Damian's office was never meant for vulnerability.
It was a place of power—sleek, black marble floors, glass walls, and the ever-present scent of leather and ambition. No one wept here. No one dared.
Until her.
Ava entered like a shadow—silent, pale, eyes dull as dusk.
He didn't look up at first. He was on a call, pen gliding over a contract as he spoke about stock projections and acquisition targets.
Then he saw her.
And the pen stopped.
He ended the call mid-sentence.
"Ava?"
She didn't speak. Just stood there, fingers trembling slightly as they clutched her phone.
Something in his chest tightened.
He rose from his chair. "What happened?"
Her lips parted. A whisper: "She's gone."
Damian stilled. "Who?"
Ava blinked fast. Once. Twice.
Then the dam broke.
Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks like they had been waiting—begging—to be released. Her knees buckled. Damian caught her before she hit the floor.
"She's gone," she sobbed into his shirt. "The school called. My sister took her. She's gone. I don't know where—"
Her voice shattered.
The phone in her hand slipped to the ground.
Damian held her tighter.
"The woman who was taking care of her—her old guardian—was supposed to keep her safe. But she handed her over without telling me. There was no warning. Just a voicemail—" Ava choked on her words. "I thought I had time. I thought I had—"
Her sentence broke into gasps.
For a long moment, Damian said nothing.
He wasn't used to this. He was used to numbers and silence and clean-cut problems. Not shaking women in his arms, not raw grief soaking into his thousand-dollar shirt.
But he didn't let go.
He knelt with her on the polished office floor, her tears staining the hard ground where he once signed million-dollar deals.
And slowly, he began to understand:
This wasn't just about a child.
It was about losing everything all over again.
The girl, her sister, her voice, her fight—all of it was rooted in pain he hadn't seen until now.
"I'll find her," Damian said, his voice low, controlled. "Whoever took her—whatever it takes—I'll get her back."
Ava looked up at him, eyes red, face blotched, mascara streaked like war paint.
"Why would you help me?"
Because I can't watch you break again.
But he didn't say that.
Instead, he said: "Because you're my wife."
And for the first time, the lie sounded like truth.