THE PRICE OF HIS OBSESSION

AVA

The first time Ava Laurent saw Damian Cross, a man was bleeding on the marble floor.

Not metaphorically.

Actually bleeding.

The stranger lay beside the grand staircase of the Sterling Club, one hand pressed against his stomach, his expensive white shirt slowly turning red. Around him, two hundred guests stood frozen beneath crystal chandeliers, their champagne glasses suspended halfway to their lips.

Someone screamed.

Someone else reached for their phone.

And Damian Cross?

He simply adjusted his cufflinks.

“Get him out of here,” he ordered.

His voice wasn’t particularly loud. It didn’t need to be.

Three men immediately moved.

Ava stared at the scene, unable to decide whether she should be horrified by what she’d witnessed or more disturbed by the fact that nobody seemed surprised by his reaction.

“Miss Laurent.”

She turned.

A security guard stood behind her.

“Mr. Cross would like to see you.”

Ava blinked.

“Sorry?”

“The gentleman in the black suit.”

“I know who he is.”

Everyone knew who Damian Cross was.

Thirty-one years old. Owner of one of the most exclusive hotel chains in Europe. Investor in properties that most people could only dream of entering. His name appeared in financial magazines, business headlines and occasionally in scandals that somehow disappeared before reaching the public.

He was the kind of man whose invitations were impossible to refuse.

And apparently, whose requests were no different.

“Tell Mr. Cross I’m working.”

The guard didn’t move.

“Now, miss.”

Ava glanced toward the man on the floor.

“Does he usually interrupt parties with attempted murder?”

The guard’s expression remained completely neutral.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“How unfortunate.”

She picked up her champagne glass and took a sip.

She had spent three weeks preparing the visual concept for tonight’s charity gala. The Sterling Club had hired her company to oversee the event’s artistic direction, and she wasn’t about to abandon her responsibilities because some billionaire had decided he wanted an audience.

Especially not one who apparently treated violence like an inconvenience.

The guard leaned closer.

“Mr. Cross doesn’t like waiting.”

Ava smiled.

“Then he should consider developing patience.”

She walked away before the man could answer.

For the next twenty minutes, she deliberately avoided looking toward the staircase.

She spoke with the event coordinator, checked the floral arrangements and corrected a lighting issue near the private dining room.

Normal things.

Ordinary things.

Things that helped her pretend she hadn’t just watched a man bleed in front of an audience that seemed more interested in protecting its reputation than calling an ambulance.

Then her phone vibrated.

Unknown Number.

You have five minutes.

Ava frowned.

Another message appeared.

Don’t make me ask twice.

She looked up.

Across the ballroom, a man stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Black suit. White shirt. No tie.

He held a glass of whiskey in one hand, his attention fixed on her.

Even from a distance, she could feel the weight of his stare.

Damian Cross.

Ava slowly put her phone away.

Then she did something she knew she would probably regret.

She turned her back on him.

The private corridor was almost silent.

Ava had gone looking for the event manager when she noticed a door slightly open at the end of the hallway.

Beyond it was a small office.

She pushed it gently.

“Hello?”

Nobody answered.

The room was decorated with dark wood, expensive artwork and a massive desk covered in documents.

She stepped inside.

A framed photograph caught her attention.

A group of men stood outside what looked like an old country estate.

One of them was younger, but unmistakably recognizable.

Her father.

Ava stopped breathing.

She approached the photograph.

Her father had disappeared from her life three years ago. No explanation. No goodbye. Just a phone call that never came and a house that suddenly felt too large.

Her mother had refused to discuss him.

Ava had eventually learned to stop asking questions.

But there he was.

Standing beside three men she didn’t recognize.

She reached for the frame.

“Interesting choice of decoration.”

The voice came from behind her.

Ava spun around.

Damian Cross stood in the doorway.

Up close, he was even more intimidating.

Dark hair, sharp features, an expression that gave away absolutely nothing. His eyes were the kind of dark that made it difficult to tell whether he was angry or simply bored.

He closed the door.

“Do you normally enter private offices without permission?” he asked.

“Only when I find something interesting.”

His gaze moved to the photograph.

Something changed in his expression.

It was brief.

Almost invisible.

But Ava noticed.

“You know my father,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

Damian placed his whiskey on the desk.

“I knew him.”

“Where is he?”

“That’s not why you’re here.”

Ava let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“You summoned me into a private office, surrounded by security, and now you’re telling me I shouldn’t ask questions?”

“I didn’t summon you to discuss your curiosity.”

“Then perhaps you should have invited someone less curious.”

For the first time, something resembling amusement touched his face.

It disappeared almost immediately.

“Your father owes me money.”

Ava stared at him.

“What?”

“Your father borrowed a considerable amount from me. He failed to repay it.”

“My father disappeared three years ago.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then you should be looking for him.”

“I have.”

“And?”

Damian walked around the desk, opened a drawer and removed a thin black folder.

He placed it in front of her.

“Your father’s outstanding balance is eleven million pounds.”

Ava stared at the folder.

Then at him.

“You’re joking.”

“I rarely joke about money.”

“Eleven million?”

“Correct.”

She shook her head.

“That’s impossible. My father didn’t have that kind of money. He wasn’t a businessman. He—”

“He was involved in things you knew nothing about.”

The words landed harder than she expected.

Ava looked down at the folder.

Inside were bank statements, signed agreements and several pages of legal documentation.

At the bottom of the last page was a signature.

Her father’s.

She recognized it immediately.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Because his debt has become your problem.”

