The Awkward Encounter

Damian’s Point of View

I didn’t believe in fate. I believed in logic, control, and carefully calculated decisions. But the second I stepped into that gala, something inside me shifted—like an unseen force had changed the air around me. It was a familiar venue, filled with familiar people, yet suddenly, I felt… off-balance.

I ignored it, brushing imaginary dust off my cuff as I walked inside, flashing the occasional nod or polite smirk. This was routine. These events meant nothing. A place where egos clashed, power was measured by the price of a suit, and fake smiles stretched under crystal chandeliers.

And yet, in that sea of wealth and vanity, my eyes landed on her.

She was standing near the grand piano, a half-empty champagne flute in her hand, her posture tense—too tense. She was stunning, but it wasn’t her beauty that caught me. It was something else. It was either a pull or a warning, but it was like my body knew something my mind didn’t.

Her deep green eyes locked onto mine, and the effect was instant. My breath caught, my pulse kicked up a notch, and for a brief second, the chatter around me faded into nothing. She froze too.

And then, just as quickly, I saw it—the way her fingers clenched around the glass, her jaw tightening, her chest rising sharply like she had been sucker-punched. She knew me, and that much was clear, but I had no idea who she was. I wasn’t aware I had started moving toward her until I was standing just a few steps away.

Close enough to see the tension in her shoulders. Close enough to notice the way her breath hitched. I should have said something first, but she beat me to it.

“Damian.”

The way she said my name—it wasn’t warm, it wasn’t polite. It was sharp. A warning. A challenge. Something cold curled in my gut. I studied her.

Dark brown hair pulled back in a sleek style, elegant black gown fitting her like it had been made for her alone. There was something hauntingly familiar about the way she carried herself—like a woman who had seen the worst of the world and had survived it.

“Do we know each other?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

She exhaled, the sound bitter. A dry, humorless chuckle left her lips, and she tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning my face as if she was searching for something.

“Forgetting me.” She murmured, “must have been so convenient for you.”

A strange, uneasy sensation stirred in my chest. I didn’t forget people. My mind was too sharp for that. Names, faces, voices—I remembered them all. It was how I had built my empire.

So why—why couldn’t I place her?

“I’m sorry.” I said carefully. “I don’t—”

“Of course, you don’t.” She didn’t let me finish before cutting me off.

I noticed that she lifted her glass to her lips, but her fingers trembled slightly before she took a sip. I didn’t know why, but that small detail bothered me. I studied her again, this time slower, my mind grasping at pieces of something just out of reach.

Her name. I needed her name.

As if the universe had read my thoughts, James, one of my business associates, approached, smiling. “Ava?”

Ava. The name landed hard. I expected it to mean nothing, to feel like any other name I had heard a thousand times before, but instead, it echoed inside me.

Ava. My vision blurred for half a second—a flicker of something. A whisper of pain, heat, desperation.

I blinked, and it was gone. I masked my reaction before anyone could notice. Ava turned to James, her lips curling into something that resembled a polite smile but didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“James, we had seen earlier, hadn’t we?” She said to him.

“Of course.” He chuckled.

I stared at James and waited, expecting that he would at least introduce her to me or something, but I got nothing. Instead, he laughed, clinking his drink against hers.

“Still looking as fierce as ever.” He added.

Her expression didn’t change. “Still playing in the devil’s den, I see.” She said smoothly, then took another sip of her drink.

James laughed again, clearly unbothered. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Ava, Ava. I kept repeating it in my end as I felt like it should mean something, and yet my mind was blank. I needed answers.

I turned back to her. “Have we met before?”

This time, I saw something flicker in her gaze—hurt, anger, betrayal.

“You could say that.”

The way she said it made my chest tighten. Before I could ask anything else, she moved to leave, her dress brushing against my leg as she passed. I didn’t think. I reached out, just the lightest touch against her wrist, and the moment our skin connected, I felt it.

A flash. A sharp, piercing sensation in my chest, like something was trying to break free. Her breath hitched. Mine did too.

She yanked her hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

I let her go, but my mind wouldn’t.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. People came and went, conversations were had, business deals whispered over glasses of wine. But I was barely there.

Ava Reynolds. Who the hell was she to me? I wanted to ignore it. Wanted to shove it into the back of my mind and move on. But the moment I got home, the first thing I did was type her name into the search bar.

And then—my world tilted. Headlines.

"Ava Reynolds: The Wife Damian Cross Left Behind."

My chest went tight.

Wife?

I clicked further, and an article loaded. Then, a photo. Me and her on our wedding day. Her in white, smiling. Me looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered. Pain stabbed behind my temples.

For a split second, I felt something warm in my head, and then, it was gone like my mind refused to hold onto it. I gripped the edge of the counter, my breathing uneven.

I had a wife and I didn’t remember her?

I stared at the screen, my own face mocking me from the past. The past that had been stolen from me. My pulse pounded.

What the hell had I forgotten, and more importantly, why did it feel like it was never meant to be remembered?