari said. “The valuation is dependent on media sentiment and public trust. You poison that, and they lose the deal.”

Ava opened the folder slowly. Photos. Emails. Old NDA violations. Leaked whispers of past employee lawsuits, buried settlements — all swept under Damon’s rug years ago.

“Start the whisper campaign,” Ava said. “Let the vultures circle before he smells blood.”

Nari hesitated. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Ava smiled, slow and merciless. “I’m not playing. I’m reclaiming.”

---

Her phone buzzed. A new message.

From: King Group

Subject: Investment Proposal – Private Meeting Request

Her heart stopped.

She clicked it open.

> “Mr. King is interested in collaborating with you on a high-profile acquisition. He’s requested a private meeting at your earliest convenience. Please confirm availability.”

Ava stared at the screen.

He was already chasing her shadow.

She clicked "Accept."

---

Scene 3: Damon & Ava — Private Meeting, Two Days Later

The meeting room at the top of the Carlton Plaza was glass-walled, high above the city. Stark. Expensive. Neutral ground.

Damon entered first, his presence commanding but strained. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept — or one who’d dreamed of ghosts.

Then she entered.

The red was gone — today she wore white. Ivory silk blouse, black pants, a sharp gold chain at her throat. A symbol of control, not seduction.

“Ms. Steele,” he said, standing.

“Mr. King.” Her voice was composed, unreadable.

He gestured to the seat across from him. “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”

“I was curious,” she said. “Curiosity is expensive. But sometimes worth the price.”

He gave a faint smile. “You speak like someone who’s already paid for something.”

She tilted her head. “Haven’t we all?”

The silence between them stretched like piano wire. Neither blinked.

---

“I wanted to explore an alliance,” Damon said, sliding a folder toward her. “Ashford Tech is a major step in global AI. We’re looking for someone discreet and strategic. You came highly recommended.”

She didn’t touch the folder.

“Flattering,” she said. “But strange. You don’t strike me as a man who trusts easily.”

“I don’t,” he said plainly. “But something tells me you’re not here to be trusted.”

Her brow arched. “Then why offer me a seat at your table?”

“Because I like danger,” he said, voice low. “And I need to know who the hell you are.”

---

She stood slowly, walked to the window, back turned.

“You ever see a shadow that reminded you of someone you buried?” she asked softly.

He froze.

“I have,” she continued. “And it makes you wonder — did you ever know them at all?”

He rose too, his voice gravel. “You remind me of someone I lost.”

She turned, met his gaze — and for a second, let it show.

Pain. Rage. Hurt.

Then she blinked it away.

“Then I guess we’re both haunted.”

She walked out, leaving the file untouched.

And Damon stood alone — with a ghost he couldn’t name and a mistake he hadn’t even uncovered yet.

---

Damon sat alone in his private study, lights dimmed, phone silenced. The untouched scotch in his glass reflected back the storm inside him.

Ava Steele.

That name looped through his mind like a ghost whispering behind every thought. Her voice was still in his ears — quiet, elegant, threatening. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was deliberate. Poised like someone who’d practiced her words to wound.

He closed his eyes.

And there she was again — standing in that white blouse, her expression unreadable, but her eyes full of pain.

Pain that reminded him of her.

Aria.

His chest tightened.

It was impossible. Aria was dead. Buried. Her suicide had been ruled clean. No foul play. No last words.

But the Ava woman…

God, those eyes.

He stood, walked over to the desk, and unlocked the old drawer he hadn’t touched in five years. Inside it, dusty and worn, sat a single file — Aria Sinclair: Case Notes. He opened it slowly, dreading what he already knew.

---

Flashback — Five Years Ago

The rain that night had fallen like judgment. Hard. Unrelenting. Unforgiving.

Aria stood outside the courthouse where she’d once walked as his wife. Soaked. Trembling. Her phone buzzed in her hand, lighting up with threats, articles, and betrayal.

Headlines:

> “Damon King’s Wife Linked to Corporate Espionage Scandal”

“King Group Collapses Amidst Leak — All Fingers Point to Aria Sinclair”

She had already gone to him. Already begged.

He hadn’t believed her.

“You think I’d sell you out?” she had whispered through her tears.

Damon’s voice had been cold, final. “Get out.”

That was the last time he looked her in the eye.

---

Later that night, her car was found crashed at the edge of a cliff. No body recovered. Just twisted metal and an open door. The storm had washed away everything.

The police called it suicide.

Damon never questioned it.

Until now.

---

Present — Damon’s Study

He slammed the folder shut and tossed it aside like it burned him.

If Ava Steele was Aria...

Why come back now? Why pretend?

Why not kill him outright?

Because this — this slow destruction — was worse than death.

He rose and barked into the intercom, “Marlowe. I want Ava Steele tracked. Every move. Every meeting. Every dollar she spends.”

“Yes, sir.”

And for the first time in five years, Damon King — a man feared in every boardroom — felt the icy grip of something he couldn’t control.

Guilt.

And something worse.

Hope.

---

Scene 5: Ava’s Penthouse – That Same Night

Ava’s fingers hovered over her tablet as she watched her plan unfold.

Blog leaks about King Group’s past settlements. Whisper threads about possible corruption. A slow drip of poison into Damon’s pristine empire — all signed anonymously, all curated by her hand.

He didn’t know it yet, but Ashford Tech was pulling out of their deal. Quietly. Just enough to shake the media the next day.

Her lips twitched. Not a smile. A scar.

She turned off the tablet and walked to the window, overlooking the same skyline where Aria had once dreamed of love, of family, of forever.

Stupid girl.

Love had buried her.

Now, only fire remained.

---

She reached for the envelope tucked in her drawer — an old photo of her and Damon. Their wedding day. Her arms around his neck, him looking down at her like she was the only thing that existed.

She stared at the picture for a long moment.

Then she struck a match.

The flame rose, licking at the corners of her past.

She dropped it into the glass bowl.

And watched them burn.