POV: Damian Cross
It's strange how silence can feel heavier than noise.
The house is still, except for the faint hum of the city beyond the glass walls. London is alive out there: restless, pulsing, untamed, but in here, the air feels stagnant, like it's holding its breath with me. Lydia's laughter used to fill this space; tonight, it's gone.
She's upstairs, packing. Another charity gala, another cause, another smile she'll wear like it's not costing her anything. I should go to her, hold her, tell her she's the best thing that's ever happened to me. But instead, I'm standing in my office, staring at my phone; at a message from Alexandra Vaughn that simply reads:
"You'll want to see this. Urgent."
It's past ten. No signature. No pleasantries. Just her name glowing at the top of the screen like a spark I shouldn't touch.
I tell myself not to respond, but I already know I will.
Alexandra.
There's something about her that's impossible to ignore. She carries herself like a storm in a glass: sharp, beautiful, destructive in ways she probably doesn't even notice. Every word she says feels deliberate, and every silence feels dangerous.
I should've known better than to let her in. But she's Lydia's best friend, my fiancée's maid of honor, and she's everywhere. The wedding planning, the family dinners, the fundraisers. Every time she looks at me, it's like she's seeing something I'm not ready for her to name.
I text back."Where are you?"
Seconds later: "The Blackwell Hotel. Private lounge."
Of course. The same place where we first discussed my company's legal troubles months ago. The night she'd defended me with that perfect, lethal composure, and smiled after, just once, like she'd taken something from me I hadn't realized I'd given.
I should ignore it. I should stay home. But the thought of not knowing what's "urgent" is worse than the guilt gnawing at my chest.
The Blackwell is dim, gold-lit, expensive in that way only people who've never struggled can appreciate. When I find her, Alexandra is sitting in the corner booth, legs crossed, eyes sharp enough to slice through the low light. She looks like sin wrapped in silk, and the worst part is, she knows it.
"Damian," she says softly, setting her glass down. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"Yet here I am."
Her lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close. "I didn't call you here for games."
"Then what's this about?"
She slides a folder across the table. "Your company's new investor, Victor Hale. You need to look at his background."
I frown, flipping it open. Financial statements, shell accounts, a few alarming inconsistencies. She leans in, her perfume subtle but distracting.
"Someone's been leaking your data, Damian," she says, her voice low. "You're being played."
The words hit like ice water. Hale was supposed to be our savior investor, the man who could stabilize CrossTech before the quarter's close. If this is true, it could destroy everything.
"How did you get this?"
"I have sources." Her gaze doesn't waver. "You know that."
I study her, really study her. The way her pulse flutters just under her jaw. The steadiness in her tone. She's telling the truth… but there's something else. Something she's not saying.
"Why tell me this now?" I ask.
"Because Lydia doesn't know," she says, almost too quickly. "And if she did, she'd blame herself. You know she trusts people too easily."
There it is, that protective tone she uses when she talks about Lydia. But tonight, it feels off. Almost rehearsed.
"You care about her a lot," I say.
"Of course I do."
I nod slowly. "And about me?"
That catches her off guard. She freezes, eyes narrowing slightly, the lawyer mask snapping into place. "This isn't about you."
"Yes, it is," I say, leaning closer. "Everything with you always is."
Her breath hitches, just a fraction. Enough.
For a second, we're caught in that dangerous, silent space again. The same one we found ourselves in after that late-night meeting weeks ago, when she'd laughed at something I said, and the sound had undone me completely.
Alexandra looks away first. "You're engaged, Damian."
"I know."
"And she's my best friend."
"I know that too."
The silence grows heavy again, full of things neither of us can say.
Then she whispers, "You should go."
But I don't. I can't. Because beneath all her control, all her brilliance and bite, there's something breaking inside her. I can see it in her eyes, the same loneliness I've tried so hard to drown in success and champagne.
"Alex," I say softly. "What are you so afraid of?"
She laughs: brittle, beautiful. "You have no idea."
I reach for her hand, but she pulls it back before I can touch her. "Don't," she says, but it sounds more like a plea than a warning.
And for the first time, I realize how deep this has gone, how far beyond reason, beyond loyalty, beyond right and wrong we've fallen.
Later, I find myself driving home without remembering the turns. The city lights blur through the windshield. Lydia's voice echoes in my head, her soft laugh, her trust, her plans for our future. She deserves better than this version of me.
But Alexandra's voice lingers too, sharp and haunting. You're being played.
Maybe she's right about Hale. Maybe she's wrong. But I can't stop thinking about the way her eyes looked when I asked what she was afraid of.
Because I think I know the answer.
It's the same thing I'm afraid of.
Us.
When I step into the house, Lydia's already asleep. The faint glow from the bedside lamp softens her face; she looks peaceful, untouched by the chaos outside our walls. I sit beside her, brush a strand of hair from her cheek.
She stirs, smiling faintly. "You're home late," she murmurs.
"Work," I lie.
She nods, still half-asleep. "You'll burn yourself out."
"I know."
She drifts back to sleep, her hand resting lightly on my arm, trust made flesh.
And all I can think about is the feel of Alexandra's almost-touch, the scent of her perfume, the look in her eyes when she told me to go.
I wish I had.
Because whatever this is, this pull between us — it's not just attraction anymore. It's gravity.
And gravity doesn't care who it destroys on the way down.