The Reveal

Ava’s POV

It’s been one week working for him. One week pretending I don’t remember the night we shared. One week of acting like nothing happened when everything changed. And the truth is, pretending is getting harder.

Adrian Blackwood doesn’t miss a thing. Not the way my focus slips, not the way I hesitate before answering him, not even the way I avoid looking at him for too long. He watches like he’s waiting for something to break. And I refuse to let that be me.

“Focus, Ms. Sinclair,” he says without looking up. I don’t respond immediately because I know he’s right. “I am focused,” I say anyway, even though we both know it’s not true. He doesn’t argue, which makes it worse.

I go back to the files, forcing myself to concentrate. Numbers, contracts, transaction records—things that should be simple. But something feels off, like a pattern that doesn’t belong. And once I notice it, I can’t unsee it.

I scroll back through the data slowly. The transaction routes look normal at first glance, but there’s a repetition buried underneath. It’s subtle, almost invisible unless you’re looking for it. And I am.

“No…” I whisper before I can stop myself. He looks up immediately, sharp and alert. “What is it?” he asks. I don’t answer because I’m already digging deeper.

I pull up another file and compare timestamps. The routing path matches the hidden layer we identified earlier. My stomach tightens as I follow the trail. Then I see the timestamp clearly.

“This transaction,” I say, turning the screen toward him, “it went through the same authorization layer.” He leans closer, his attention fully locked now. “And?” he asks. I hesitate for a second before finishing.

“I wasn’t here when this happened,” I say. The words feel wrong even as I say them. He doesn’t react immediately, which somehow makes it worse. “Show me,” he says.

I pull up the access logs with steady hands. The screen loads, and the truth sits there without hesitation. My login. My credentials. Active at a time I wasn’t even in the building.

“That’s not possible,” I say quietly. But the evidence doesn’t care what I believe. It’s clean, precise, and impossible to argue with. Which means it’s real.

“You think I did this,” I say, forcing myself to look at him. “Did you?,” he asks almost immediately. “No” I said, shaking my head, but his next words threw me off balance.

“I think someone wants it to look like you did,” he says. That lands harder than an accusation. Because it means this was planned.

“Why me?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. “Because you’re positioned perfectly,” he says. “You have access, knowledge, and proximity.” I don’t like how easily that makes sense.

I force myself to think instead of react. “If someone is using my credentials, then it’s someone close to me” I say. He studies me carefully. “And they are bound to make mistakes” he finishes for me.

I turn back to the system, digging deeper into the logs. If this happened once, it happened before. My eyes move faster, scanning patterns, tracing entries. And then I find it.

Another access point. Same credentials. Same hidden route. But this one is older.

I freeze as the date registers. My chest tightens, and my thoughts stall for a second. Because I remember that day clearly. I wish I didn’t.

“Mr. Blackwood…” I say slowly.

“What is it?” he asks. I don’t answer immediately because I’m still staring at the screen. Trying to make it make sense. But it already does.

“This log…” I start, my voice lower now. I finally look up at him. 

“It’s from the night I caught Ethan.” I pause closing my eyes briefly “my..fiance” I said trying to Keep my voice even. “The night you caught him,” he repeats. His voice is calm, but slower now. Like he’s placing each word carefully. “Ethan,” he adds.

I nod once. There’s no point pretending anymore. The connection is already there, forming whether I want it to or not. And I can see it in his eyes.

“Ethan Cole,” he says this time. Not a guess. A confirmation. My chest tightens slightly.

“Yes,” I reply. “My ex-fiancé.” The word feels wrong now, but I don’t take it back.

Something shifts in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Not surprise—recognition.

“Cole,” he repeats. “That explains a lot.” His gaze sharpens on mine.

I frown slightly. “Explains what?” I ask. Because now something feels off.

“That name isn’t unfamiliar to me,” he says. His tone is controlled again, but there’s weight behind it now. “Ethan Cole is my nephew.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

For a second, I just stare at him. Trying to process it. Trying to make it make sense.

“That’s not possible,” I say. But even as I say it, I know it is.

“It is,” he replies. No hesitation. No doubt.

A strange mix of shock and anger rises in my chest. “So you knew?” I ask. My voice is sharper now.

“No,” he says. “Not until now.” His eyes don’t leave mine.

I study his face, searching for any sign of a lie. But Adrian doesn’t look like a man who needs to lie. And that somehow makes it worse.

“So the man I was engaged to,” I say slowly, “is your family.” The words feel heavier the more I say them. More complicated.

“Yes,” he replies. “And now we have a clearer problem.”

I let out a short breath. “This just keeps getting worse.” My fingers tighten slightly around the tablet. Because now this isn’t just about work.

“This changes the angle,” he says. His attention shifts back to the screen. But I can tell his mind is moving faster now.

“How?” I ask. I need to understand where this is going. Because right now, I don’t like where it’s heading.

“Your credentials were used the same night your relationship ended,” he says. “And that relationship is directly connected to my family.” He pauses briefly.

“That’s not random.”

I feel it then. The full weight of it. “You think Ethan had something to do with this?”

“I think,” he says carefully, “that Ethan is no longer irrelevant.”

“He cheated on me,” I say. “That’s all this was.” But even as I say it, it sounds weaker.