Ava slowly lifted her eyes.

“No. Whatever arrangement you had with my father has nothing to do with me.”

“Your father disagreed.”

Damian pushed another document across the desk.

Ava read the first paragraph.

Then the second.

Her stomach tightened.

Her father’s signature appeared again.

But this time, beneath it, was her full name.

AVA ELIZABETH LAURENT.

“What is this?”

“A guarantee.”

“I never signed this.”

“I know.”

“Then this document is fraudulent.”

“Possibly.”

She looked at him sharply.

“Possibly?”

“Your father’s signature is authentic. Yours isn’t.”

Ava felt the blood drain from her face.

“Then why am I here?”

Damian leaned back against the desk.

“Because your father disappeared, and I have every reason to believe you know more than you’re telling me.”

Ava laughed once, but there was no humor in it.

“You have absolutely no idea who I am.”

His eyes remained on hers.

“Don’t be so sure.”

DAMIAN

He had expected her to cry.

Most people did.

The moment they understood the amount of money involved, they usually started negotiating, apologizing or making promises they couldn’t keep.

Ava Laurent did none of those things.

She looked at him as though she were considering whether throwing the folder at his head would be worth the consequences.

Interesting.

He had studied her file.

Twenty-four years old. Independent. No significant debts. No criminal history. A small but successful career in luxury brand design.

No suspicious financial activity.

No obvious connections to the people he had spent the last three years trying to find.

And yet her name had appeared in a document that should never have existed.

“How much time do I have?” she asked.

Damian brought his attention back to her.

“For what?”

“To find my father.”

He watched her carefully.

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“Then what exactly do you want from me?”

He opened another folder.

Inside was a photograph of a modern building overlooking the Thames.

The Cross Residence.

His private penthouse.

“I have an offer.”

Ava looked at the photograph.

“I’m listening.”

“You will move into my residence.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Excuse me?”

“You will live there for six months. During that time, you will work directly for my company, assisting with the redevelopment of several of my private properties.”

“I already have a job.”

“You’ll be compensated.”

“I don’t need a new employer.”

“Eleven million pounds is a rather expensive reason to be stubborn.”

Her jaw tightened.

“You’re asking me to move into your house?”

“I’m telling you the conditions under which I’m willing to settle your father’s debt.”

“Why?”

The question came quickly.

He appreciated that.

“Because I believe you’ll be more useful where I can see you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”

Ava folded her arms.

“Do you always expect women to obey you?”

“No.”

He stepped closer.

“I expect people to understand consequences.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

She was smaller than him, but she didn’t retreat.

He noticed the way her fingers tightened around the edge of the folder. The slight movement of her throat as she swallowed.

She was frightened.

Good.

Fear was useful.

But she refused to let him see it.

“Six months,” she repeated.

“Six months.”

“And if I refuse?”

Damian studied her face.

“Then I pursue the debt through every legal avenue available to me.”

“Against me?”

“Against the estate and any assets connected to your father’s guarantee.”

Ava looked away.

He could almost hear her thoughts moving.

She was trying to calculate the consequences. Trying to find a way out.

He knew that expression.

He had seen it on people who believed they still had choices.

“You have until tomorrow evening,” he said.

Ava picked up her handbag.

“Keep your offer.”

She reached for the door.

“Ava.”

She stopped.

It was the first time he had used her first name.

“One more thing.”

She turned, visibly irritated.

“Your father left something with me.”

Her expression changed.

“What?”

Damian held her gaze.

“Something he wanted you to have.”

For the first time that evening, she looked genuinely uncertain.

“What is it?”

“That’s something you’ll have to discover.”

He watched her leave.

The door closed.

Only then did he allow himself to look at the photograph on his desk.

A younger version of himself stood beside Ava’s father.

Three men.

One summer.

One decision.

And a promise that had never been kept.

Damian opened the bottom drawer and removed a second photograph.

Ava was in it.

She looked much younger, perhaps eighteen, standing outside a white building with her hair blowing across her face.

On the back, in handwriting he recognized immediately, were six words.

If anything happens, keep her away.

Damian stared at the sentence.

Then he turned the photograph over again.

He had spent three years searching for her father.

But he had never intended to bring Ava into this.

Not until that afternoon.

Not until he received the message.

His phone vibrated.

A new notification.

Unknown Number.

You shouldn’t have brought her there.

Damian read it twice.

Another message appeared.

She’s not the one you should be afraid of.

His expression hardened.

For the first time that evening, he reached for his whiskey.

Because whoever had sent that message knew something he didn’t.

And that was unacceptable.

AVA

At 11:47 p.m., Ava finally reached her apartment.

She kicked off her heels, dropped her handbag onto the sofa and stood motionless in the middle of the living room.

Eleven million pounds.

A forged signature.

A photograph of her father.

And Damian Cross, who seemed to know far more about her family than he was willing to admit.

Her phone vibrated.

Unknown Number.

She almost ignored it.

Then she saw the photograph attached.

Her blood turned cold.

It showed her apartment building.

Taken from across the street.

The message beneath it contained only one sentence.

You should have accepted his offer.

Ava moved toward the window.

The street below was almost empty.

Almost.

A black car stood outside the building.

Its headlights were off.

Her phone vibrated again.

This time, the message came from a different number.

Lock your doors, Ava.

She stared at the screen.

Then another message appeared.

Damian isn’t the only man looking for your father.

Ava slowly turned toward the front door.

Someone was standing outside.

And they were holding a key.