Chapter 2 The Deal.rhat Changed Everything

I leaned into him, playing along, my heart racing from the charade—and maybe something more. "We've been keeping it quiet," I added, my voice steadier now. "But yeah, it's real."

Her friends pulled out phones, snapping pics. "Smile for the camera, lovebirds!" one giggled.

Damian pulled me closer, his lips brushing my temple in a fake kiss that felt anything but. Sparks ignited in my chest—desire, confusion, excitement. The flashes went off, capturing us in poses: him whispering in my ear, me laughing like we shared inside jokes. The wine made it easy to forget it was all a lie. For a moment, it felt good. Powerful. Like I'd finally one-upped the Mean Girl.

Brittany forced a smile, but her eyes narrowed. "Cute. Post those online, girls. Let's see if the internet buys it."

The night blurred after that. Damian stayed by my side, chatting with old classmates, his hand never leaving mine. We talked—really talked. "So, what's the real story with your career?" he asked during a quiet moment by the punch bowl.

I sighed, the vulnerability slipping out. "It imploded. Fake sponsorships exposed. I'm broke, evicted next week. Pathetic, right?"

He shook his head, his eyes softening. "Not pathetic. Brave. Starting over takes guts." His words warmed me more than the wine. Was this the same Damian who'd ignored me in high school? Or had I never really known him?

As the reunion wound down, people started leaving. Damian walked me to my Uber, the city lights twinkling outside. "That was fun," I said, grinning despite the buzz wearing off. "Thanks again."

He leaned against the car door, his expression serious. "Remember the favor, Ava. I'll call it in soon."

A shiver ran down my spine—not fear, but anticipation. "What kind of favor?"

"You'll see." He winked, then closed the door.

I collapsed into the seat, my phone buzzing already. Notifications flooded in—tags from the reunion pics. "OMG, Ava and Damian Black?!" one read. My followers were climbing. By the time I got home to my crappy Brooklyn apartment, the posts had gone viral. Brittany had shared them with a caption: "Reunion surprise! Ava's mystery man? Spill the tea! 😏"

I laughed it off, crashing into bed. It was just one night. Harmless.

But the next morning—September now, wait no, it was still late July, but the days blurred—my phone exploded at dawn. Hundreds of messages. DMs from brands: "Collab?" Reporters: "Is it true?" My ex, Mark: "WTF, Ava?"

I sat up, head pounding from the hangover. What had I started? Then my phone rang. Unknown number, but I knew.

"Hello?" I croaked.

"Ava." Damian's voice, cool and commanding. "Time to collect that favor."

My breath caught. "What do you want?"

"Be my girlfriend. For real. Or at least, convincingly. Move into my penthouse. It's all for show."

I froze, staring at the viral posts on my screen. The world thought we were together. And now he wanted to make it... what? My mind raced—excitement, fear, that pull from last night. But before I could respond, a knock pounded at my door. Urgent. Insistent.

I peeked through the peephole. Two men in suits, looking official. "Ava Thompson? We need to talk about Black Enterprises."

My heart slammed against my ribs. Who were they? What did they want? And how deep had this lie pulled me already?

The knock at my door echoed like a gunshot in my tiny Brooklyn apartment, each thud spiking my pulse. I stood frozen, phone still pressed to my ear, Damian’s voice lingering in my mind: Be my girlfriend. For real. Or at least, convincingly. Move into my penthouse. My screen glowed with notifications—thousands of likes, comments, and DMs about those reunion photos with Damian Black. The world thought we were a couple, and now strangers in suits were banging on my door, mentioning his company. What had I stumbled into?

“Ava? You there?” Damian’s voice crackled through the phone, sharp with concern.

I swallowed, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Yeah, but… there’s someone at my door. Suits. Talking about Black Enterprises.”

A pause, then his tone hardened. “Don’t open it. I’m sending someone. Stay put.”

The knocking grew louder, more insistent. “Ava Thompson, open the door. We just need a minute.” The voice was calm, professional, but it sent a chill down my spine. I backed away, clutching my phone like a lifeline. My apartment was a mess—empty wine bottles from last night’s pity party, moving boxes half-packed since my landlord gave me a week to get out. No way was I ready for this.

“Who are you?” I called through the door, my voice shakier than I liked.

“Private investigators. We’re looking into Black Enterprises. You’re linked to Damian Black now. Let’s talk.”

My stomach dropped. Linked? It was one night, one stupid lie to shut Brittany up! I glanced at my phone—Damian had hung up. Great. I was alone, hungover, and apparently in the middle of something way bigger than a high school reunion stunt.

Another knock. “We’re not leaving, Ms. Thompson.”

Panic clawed at me, but I forced myself to breathe. Think, Ava. I wasn’t opening that door. Not until I knew what was going on. I tiptoed to the window, peering through the blinds. A black SUV idled across the street, two more suits leaning against it, scanning the building. My heart raced. This wasn’t just about my viral posts. This was about Damian.

My phone buzzed—a text from him: Car’s outside. Back alley. Five minutes. Relief flooded me, mixed with dread. What kind of favor was this? I grabbed my purse, shoved my phone inside, and slipped on sneakers, not caring that I was still in last night’s dress, now wrinkled and reeking of wine.

I crept to the back door, heart pounding as I eased it open. The alley smelled of garbage and asphalt, but a sleek black car waited, engine humming. The driver—a burly guy with a buzz cut—nodded. “Ms. Thompson? Get in.”

I hesitated, glancing back at my apartment. The knocking had stopped, but that didn’t feel like a win. “Who are you?”

“Vince. Damian sent me. Move.” His tone was all business, no warmth.

I slid into the backseat, the leather cool against my skin. As we peeled out, my phone lit up again—Lena, my best friend, Damian’s stepsister. “Ava, what the hell’s going on? My phone’s blowing up about you and Damian! Are you okay?”