Chapter 2 The Brownstone

The rain drummed against the yellow cab’s windows when my phone buzzed with an electronic deposit alert.

Retainer deposit received: Blackwood Enterprises. $50,000.

Fifty thousand dollars just to reserve my calendar. To Damian, it was pocket change thrown at an irritating chore. To me, five years ago, it would have kept me from sleeping in a twenty-four-hour laundromat while morning sickness tore through my gut.

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, forcing my racing pulse to steady. By the time the cab pulled up to our quiet Brooklyn brownstone, the armor of A.V. Events was locked back into place.

I could not let the girls see me shaken. Children smell fear faster than wolves.

I turned the brass key in the heavy oak door. The scent of roasted garlic, warm butter, and lavender polish immediately enveloped me, thawing the bitter chill settled deep in my bones.

"Mommy!"

A whirlwind of green cotton and untied sneakers slammed into my knees. Lily. At four years old, she possessed the energy of a localized hurricane. She had Damian’s unruly, pitch-black curls, his stubborn chin, and that unyielding defiance that made my heart ache every single day.

"Careful, monkey," I laughed, scooping her up and burying my face in her neck. "Did you finish your letters today?"

"I drew a dinosaur instead," she declared proudly, wrapping her arms around my neck with surprising strength. "A giant T. rex. He eats broccoli, so I don't have to."

Behind her, emerging quietly from the playroom with a picture book tucked under her arm, was Rose.

Where Lily was on fire, Rose was deep, still water. She walked over with measured, delicate steps and rested her head against my hip. When she tilted her face up to smile, my breath caught in my throat.

Rose had inherited Damian’s eyes.

Not just the shade, but the exact, arresting steel-gray iris ringed in midnight slate. Looking into her face was like staring into the living ghost of the man who had sworn to love me forever before discarding me in the gutter without a backward glance.

"You look tired, Mommy," Rose whispered softly, her small hand patting my knee.

"Just a long meeting, sweetheart," I said, kissing her forehead.

"Go wash up for dinner, both of you," a warm voice commanded from the kitchen archway.

Rosa stepped out, wiping her hands on an apron. At fifty-five, with silver streaking her dark braid, Rosa was the rock of our survival. When I arrived at her clinic doorstep five years ago—homeless, pregnant, and terrified—she hadn't asked questions. She had simply taken my hand and sheltered me from the storm.

The girls scurried toward the bathroom, their giggles echoing down the hall.

Rosa waited until the door clicked shut before her smile vanished. She looked at my pale face, then at my white-knuckled grip on my portfolio.

"You saw him," Rosa said. It wasn't a question.

I walked to the island, set my bag down, and let my knees buckle onto a wooden stool. "He didn't recognize me, Rosa. Not for a single second."

"Good," Rosa breathed, stepping forward. "Then you turn down the contract. We have enough savings. You don't need his blood money."

"I signed it."

Rosa froze, her dark eyes widening in horror. "Ava, are you out of your mind? You walked straight into the lion's den! If he finds out about Lily and Rose—"

"He won't," I cut in, keeping my voice to a fierce whisper. "He thinks I’m an ambitious planner named Ava Winters. He looked me in the eye and called our marriage a naive, messy disaster. He discarded me like dirt, Rosa. He told the press I was a thief."

My fingers curled into fists against the cold granite.

"Now, he’s marrying Isabelle Laurent to seal a corporate merger. He wants prestige. I am going to give him the most magnificent spectacle this city has ever seen. And when the cameras are rolling and the elite are watching, I will dismantle his pride piece by piece."

"Vengeance is poison, Ava," Rosa said, her voice heavy with sorrow. "You drink it hoping the other person dies."

"It's not just vengeance," I whispered. "It’s closure. For five years, I’ve jumped in the shadows, terrified he’d tear my babies away with high-priced lawyers. I’m done running. Once he sees what he has thrown away, he will never have power over me again."

Rosa sighed, reaching across the counter to squeeze my hand. "And what if you get burned?"

"I won't." I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest tightening. "There's something else."

Rosa frowned. "What?"

"His assistant came in right before I left. She said the nanny called. Damian has twins, Rosa."

Rosa stared at me, completely stunned. "Twins? He hasn't remarried. There’s never been a whisper of a woman living in his home."

"I know," I said, my voice trembling with raw shock. "He has two children hidden away in that fortress. What kind of monster hides children while parading a socialite fiancée for business?"

Before Rosa could answer, my phone vibrated violently against the counter.

An incoming voice call.

The screen lit up with an unlisted Manhattan exchange. The executive VIP line from Blackwood Tower.

My pulse spiked straight into my throat. Rosa held her breath.

I swiped the screen and brought the phone to my ear. "Ava Winters."

"Ms. Winters."

Damian’s voice. It wasn't filtered through an assistant. It was right in my ear, intimate, dark, and commanding.

"Mr. Blackwood," I said, keeping my tone crisp and detached. "I wasn't expecting a call tonight."

"Isabelle just reviewed your portfolio," Damian said coldly. "She loves your past work with high-society garden weddings. In fact, she’s obsessed with a concept from your promotional shoot last spring."

My blood ran cold. The promotional shoot.

Last spring, when I launched my firm, I refused to pay child models. For the bridal garden lookbook, I used Lily and Rose in matching satin dresses and floral crowns, their faces turned slightly away from the camera.

"Which concept?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

"The twin flower girls," Damian replied, his words dropping like lead weights into the silence. "Isabelle insists on having them in the processional. She wants the exact same pair. She said money is no object."

A pause stretched across the line—long, heavy, suffocating.

"Bring them to the Laurent estate tomorrow morning at eight, Ms. Winters," Damian commanded smoothly. "Let's see if your little girls look as angelic in person."