CHAPTER 3
Ava
The elevator doors slid open and I burst out, dodging guards yelling about visitor badges. My phone stayed pressed to my ear as the nurse repeated, "He's okay physically, Ava, but shaken. He keeps saying he wants his dad."
I shoved through the revolving doors into the February wind. A cab idled at the curb; I dove inside. "P.S. 142—fast, please!"
My fingers shook as I texted the twins' teacher: Coming now. Tell Liam I love him.
Twenty-three minutes later the cab screeched outside the red-brick school. I threw every dollar at the driver—including the emergency twenty from my sock—and sprinted inside. The office smelled of crayons and wet coats. The secretary pointed down the hall.
Liam sat on the cot, knees pulled up, ice pack pressed to his cheek. His dark hair stuck up in angry spikes. His lip trembled but he didn't cry.
"Mom." His voice cracked.
I dropped to my knees, pulling him tight. "Baby, I'm here. I'm sorry."
"He said I don't have a real dad. Said I'm making him up. Then he shoved me, so I shoved back harder."
"You're allowed to defend yourself. But talk first, okay?"
The principal appeared, arms crossed. "Mrs. Monroe, Liam started the physical part."
"Miss Monroe," I corrected. "And he was provoked. Again. Third time this month."
"We can't keep having these incidents. Perhaps if the father—"
"There is no father who shows up," I snapped, then softened. "Please, let me take him home."
She sighed. "One more fight and we'll involve social services."
The threat hit like a punch. I signed the release and led Liam out.
On the subway stairs he stopped. "Mom… why doesn't he want us?"
I crouched eye level. "It's not that. He doesn't know you exist. That's on me. But you are wanted. You and Lily are everything."
He nodded but didn't look convinced.
At home, Lily flew at us, pigtails bouncing. "Liam! You're famous! Everyone's talking about how you punched Tommy Reynolds!"
"Not helping, Lil," I muttered.
She hugged him anyway. "You're my hero. Want mac-and-cheese? I saved the corner piece."
I watched them disappear into the kitchenette, chest aching. Too smart, too aware.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
"Miss Monroe." Damian Blackwood's voice sliced through. "You have forty-five minutes to explain why I shouldn't terminate you."
"My son was hurt—"
"Forty-four minutes now." He hung up.
Panic rose.
"Mom?" Lily peeked out, holding noodles. "You look like you're gonna throw up."
"I might." I forced a smile. "Mrs. Delgado will watch you. Just for a couple hours."
They nodded solemnly.
I kissed them, grabbed my bag, and ran back into the cold.
The subway ride felt endless. His voice replayed—cold, furious. By the time I reached Blackwood Enterprises my legs were jelly.
I burst through the executive floor at 4:12. His assistant looked up. "He's waiting."
I knocked once and pushed in. Damian stood at the window, hands in pockets, city lights scattering below.
"You're late," he said.
"I ran from the subway. My son fought because kids keep saying he doesn't have a dad. He needed me."
He turned, face stone. "And I needed a secretary who doesn't vanish the moment she signs paperwork."
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
He studied me. Something flickered in his gray eyes—recognition? Then gone.
"Clean my office. Every surface. No breaks. If there's one fingerprint left, you're gone."
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
He brushed past me—accident or not, the contact sparked something I hated.
I scrubbed everything: desk, shelves, windows, even the whiskey decanter. My arms burned, but I kept going.
An hour later the office gleamed.
I straightened, sweat dripping, and found him watching. He inspected slowly, finger along the desk edge. No dust.
"You're still here."
"You didn't fire me yet."
His jaw ticked. "Tomorrow. Seven a.m. sharp. One minute late—"
"I won't be."
He nodded. "Go home to your children."
I hesitated. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. I haven't decided if you're worth the headache."
I left before he could change his mind.
Damian
I waited until the elevator dinged before crossing to the private bathroom. Cold water on my face, reflection staring back.
The woman was chaos wrapped in polyester and determination. Every time she spoke, something twisted inside me—like a memory clawing through concrete.
Five years ago. That bar. That night.
I still woke up tasting whiskey, feeling curves pressed against me, hearing a voice whisper my name.
I had searched. Investigators. Credit card traces. Security footage that vanished. Nothing.
Gone like smoke.
And now this clumsy secretary walked in, every nerve screaming familiarity.
Impossible. Dangerous.
I dried my face, pulled out my phone. Texted security: "Run a deep background on Ava Monroe. Everything. Family. Finances. Past addresses. On my desk by morning."
If she was hiding something—if she was connected to that night—I would find out.
And if she was… God help her.
My phone buzzed. Investigator calling.
"Sir, a preliminary check found something. Five years ago she lived with her mother in Queens. Then evicted. No forwarding address for three months. Then reappears with twin newborns."
My grip tightened. "Twins?"
"Yes, sir. Boy and girl. Born November 2020."
The timeline hit like a freight train.
November. Nine months after June.
I ended the call, heart slamming against my ribs.
I stared at my reflection in the dark glass.
No. It couldn't be. But the seed of doubt was planted. And growing fast.