The clock on the kitchen wall struck 10:45 PM, its sharp ticking, the only sound in the dimly lit apartment. Ava Hart set the grocery bag on the worn-out counter, wincing as the cheap plastic tore, sending a roll of paper towels tumbling to the floor.
She didn't move to pick it up. She was too exhausted.
The apartment smelled faintly of stale cologne and cigarette smoke — neither of which belonged to her.
Her pulse quickened as she rounded the corner into the living room, her heart sinking at the sight before her.
Bryan sat sprawled on the couch, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a woman's laughter ringing through the air from the phone pressed to his ear. Ava's stomach twisted as she caught a glimpse of the caller's name on the screen. Lana. Again.
His eyes met hers for a fleeting second before returning to his conversation, completely unbothered.
Ava's fingers clenched around the strap of her purse. She should be used to this by now. Bryan's indifference. His late nights. The silent dinners. The way he forgot she existed unless he needed something.
And yet, every time it cut a little deeper.
"I'm home," she said quietly, her voice barely carrying over the sound of his laughter.
He waved a dismissive hand in her direction. "Yeah, yeah."
Ava stood there for a moment longer, the ache in her chest a familiar one. She didn't know why she still hoped it would be different. After three years of marriage, it was foolish to expect anything resembling affection from a man like Bryan.
Without another word, she turned away, heading to the tiny bedroom they shared — though lately, it felt like a prison cell she occupied alone.
The alarm blared far too early the next morning. Ava dragged herself out of bed, her limbs heavy, her eyes puffy from a restless night. She moved through her routine like a ghost, pulling her long dark hair into a neat twist, brushing minimal makeup onto her face. The reflection staring back at her in the mirror looked pale, worn down, and entirely forgettable.
Perfect for blending in.
By the time she arrived at the Opal Grand Hotel, the city's most luxurious five-star property, the sun had just begun to spill across the streets of downtown. Ava tugged her uniform jacket straight and forced a polite smile onto her face as she stepped through the employee entrance.
The lobby was already bustling with the morning rush — businessmen in tailored suits barking orders into their phones, women in stilettos striding past like they owned the world. Ava kept her head down, weaving through the polished marble floors toward the staff office.
"Ava!" A familiar voice called out.
She turned to find Sonia, one of the front desk receptionists, hurrying over with a grin. "Did you hear? Damian Cross is in-house."
Ava frowned. "Damian who?"
Sonia's eyes widened. "You can't be serious. The Damian Cross. CEO of Cross Enterprises. Richest man in the state. Practically royalty in this city."
Ava's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Guess I missed that memo."
"I swear, you live under a rock sometimes." Sonia lowered her voice, glancing around. "They say he's cold as ice. Never smiles. Ruthless in business. Rumor has it, he once fired a man for offering him the wrong brand of water."
Ava shook her head. "Sounds charming."
"Charming isn't the word I'd use. More like terrifyingly gorgeous and absolutely untouchable."
"I'll take your word for it," Ava chuckled, already moving toward the staff room.
She wasn't one to obsess over the wealthy elite that frequented the hotel. They came, they demanded, they left. The staff was always invisible to people like that.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
By noon, the hotel was a whirlwind of activity. The staff buzzed about a high-profile event being held in the grand ballroom that evening — a charity gala for one of the city's exclusive foundations.
Damian Cross would be attending, along with half the business elite.
Ava had been assigned to assist with the final setup. She spent hours arranging floral centerpieces, ensuring place settings were precise to the last detail, all while her feet ached and the tight knot in her lower back pulsed with discomfort.
It wasn't until late afternoon that she felt it — a sudden hush falling over the room like a thick, suffocating blanket. Conversations dropped to whispers. Heads turned.
Curiosity pricked at her as she straightened from where she'd been adjusting a table card.
And then she saw him.
Damian Cross.
He was nothing like she'd imagined. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a custom black suit that fit his powerful frame like a second skin. His features were sharp, unforgiving — high cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, eyes so piercingly grey they seemed to see straight through a person.
An aura of command clung to him like a tailored cloak. People seemed to part for him instinctively.
Ava's breath caught in her throat.
He strode through the ballroom with effortless authority, a pair of security personnel trailing him at a respectful distance. Every gesture, every glance was deliberate, calculated.
And for one inexplicable moment, those eyes — cold and silver as a winter storm — locked onto hers.
A jolt shot through Ava's chest.
It wasn't a glance of passing acknowledgment. It lingered. Measured. As if he were memorizing the exact shade of her eyes, the curve of her lips.
Ava's pulse hammered wildly. She dropped her gaze and busied herself with the table setting, her fingers trembling.
What the hell was that?
When she dared a quick glance back, he was already moving on, but something in the air felt charged, heavy. Like the room had shifted around her and nothing would be quite the same again.
She barely registered the rest of her shift. Her mind kept replaying that moment. That stare. It was ridiculous, she told herself. He probably hadn't even noticed her.
Men like Damian Cross didn't see women like her.
But even as she gathered her belongings at the end of her shift, the weight of his gaze lingered like an imprint on her skin.
Ava stepped out into the cool night air, the city lights blurring as exhaustion wrapped around her. She knew she should head straight home, face another silent evening in her suffocating marriage.
And yet… her feet carried her the long way around the block, her heart unsettled.
Far behind her, on the upper balcony of the hotel's private lounge, Damian Cross watched her go, a glass of bourbon untouched in his hand.
"Who is she?" he asked quietly.
The man beside him, one of his aides, followed his gaze. "Ava Hart. Hospitality staff. Married. No records of disciplinary action. Works quietly. Keeps to herself."
Damian's lips curved into the faintest, most dangerous of smiles.
"Interesting."