Mr Billionaire's Ex Puppet
She knew she shouldn't have been there. Her shift technically ended two hours ago, but interns at Voss Industries didn’t leave early and Aurora wasn’t like most interns. She worked harder, stayed later, tried more, because she wanted to earn every second of the attention Damian had ever given her.
For Damian — Private.
It was the last file she had to stack, smoothing off the edge with meticulous care when the handwriting caught her eye.
It could’ve been an investor letter, a private contract, something boring. It should’ve been but the handwriting wasn’t corporate. Not typed. Not formal. Personal.
Don’t open it.
It isn’t yours.
Walk away, Aurora.
But curiosity won.
The seal cracked with a quiet tear that broke the silence in the vast glass-walled office.
Soft glossy snapshots spilled out, photos that should never have existed.
Aurora blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her breath hitched.
Damian.
Her Damian.
Bare chest, sheets tangled, head tilted back in a way she knew far too well, not from imagination but memory. There was whiskey beside him, his suit jacket draped over a chair.
And Lydia.
Aurora’s best friend.
Their bodies, closely intimate in a way that made Aurora feel physically ill.
For a moment, she thought she might faint.
Her knees weakened, and she gripped the desk to steady herself. She didn't want to believe it but the last few days replayed in her head like flashing warning signs: the missed calls, the abrupt distance, the way he avoided her eyes after weeks of lingering touches and stolen nights.
She saw it. The subtle shift of power, the tightening restraint behind those eyes that built empires and destroyed rivals.
As if on cue, he stepped in. Suit immaculately tailored, tie loosened just enough for your imagination to wander lower. His eyes met hers almost immediately.
His gaze flicked to the photos in her hand.
His expression was bland. It wasn't shame, or embarrassment or even guilt at least. Just irritation.
“Aurora,” he exhaled, stepping toward her, “Relax. Whatever you think this is...”
She slapped the envelope against his chest. The sound cracked the air.
His jaw clenched.
Her chest tightened.
Aurora Hale always thought heartbreak would be loud, messy, explosive, catastrophic in a way the whole world could witness. But this was silent, disguised in a cream envelope sitting innocently atop Damian Voss’s polished glass desk.
“How long?” she asked softly.
Words barely held together.
His expression remained unreadable. “It isn’t what you think.”
A bitter laugh escaped her.
“Oh? So these photos aren’t you and my best friend in a hotel room?”
He stayed silent.
Silence. Damning, heavy, painful silence.
Her voice cracked, anger and grief tangled together:
“Was I just another distraction? Perhaps something convenient between board meetings and mergers?”
His eyes hardened. “You knew the boundaries.”
“Wow” she whispered, shaking her head, tears burning hot. “I believed what we had was real.”
A beat of quiet revelation of truth cut into the silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled.
“We blurred lines. It was a mistake.”
Mistake.
The word struck harder than any scream.
A mistake was spilled coffee. A missed appointment. A typo in a contract.
Not her.
Not the nights she spent in his arms. Not the confessions whispered between kisses. Not the first time someone made her feel extraordinary.
Her chest caved.
She took a step back. Then another.
Damian moved forward, but she lifted a hand warning him off.
Her voice was barely audible. “I resign.”
“Aurora,” he snapped, “don’t be dramatic.”
A humorless smile curved her trembling lips.
“Trust me,” she whispered, “you don't get to even complain about drama yet.”
She grabbed her bag and walked to the door.
His voice followed coldly with infuriating calm.
“You’re making a mistake.”
She paused.
But she didn’t turn.
“No,” she said, voice steadying, breaking, surviving all at once. “You said we were a mistake, I'm correcting it”
Then she stepped out.
Under the fluorescent hallway lights, her steps felt too loud, too exposed, as if the entire building suddenly knew that she had been foolish enough to fall for a man built of iron and ice. Knew she had been naive enough to think she could matter in a world carved out for people with power and last names heavy enough to move continents.
Her hand was shaking by the time she pressed the elevator button.
As if pressing harder would make it arrive sooner or make the moment end faster.
Make the ache disappear.
The doors slid open with a soft chime. Aurora stepped in, exhaling shakily as she pressed the lobby floor.
But a second before the doors closed, a hand stopped them.
Damian.
He didn’t enter. He just held the door, watching her, the way someone might study a storm they never expected to escape from.
For a suspended second, neither spoke.
His voice, when it came, was calm in a way that used to soothe her.
“You’re upset. That’s understandable.” Every word was measured. “But this reaction of walking away is ...”
“is the only thing that seems to be right,” she completed.
Something flickered in his expression. Not regret. Not longing.
Restraint.
“I never promised you permanence,” he said evenly.
She nodded once, slow, painful.
“No,” she replied, voice trembling but alive. “You promised nothing. And I was stupid enough to treat nothing like it was everything.”
The hallway seemed colder. Or maybe it was just her.
Damian finally released the metal edge. The doors began to close.
Right before they sealed, she heard him say very softly, almost inaudible:
“You’ll regret this.”
She met his eyes as the gap narrowed.
“No,” she whispered. “I’m finally choosing myself.”
But the words didn't sound true to her.
The doors shut.
And just like that, Damian Voss was on the other side of her life.
Or not.
By the time she reached home, her tears had stopped threatening and started falling. And she let them
She didn't wipe them, she slept off with puffy eyes, and snot in nose until there was a knock at the door.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn’t check.
She couldn’t.
Not yet.
But she got up to check the unwanted visitor.
Damian.
