The Blackwoods didn't tolerate scandal.
Which is why, when the tabloids caught wind of a "mystery child" tied to Mrs. Ava Blackwood, the PR team was already preparing a storm of damage control.
Damian sat across from three of his advisors in the high-rise boardroom of Blackwood Enterprises. His face was stone-cold. His mind wasn't.
On the table was a printed tabloid photo—grainy but clear enough. Ava exiting a private school a week ago, her hand brushing against a little girl's cheek as she bent to whisper something.
No one had confirmed the child's identity.
Not yet.
But rumors needed little oxygen to become wildfires.
"Shall we deny?" the head of PR asked carefully. "We can release a statement clarifying that the woman in the image is a family friend or—"
"No," Damian interrupted.
The room froze.
He stood up slowly, adjusting his suit with sharp precision. "There is no need to respond."
"But Mr. Blackwood—"
"I said no."
He picked up the photo and studied it briefly before ripping it in half.
"Circulating a denial adds weight to the story. We say nothing, the fire dies."
"And if it doesn't?"
He looked out the window.
Then he did something none of them expected.
He lied.
"I know the girl. She's not Ava's child. She's my niece. Her mother is overseas, and Ava was visiting on my behalf."
A long pause.
"You want us to... release that statement?"
"No," he said coolly. "You don't release anything. If anyone asks directly, you answer exactly what I told you. If they don't—stay quiet."
It was calculated.
Convincing.
And it wasn't true.
Later That Night
Ava found him on the balcony, the wind tugging at his tie, his gaze lost in the distant chaos of city lights.
"You lied for me," she said quietly.
He didn't turn. "I lied for myself. I won't have this marriage tarnished with gossip."
A pause.
"But thank you," she added, her voice barely audible.
That made him look at her.
And for once, she wasn't wearing her armor.
No lipstick. No heels. No sarcasm.
Just Ava. Real, tired, grateful.
"I didn't ask you to protect me," she said.
"You didn't have to."
Silence stretched between them—quiet but thunderous.
"Who is she?" he asked, not unkindly.
Ava's eyes flickered. She didn't speak.
And Damian didn't push.
Instead, he reached for his glass of bourbon, handed it to her without a word.
She took it.
Sipped.
Stared out at the night beside him.
For the first time, they weren't fighting.
They weren't pretending.
They were just… there.
Two broken people sharing borrowed peace.