Chapter 4: Kiss Me Like a Curse

(Fame isn't always the brightest light—it hides the darkest shadows.)

The next morning, the tabloids screamed her name.

AVA SINCLAIR VANISHES FOR 24 HOURS—SECRET LOVER OR SPIRALING STAR?

SPOTTED: Ava Leaving an Unknown Mansion in a Silk Gown

Fans Concerned: Is the Queen of Hollywood Finally Breaking?

Ava stood in her penthouse, wrapped in a designer robe, staring at her reflection. Her skin still bore the heat of his touch. There were bruises blooming like violets along her thighs, love bites on her collarbone peeking through the silk. Her assistant knocked nervously from outside.

"You have the Vanity Noir cover shoot at noon, Ava. Do you want the black Balenciaga or the red Versace?"

"Both," Ava replied without turning. "And cancel the press meet after. I need time."

The assistant hesitated. "They'll ask questions…"

"They always do."

By nightfall, she was back under the lights.

The red Versace slit all the way to her thigh, heels dagger-sharp, her hair curled like a goddess of sin. Cameras flashed like lightning as she descended the grand marble staircase of the Velvet Theatre, where her latest film premiere was held.

But none of it mattered.

Because she felt watched.

And not by fans. Not by paparazzi.

By him.

In a private corridor backstage, velvet curtains parted.

And there he was. Damien. Leaning against a mirror, dressed in a suit darker than midnight. No sound, no announcement. Just shadows folding around him like he belonged there.

"Nice dress," he said. "But I liked you better naked."

Ava didn't flinch. She walked straight up to him, their bodies inches apart.

"You shouldn't be here," she said.

"I go where I want," he replied smoothly. "And you… you're still mine, remember?"

"You don't own me," she said, breath trembling as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"But I've tasted every part of you that fame can't touch," Damien murmured. "Even when the world screams your name, Ava… you scream mine."

And then—cold steel.

A blade. Pressed lightly to her throat.

Ava froze. Her breath caught. But her body… burned.

"You'd hurt me?" she whispered.

He leaned in. "Not tonight."

The knife slid down—slow, teasing—between the valley of her breasts, the tip dancing along her skin like a promise. Her pulse quickened. Her thighs clenched.

"I just wanted to remind you," Damien said, his lips ghosting hers, "that I could. And you'd still beg me to kiss you after."

She didn't speak. She kissed him. Like falling off a cliff. Like pain and pleasure were the same thing. Their bodies slammed against the mirror as hands tangled, her gown slipping, his suit jacket hitting the floor.

It was wicked. Wrong. Blasphemy in silk and lipstick.

Elsewhere…

Far beneath the mansion, in a room that Ava didn't know existed, Damien stood later that night—shirtless, blood on his knuckles, whispering to a man whose face stayed in the shadows.

"She's remembering," Damien said.

The other man lit a cigarette. "And when she remembers the truth?"

Damien's jaw tightened. "She'll hate me."

"But you love her."

"I never said that," Damien snapped, turning his back. "This isn't love. It's the end of something that started long before she was famous."

The man flicked ash onto the floor. "Then tell her about the game."

"She's not ready," Damien muttered. "She still thinks this is about lust."

"And what happens when she finds out she's been part of this since birth?"

Damien's silence was answer enough.

Back in the city…

Ava returned home to find a black envelope on her bed. No stamp. No signature. Just one sentence inside on ivory paper:

"You think you're famous, but you don't even know your real name."

Her fingers shook.

Outside, her reflection caught in the window. But behind her… something moved.

To be continued…