Ava left the office late to avoid prying eyes. Camila had stayed with her most of the evening, offering quiet company, until a sudden call about her son's fever forced her to rush home. That left Ava alone, staring at glowing screens and silent walls, gathering the strength to move.
It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time she finally stepped out into the night.
She drove her BMW through the sleeping city, the streetlights casting long shadows as they blurred past her window. It was too late for traffic, too early for rest.
When she arrived at the penthouse, the silence hit her first. The soft click of the door behind her sounded too loud in the stillness. The space was dimly lit, sleek in design—glass, chrome, marble—but cold. Always cold. This was Mark's idea of a home, not hers.
She dropped her bag on the floor and eased onto the edge of the sofa, slipping off her heels and releasing a slow, aching sigh. Her head fell back against the cushions, eyes closed, exhaustion pooling in her limbs.
Then came the voice.
Cold. Controlled. Sharp as glass.
"Where are you coming from, Ava?"
Her eyes snapped open. She turned her head slowly toward the dining area.
There she was. His mother.
Perched like royalty at the table, untouched coffee cup before her, as if she'd been waiting all evening. She never called. Never knocked. She simply showed up whenever it suited her, like the apartment was hers to come and go from.
"I was working late," Ava said, keeping her tone neutral, calm. Not too defensive. Not too soft.
But the tension had already arrived, curling between them like smoke.
"Is this the time a married woman is supposed to be coming home?"
Ava stiffened at the accusation but forced a composed smile, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. She took a deep breath and walked toward the kitchen counter.
"Welcome, Mother," she said coolly. "I hope Bessie prepared something for you."
The older woman scoffed, her tone laced with venom. "Oh, like you care. A married woman should be taking care of her home not going about sleeping with other men."
Shock flashed across Ava's face like a slap. Her hand froze on the edge of the marble counter.
For a second, the room was silent charged and electric.
Her voice came low, steady, but firm. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," her mother-in-law said, rising slowly from her chair like a judge preparing to pass sentence. Dressed in a pristine ivory blouse, navy skirt, and pearls, she looked every inch the cold manipulating woman she had always been. "I regret agreeing to this marriage. Women like you should be working on the streets, pretty face, expensive shoes, and no shame."
Ava turned to face her fully now, her spine straightening, the exhaustion burned away by the sudden rush of fury. But she didn't say a word. She never did.
She simply walked to her bedroom and shut the door behind her.
In the room, Ava paced back and forth like a caged animal. Every corner of the apartment felt suffocating, too pristine, too cold, and never truly hers. She hated this place. She hated the charade of a marriage it housed, and she hated that woman, her ever-present mother-in-law, lurking like a vulture.
She pulled out her phone, instinctively thinking to call someone, anyone, but her fingers hovered uncertainly. Her father wouldn't understand, and her stepmother had never hidden her distaste for Ava. There would be no comfort there.
With a frustrated sigh, she let the phone fall from her hand and sank onto the edge of the oversized bed. But she felt too unsettled.
Moments later, she snatched up her keys from the dresser, grabbed her coat, and walked out of the apartment without a word. Anywhere was better than here.
....
Moonlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, painting stripes across the cluttered bedroom. Clothes lay strewn on the floor, a testament to the whirlwind of the past hour. The air hung thick with the scent of sweat and something sweeter, something undeniably intimate. Aurora giggled, a sound that danced in the air, light and teasing.
"Oh, you're a good boy," she murmured, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. Damon Montague's gaze was fixed on her.
Aurora leaned in, her lips brushing against his. She pulled away, a mischievous glint in her eyes. With a slow, deliberate motion, she began to undress again, each garment falling to the floor. She moved around him, a tantalizing dance of near misses and fleeting touches. Her fingers danced along the edge of his jeans, never quite dipping beneath.
"Gosh, you're so hot," Damon moaned. He reached for her, but she danced out of his reach, a playful taunt. He caught her hand, pulling her close.
"Please, please, please," he pleaded, his eyes searching hers. "I'll be a good boy." Aurora straddled him on the sofa, her hips grinding against his.
"Will you be a good boy?" she teased, her voice a husky whisper against his ear. She lowered herself onto him, the soft slide of skin against skin, a perfect fit. A sharp intake of breath, a groan escaping his lips.
But it wasn't enough. He wanted more. Before she could tease him any further, Damon flipped them over, pinning her beneath him on the plush cushions. His eyes burned with desire.
He was already slick with her wetness, a glistening invitation. He plunged into her, a deep, satisfying thrust that sent a jolt through her.
"Oh, fuck," she gasped, arching her back. He began to pound into her, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. The rhythm was primal, urgent. The sofa groaned under their combined weight, slowly inching across the room with each impact. The sounds of their bodies colliding filled the air, a symphony of lust and abandon. Skin slapped against skin, wet and slick.
"Damon," she cried out, her nails digging into his back. "I'm close." He thrust harder, faster, driving her closer to the edge. He felt the tightening, the pulsing, and knew he was right there with her. With a final, earth-shattering thrust, they both erupted, a wave of pure pleasure washing over them.
They collapsed against each other, breathless and spent, their bodies slick with sweat.
"How long are you staying?" she asked softly.
"I'm going back to Hong Kong in the morning," he replied. "But I'll be back by the end of the month."
"Oh no," she whispered, her expression falling. "I'm going to miss you."
"I'll miss you too," he said gently.
Just then, her phone began to ring. She stood up, still unclothed, and walked over to pick it up. The screen lit up with Julian's name. She stared for a moment, then declined the call.
"It's my mom," she said quickly. "I'll call her in the morning."