Ava didn't remember falling asleep.
She only remembered waking up—cold coffee on the table, her laptop still open, the rain having stopped sometime in the early morning. The city outside her window was bathed in gray light, and inside her apartment, everything felt too still.
The folder from Damien sat on her kitchen counter, its edges damp from a stray water ring.
She hadn't opened it again.
Didn't need to.
The words she'd read once were already taking root in her thoughts, growing vines of doubt that wrapped around her memories of Julian.
He'd been there from the start. Always kind. Always loyal.
But now, she couldn't stop wondering: Had he just been close enough to comfort her? Or close enough to control the story she believed?
Julian arrived that afternoon, just like he always did—casual, familiar, a soft smile already on his face.
"Brought lunch," he said, holding up a brown bag. "From that Thai place on 14th you like."
Ava forced a smile. "Thanks."
She let him in, let him unpack the containers, let him fill the silence with easy chatter about client meetings and some influencer disaster he was untangling for a tech brand.
She watched him carefully.
The way he moved around her kitchen like it was his. The way he avoided asking how her meeting with Damien went.
The way he didn't seem curious about what was still sitting on her counter.
"You okay?" he asked finally, when she didn't touch her food.
She nodded. "Tired. That's all."
He studied her. "You look like you haven't slept."
"Didn't."
"You want to talk about it?"
She hesitated.
Then said, "Do you remember when my father's company went under?"
His expression changed—just a flicker. But she caught it.
"Of course I remember," he said carefully.
"You were around then. Close to everything. Did you ever hear my father mention Blackwood Holdings before the deal collapsed?"
Julian blinked, then reached for a fork. "Sure. A few times. Everyone was talking about Blackwood that year. Why?"
"No reason."
He nodded slowly but didn't press. Didn't ask.
And that told her more than if he had.
They ate in silence for a while.
Julian told a story about a campaign disaster with a celebrity chef who cursed on a livestream. Ava laughed, but the sound felt hollow in her throat.
She was watching him again.
Looking for cracks.
He had always seemed so open—easy to read. But now, she wasn't sure if that was because he was honest…
Or because he was practiced.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked suddenly.
He looked up. "What?"
"Being around back then. Watching it happen. Not being able to stop it."
He didn't answer at first.
Then, without looking at her, he said, "I think about it more than I say."
Ava studied his face. "That's not a no."
Julian's jaw tightened. "It's not a yes either."
After he left, Ava sat on the couch with the folder in her lap.
She didn't open it again.
She just stared at it.
Her father used to keep handwritten notebooks—something about the weight of pen and paper grounded him, especially when the pressure mounted. He said numbers lied less when you wrote them by hand.
She remembered sneaking into his study late one night, looking at those pages while he slept on the couch outside, half-drunk and completely defeated.
She was nineteen then.
And Julian had been the one to drive her home that night.
Had he known even then?
She shook the thought away, but it wouldn't leave.
That was the problem with doubt—it didn't just infect what you didn't know. It started poisoning everything you thought you did.
Later that night, Ava stood on her balcony, wrapped in an old sweater, the wind tugging strands of hair from her bun.
She watched the city blink and breathe below.
She didn't call Julian.
She didn't text Damien.
Instead, she pulled out one of her father's old notebooks from the crate in her closet. The pages were yellowing, the ink faded. But there were names scribbled in the margins.
"Bennett." "Vane." "Rhodes."
She stared at the last one.
Her fingers traced over it like it might tell her what he never had.
The next morning, Ava returned to Easton Media and found Clarisse Vane waiting in her office.
"Blackwood wants you at the tower," she said without preamble.
Ava raised an eyebrow. "Why not send an email?"
"He doesn't trust emails for conversations he intends to win."
Ava stood. "I haven't agreed to anything yet."
Clarisse smiled coolly. "No one said you did. But you're not one to ignore a door once it's opened."
Ava grabbed her coat.
Because she wasn't.
And because no matter how tangled the past had become… the present wasn't waiting.