The Love Clause

Avena’s POV

Some people wake up thinking about their dreams. I wake up thinking about how to survive.

The kettle screeched from the tiny kitchenette, a sharp, piercing sound that mirrored the chaos in my head. Bills stacked neatly in a threatening pile on the counter. A nearly maxed-out credit card taunted me from the drawer. My father’s medication bottle sat next to my laptop, half-empty.

Fifty-three dollars left.

That was it.

I exhaled through my nose and pressed my fingers to my temples.

I could make fifty-three dollars last, right? A few groceries, maybe some money for the bus. I could stretch it. I always did. I’d just have to sell another book before the end of the week—if my readers didn’t forget I existed first.

The thought made my stomach clench. I couldn’t afford to lose momentum.

Not when my father’s life depended on it.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, skipping the sugar and milk I couldn’t spare, and carried it to the couch where my laptop sat, screen glowing with my half-written manuscript. My fingers hovered over the keys, willing words to come. They didn’t.

They never did when I needed them to.

I sighed, running a hand through my tangled hair, glancing toward the small bedroom down the hall. The door was cracked open just enough to let in a sliver of light.

Good. He was still sleeping.

If Dad was awake, he’d be worrying. If he was awake, he’d see the truth I worked so hard to hide.

But I saw it every day.

The way his once-strong frame had withered, how every breath sounded just a little more labored. The way his hands shook when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Two years ago, he was unstoppable. The man who had raised me alone after my mom died when I was just a baby. The man who always had a joke, a warm hug, a solution to every problem.

Now, I was the one searching for solutions. And coming up empty.

I grabbed the bottle of pills from the counter and walked into his room.

Dad lay on his side, his breathing steady, his expression peaceful. For a second, I hesitated. He looked… fragile. I hated that.

His eyelids fluttered, and then, just like always, he gave me that soft, tired smile.

"Morning, sweetheart."

I swallowed around the lump in my throat and crossed my arms over my chest. "You’re supposed to be resting."

"I rest too much," he muttered, trying to sit up. The second he did, a deep, hacking cough rattled his chest.

I rushed to his side, pressing the pill bottle into his palm and handing him a glass of water.

"Dad." My voice was quiet but firm. "You need to take these."

He sighed but didn’t argue. He swallowed the pills and leaned back against the pillows, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

"You worry too much," he murmured.

"And you don’t worry enough."

A half-smile. "That’s what parents do. We worry so our kids don’t have to."

I looked away, guilt pressing against my ribs.

"Yeah, well… someone has to do it."

His eyes softened, but he didn’t call me out on the sharp edge in my voice.

"You’ve got class today?" he asked instead.

"Yeah. Just another day."

"And you're taking the bus?"

"As always." I tried to make my voice light, but he frowned.

"If I hadn't gotten sick, you'd have a car by now."

"Dad, don’t," I said, shaking my head. "You know I don’t care about stuff like that."

But he just exhaled, rubbing his chest. "I hate that you have to work so hard."

"I don’t have a choice."

A pause.

Then, his voice softened. "Promise me something?"

I hesitated. "What?"

"Don’t let life turn you cold."

My throat tightened. "I’m not cold."

"Not yet." His lips twitched. "But I see the weight you carry. You work so hard to survive that you forget to live. Just… don’t lose yourself, okay?"

I forced a smile. "I’ll try."

It wasn’t a lie.

But it wasn’t quite the truth, either.

I stood at the bus stop, my breath forming small puffs in the crisp morning air, one hand shoved into my hoodie pocket while the other gripped my coffee. The street was already bustling with students and early morning commuters, the air buzzing with half-hearted conversations and the hum of engines.

My phone vibrated.

Sarah.

"Tell me you won the lottery," I greeted her, balancing my coffee as I adjusted my bag strap.

"Not quite. But guess who’s coming to campus today?"

I frowned. "What? Who?"

"Damian Carter."

I nearly dropped my coffee. "I’m sorry, WHO?"

"Mmhmm. That Damian Carter. The guy who basically owns half the publishing industry. He’s giving a guest lecture today in our program."

I blinked, trying to process her words. "Today? As in, in a few hours?!"

"Yep."

I groaned. "Why am I only hearing about this now?"

"Because you don’t check your emails," Sarah sing-songed.

She wasn’t wrong.

"Why would someone like him waste time with us?" I asked, stepping closer to the curb as the bus rolled toward us.

"Probably a PR move. Or maybe he just enjoys making us mere mortals feel financially inferior."

I rolled my eyes. "Great. Another rich guy telling us to ‘follow our dreams’ while we figure out how to pay rent."

"Yeah, but here’s the fun part." Sarah’s voice took on a mischievous lilt.

I narrowed my eyes. "Sarah… what did you do?"

"Me? Nothing. But Professor Graham picked the top students to be on the panel asking him questions."

A pause. A slow, sinking feeling settled in my stomach.

"And guess who’s on that panel?"

I stopped mid-step, my free hand tightening around my bag strap.

"SARAH, WHAT THE HELL?!"

She laughed. "Oops. Did I forget to mention that part?"

"You set me up!"

"Technically, Graham set you up. He picked the best students, and surprise, surprise—you’re at the top."

I groaned. "Fantastic. Just what I needed. A front-row seat to a walking ego trip."

"Oh, come on," she coaxed. "You love a challenge. And besides… wouldn’t it be fun to knock Mr. Billionaire off his high horse?"

I smirked despite myself.

Okay, that did sound kind of fun.

"Fine," I muttered. "But if I end up making an enemy out of one of the richest men in the world, I’m blaming you."

"Deal. See you soon, superstar."

I hung up, shoving my phone in my pocket as the bus doors hissed open.

Today.

Just another lecture. Just another billionaire.

Except… something in my gut told me I was wrong.

Because the thing about fate?

It never knocked.

It just kicked the d*mn door down.

Damian’s POV

Mornings were an exercise in control.

I liked control. I demanded it.

Everything had a structure—wake up at five, run six miles, shower, coffee, read the latest financial reports, and be at the office before anyone else. It was precise, predictable. Efficient.

Except today.

Today, I was stuck in my penthouse, gripping my phone with growing irritation while Graham, my old friend and an insufferable professor, reminded me of the worst mistake I had made in the past month.

"You promised, Damian," he was saying, voice too d*mn cheerful for this early in the morning.

I took a slow breath, staring at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment. New York stretched beneath me, a jungle of steel and glass, filled with people I didn’t care about and meetings I didn’t have time for.

And yet, instead of handling anything useful, I was about to waste my morn