“With who?” he asks. I hesitate. Then I answer. “A man.” That gets a reaction. Not loud. Not obvious. But I see it. A flicker in his eyes.

“And you walked in on it,” he says. Not a question. “Yes,” I replied “I left.” My voice drops slightly.

“And ended up at the bar,” he finishes. I don’t respond. I don’t need to. The connection is complete now.

His jaw tightens slightly. “That means your emotional state that night wasn’t random either.” His voice is colder now.

“You were distracted. Vulnerable. Not thinking clearly.”

“I was trying to forget,” I say. My voice is quieter now, but steady. “And someone knew that,” he replies.

My grip tightens on the tablet again. “You’re saying someone used that moment.”

“Yes,” he says. “Perfect timing. Perfect setup.”

I shake my head slightly. “No… that would mean—” I stop. “They knew where I would be,” I finish.

Silence crashes into the room again.

I swallow slowly. “Then this started before I even knew something was wrong.” My voice is tight now.

“Yes,” he says. “Which means this wasn’t built around the company.” A beat passes. “It was built around you.” That sends a chill through me.

Adrian’s POV

She goes quiet.

Not the controlled, calculated silence she’s been hiding behind all week—but something raw. Unsteady. The kind that makes you pay attention whether you want to or not.

Her fingers tighten around the tablet, knuckles paling, like it’s the only thing anchoring her in place. I catch the shift instantly. I always do when it comes to her.

And I don’t like it.

“Ava.” Her name leaves my mouth lower than intended, rougher. It’s not a command this time. Not quite.

She doesn’t answer and that’s new.

Ava Sinclair always has something to say—even if it’s wrapped in attitude or deflection. But this? This silence feels like a crack in something she’s been trying too hard to hold together.

I push off the desk slowly, watching her. Measuring. “Look at me.”

I close the distance between us in a few strides, stopping just close enough to feel the tension rolling off her. Up close, it’s worse. Her breathing is uneven. Her lashes lowered, like if she meets my eyes, something will spill.

“Whatever game you’re playing,” I murmur, voice quieter now, more dangerous, “you’re losing.”

Her lips part slightly, like she wants to argue—but no words come out. That’s when I know.

This isn’t a game.

My hand moves before I think about it, gripping her chin and tilting her face up. Her eyes finally meet mine—and there it is. Something deeper. Something fragile.

And for a second… it throws me off. “Ava,” I say again, slower this time. Her name sounds different now.

She swallows, her breath hitching, and that tiny reaction does something I don’t have the patience to analyze. So I don’t. I close the gap.

The kiss isn’t gentle.

It’s a collision—weeks of tension snapping at once. Her body goes rigid for half a second, like she’s deciding whether to fight me or fall into it.

Then she responds. And that’s where it gets dangerous.

Her hand fists in my shirt, pulling me closer like she hates the distance. The same woman who’s been running from this—running from me—is now kissing me like she has something to prove.

Or something to forget. I deepen the kiss, testing, pushing—and she matches it.

Wrong move, because now I know she wants this just as much as I do. I pull back abruptly.

Her lips part, breath uneven, eyes slightly unfocused. She looks like she hates herself for it.

“You’re a contradiction,” I murmur, my thumb brushing her lower lip—slow, deliberate—before I step back.

She inhales like she’s just remembered where she is. I let the silence stretch, watching her try to piece herself back together.

“You spend all your time pretending you don’t want this,” I continue calmly, adjusting my cuff like nothing just happened, “and then you respond like that.”

Her eyes flash. There it is—defiance, scrambling to recover. “I didn’t—”

“You did.” My voice stays even. Controlled. “Don’t insult both of us by pretending otherwise.”

That hits. I see it in the way her shoulders tense. I step closer again—not touching this time. Not yet.

“Decide what you are, Ava,” I say quietly. “Because right now… you’re making it very hard to take you seriously.”

Heavy. Charged. Her grip on the tablet loosens, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at me again.

And for the first time since she walked into my office a week ago…She looks like she’s about to break.

I turn away before I do something reckless again, dragging a hand through my hair.

“Finish what you came here for,” I say coldly. “Or leave.”

A pause. Then I hear it—her heels against the floor. Walking away.

That’s what she should do. The door opens. For a second, I think that’s it. But then—She stops.

I don’t turn. I don’t move. But every part of me is aware of her standing there, like she’s fighting something inside her.

And then she speaks. Low. Steady. “Who was she?” That gets my attention. I turn slowly. Her back is still to me. One hand on the door. Shoulders tense.

“Excuse me?” My voice drops. She finally glances over her shoulder, eyes sharper now. Not fragile. Not breaking.

“The woman,” she says. “The one who taught you how to kiss like that.”

A dangerous question. A worse tone.

I stare at her. “You don’t ask me questions like that.” She doesn’t flinch. That’s new too.

“Then don’t kiss me like I’m supposed to matter,” she fires back. There it is. And then— She walks out. This time, she doesn’t stop. The door shuts behind her with a soft click.

But the silence she leaves behind? Louder than anything she said. I stare at that door longer than I should.

Then I let out a low breath, dragging my hand down my face. This just got complicated. And I don’t do complicated.