Chapter Sixteen — “Private Wars”

Dinner was at eight.

I spent the hours leading up to it not choosing a dress or fixing my hair but pacing in my room, replaying his voice in my head like a warning.

What are you hiding from me, Ava?

He hadn’t asked it like a husband. Not even like a man.

He’d asked it like an interrogator. A man holding a gun and a grudge.

Now he wanted dinner?

Not a word for days, then suddenly… this?

I almost didn’t go.

But I didn’t run from fire. I’d lived in it.

So when the clock struck eight, I walked into the dining room like a soldier stepping into no-man’s-land.

He was already seated. No tie, no staff. Just a single place set across from his and a bottle of red between us.

I didn’t say anything as I sat down.

Neither did he.

For a full minute, the silence stretched thick, tight, unbearable.

Then: “You look tired,” he said.

I laughed once, bitter. “That’s rich, coming from the man who hasn’t looked me in the eye in three days.”

He set his wine down, fingers grazing the stem of the glass as it offended him.

“Do you want to explain why there are surveillance photos of you from six years ago entering a brothel under another name?”

No soft landing. No hesitation.

Just war.

I froze. My stomach sank, but I kept my voice steady.

“You mean the photos Helena showed you.”

“So they’re real.”

“Photos can be staged. Faces blurred. Names twisted.”

He leaned forward. “Don’t lie to me.”

I met his gaze. “Don’t accuse me like I’m one of your boardroom enemies.”

Something flickered in his expression, something too human. Regret? Doubt?

But it vanished just as fast.

He leaned back, jaw taut. “Helena traced the payments. Ava, she had your alias. She had….”

“She had half a story,” I snapped. “And you like every man who thinks money equals moral high ground ran with it.”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared.

“You think I sold myself,” I continued. “That I wore another name and opened another door and let men—”

“Stop.” His voice cracked through the air like a whip.

My throat tightened, but I didn’t stop.

“Is that the woman you think you married?”

He looked away.

And that silence? That was the answer.

I stood up. “You want the truth? Fine. You want to hear what your wife was doing in that building, Damian?”

He said nothing.

“I was cleaning it,” I said. “For twelve pounds an hour. Cash. Under a fake name because the owner didn’t want to pay taxes and I didn’t have time to argue.”

He blinked.

I smiled bitterly. “I cleaned blood off floors. I scrubbed mascara out of carpets. I emptied bins full of condoms and regrets. That’s how I paid for Lily’s medication that year.”

His expression shattered only slightly, but enough.

But I wasn’t finished.

“And the man in the picture? He wasn’t a client. He was a janitor who shared a sandwich with me in the stairwell and offered to walk me to the bus stop because three girls had been assaulted that month.”

I took a breath. A hard one.

“But Helena didn’t tell you that, did she?”

Damian stood slowly, pushing his chair back.

“You could’ve told me.”

“You could’ve trusted me.”

We stared at each other across that table, like two strangers who once thought they could fake a marriage and forgot how real it might get.

“You think I don’t want to trust you?” he said. “I’ve been protecting you from Helena, from the board, from the goddamn press…”

“You’re not protecting me if you don’t believe me.”

Silence again.

But it was different this time.

Softer. Quieter.

Like something had broken loose between us something ugly, and real, and maybe… human.

Damian picked up his wine glass. Didn’t drink it. Just stared at it like it might offer him answers.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he said finally, “to realize you married someone you don’t fully understand?”

“Do you?”

He looked at me.

And I saw it, the tiniest flicker of emotion behind the wall. Not fury. Not pride.

Fear.

That he’d lost control of the one thing he thought he could own.

Me.

“Why did you even marry me, Damian?” I whispered. “Really?”

He hesitated.

But I knew the answer.

“You needed someone desperate. Someone disposable. Someone with just enough dignity to make it convincing and just enough shame to keep quiet.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

I didn’t wait for him to reply. I walked out.

⸻

The hallway was dim, golden light spilling from wall sconces like secrets.

I should’ve kept walking.

But I stopped by the mirror near the stairs. The one with the antique frame I hated because it always showed too much.

Tonight was no different.

Because when I looked up, I saw him.

Standing behind me again. Watching me.

Damian.

His eyes locked on mine through the reflection. Neither of us moved.

Then he spoke quietly. Hoarse.

“I didn’t marry you because you were disposable.”

I turned heartbeat in my throat.

“Then why?”

His jaw clenched. “Because you were the first person in a long time who didn’t look at me like I was a monster.”

“And now?”

He didn’t answer.

Because we both knew.

Now, he wasn’t sure anymore.

The candle between us flickered. The silence lingered.

I stayed seated.

So did he.

Whatever this was—whatever it was becoming—wasn’t done yet.

And neither were we.