Chapter 7 Cracks in the Facade

The text from Damian's assistant came at 9:47 AM.

Mr. Blackwood requests a site visit to discuss the venue layout. He will pick you up at your office at two o'clock. Please confirm.

I stared at the message for a full minute, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Every logical part of my brain screamed at me to decline. I had already done what I came to do—secured the contract, gathered information, started the slow burn of revenge. I didn't need to be in his car, in his space, breathing his air.

But my fingers typed Confirmed before I could stop them.

At exactly two, a black sedan pulled up outside Ever After Events. The window rolled down, and Damian's profile emerged—sharp jaw, silver-touched temples, gray eyes that looked through me like I was a stranger. He didn't smile. He simply nodded toward the passenger door.

"Ms. Winters."

I slid inside. The leather seat was cold, but the air was warm, tinged with his cologne—something expensive and woodsy, the same scent I had inhaled on our wedding night. I had spent years trying to forget it. Now it flooded my senses like a tidal wave.

"The venue coordinator is expecting us," he said, tapping his tablet without looking at me. "Isabelle wants a separate entrance for the bridal party. I told her it was impractical, but she insisted."

I clutched my portfolio to my chest. "You should let her have it. It's her wedding. Small concessions make big differences in a bride's trust."

He glanced at me, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "You're good at this."

"I've been doing it for five years."

The drive was quiet. Too quiet. The city scrolled past the window—glass towers, crowded sidewalks, the distant hum of construction. I caught myself stealing glances at his profile. The way his jaw tightened when he checked his phone. The way his fingers drummed against the wheel. The way he exhaled slowly, like he was holding something heavy inside.

We arrived at the Grand Imperial Hotel, a sprawling palace of marble and crystal. The ballroom was cavernous, with chandeliers that caught the light and threw rainbows across the polished floor. Damian walked through it like a general surveying a battlefield, pointing out flaws with military precision.

"This pillar obstructs the view," he said, tapping a marble column. "The dance floor should be shifted ten feet to the left. And the lighting—Isabelle wants soft pink, but I'm told that washes out the photographs."

I took notes. I nodded. I smiled. But my mind was elsewhere—on the way his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, on the veins in his forearms, on the fact that I had once traced those veins with my fingertips.

Halfway through the walkthrough, his phone buzzed. He stepped away, his voice lowering to something I had never heard before—soft, concerned, almost vulnerable.

"Yes, Leo? What's wrong? Is Max okay?"

My ears perked. Leo. A child's name.

He hung up and turned to me, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "I apologize. The nanny had an emergency. I need to—"

"Go," I said. "I can finish the walkthrough myself."

He hesitated. "Would you… would you mind coming with me? The boys are at the office. I don't want to leave them alone. They're too young to be unsupervised, and my assistant is out sick."

I should have said no. Every instinct told me to walk away, to protect the walls I had spent five years building. But something in his voice—the raw, unguarded edge—made me nod.

"Of course."

We drove back to Blackwood Tower in silence. But this time, the silence was different. It was thick with anticipation, with a question neither of us dared to ask.

He led me to a private floor I had never seen before—a suite tucked away from the executive offices. The moment he opened the door, I understood why.

The room was a child's paradise. Toys scattered across the carpet. Crayon drawings taped to the walls—lopsided dinosaurs, rainbow-striped cats, a sun with a smiling face. A small wooden train set snaked across the coffee table. A stack of picture books sat on the couch.

And there, on the floor, were two boys.

The older one—maybe four years old—had dark curls and serious gray eyes. He looked up at me with a wariness that reminded me of Rose. The younger one, slightly smaller, clutched a stuffed dinosaur and peered out from behind the couch.

"Ava, this is Leo and Max," Damian said, his voice softening. "Boys, this is Ms. Winters. She's helping with the wedding."

Leo studied me with those too-old eyes. "Are you the wedding lady?"

"I am."

"Are you going to marry my uncle?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "No. I'm planning the wedding. That's different."

Damian crouched beside him, his hand resting on Leo's small shoulder. "Remember, I told you about the wedding? It's for me and Isabelle."

"But you said we'd be there."

"Of course you'll be there." He ruffled Leo's hair with a tenderness that cracked something in my chest. "You and Max are my priority. Always."

Uncle. My mind snagged on the word. These were his nephews. His brother's children.

"Where are their parents?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Damian's jaw tightened. He stood and walked to the window, his back to me. "Ethan—my brother—died two years ago. Car accident. Their mother passed away when they were babies—postpartum complications. I'm their legal guardian."

The words hit me like ice water. He was raising his brother's orphans. Alone. And he was marrying Isabelle—a woman who, from everything I had observed, had no interest in these boys.

"Leo and Max are everything," he said, still facing the window. His voice was low, steady, but I heard the strain underneath. "I do everything for them. Even the wedding—it's to give them stability. A public shield. So the media won't dig into their private lives. They've been through enough."

I thought of Lily and Rose. Of the way I had hidden them to protect them from a world that would devour them. Of the way I had told myself I was doing the right thing.

And now I was standing here, watching a man protect his nephews with the same fierce love I felt for my daughters.

"Uncle," Leo called, breaking the silence, "can I show Ms. Winters my dinosaur drawing?"

Damian turned, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Of course."

Leo ran to me, holding up a crayon picture of a green T-rex with a lopsided grin and enormous teeth. "This is Rex. He eats vegetables. He's a vegetarian dinosaur."

"Very wise," I managed, my throat tight. "I've never met a vegetarian T-rex before."

"Most T-rexes are carnivores," Leo said, tilting his head. "But Rex is different. He decided to be nice."

I knelt to his level. "That's a wonderful choice."

Max crept closer, still clutching his stuffed dinosaur. "He has a name too," he whispered. "He's called Spike."

"Hello, Spike." I smiled at him. "He looks very brave."

"He is. He protects me."

Damian watched us with an expression I couldn't read—somewhere between awe and grief.

I stayed for twenty minutes. I watched Damian help Max with a puzzle, patiently guiding his small hands. I listened to Leo explain the difference between a triceratops and a stegosaurus. I saw the way Damian looked at them—not with obligation, but with a love so fierce it made my chest ache.

When I finally stood to leave, Damian walked me to the elevator.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet. "For coming. For being kind to them."

"They're wonderful boys."

"They are." He paused, his gray eyes searching mine. "You're different from what I expected, Ava."

"Different how?"

"Warmer." He said it softly, like a confession. "You remind me of someone I used to know. Someone I failed."

I stepped into the elevator. The doors began to slide shut.

But just before they closed, Leo's voice rang out: "Uncle, is she coming back?"

Damian's answer was too soft to catch.

The doors shut, and I pressed my forehead against the cold metal wall, the sound of Leo's question echoing in my skull.

I had come here for revenge. I had planned to hurt him the way he hurt me.

But now I was standing in his world, watching him raise two boys with a gentleness I had never seen in him before. And every moment I spent with him, every glimpse of the father he had become, made the walls I had built crumble a little more.

Someone I failed.

He had been so close to remembering me.

And for one terrifying second, I wasn't sure if I wanted him to forget—or to finally see the truth.