The next morning, Amelia sat stiffly at her desk, Damien's words still burning behind her eyes.
"Use it."
How?
She was an assistant, not a detective.
But she couldn't afford to fail. Not now.
Not when she'd finally caught Damien Raven's notice — for better or worse.
She started small. Quiet.
Listening more carefully at meetings.
Noticing which executives left the room when confidential topics came up.
Watching who always seemed to know more than they should.
Patterns formed.
And one name kept surfacing, over and over: Elena Masters.
Senior liaison. Charming. Always smiling a little too widely.
And lately… taking far too many "private calls" after meetings ended.
Amelia stayed late that evening, pretending to be buried in paperwork.
From her corner, she watched Elena slip into a side office, clutching her phone.
The door didn't close fully.
Curious—and terrified—Amelia edged closer, heart hammering.
Snippets of conversation drifted out:
"…yes, Raven Corp's timeline for the Langston deal… ahead of schedule…"
Amelia's breath caught.
The leak. Right there.
She needed proof.
Her tablet, her recorder—something—
Suddenly, a shadow fell over her.
Cold fingers gripped her arm.
She gasped and turned—
Straight into Damien Raven.
He looked down at her, eyes glinting like dark steel.
"Congratulations," he said, his tone kind yet piercing. "You've officially crossed the line into espionage."
Her face was burning.
"I—I was just—"
"Spying without a disguise. without a backup. Without permission," he muttered, tensing his hold for a split second before letting go of her.
"Amateur hour."
Her chest twisted with terror and shame.
But underlying that, there was also a flash of rage.
Whispering, "I found something," she said.
Damien's mouth clenched.
His words were, "Not like this," "If Elena caught you, it would've been your head on a plate—and the leak would have vanished."
He leaned in till she could feel the heat of his breath after giving her one more look.
"Miss Vale," he murmured softly, "if you're going to play with fire, learn how not to burn."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.
Leaving her standing there, flushed and furious—and more determined than ever.
The next morning, Amelia sat at her desk with a renewed sense of purpose—and a plan.
No more reckless spying.
No more clumsy mistakes.
If she was going to survive Damien Raven's empire, she needed to play smarter. Sharper.
Like he would.
By mid-afternoon, she had woven a quiet little trap.
A "mistaken" email draft, visible just enough on her screen.
A fake update about the Langston deal — loaded with minor, traceable inaccuracies.
It wasn't sent.
It didn't need to be.
It just needed to exist where wandering eyes might see it.
She positioned herself by the coffee station, pretending to fumble with her mug.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elena approach.
Saw her pause.
Saw her glance at Amelia's unattended desk.
Saw her lean in, just slightly, scanning the screen.
Bait taken.
Amelia's heart pounded as she slipped away, pretending not to notice.
An hour later, she received a message on her tablet:
"My office. Now. —D.R."
She gathered her nerve—and her fake report—and headed to Damien's penthouse-level floor.
His office was all cold glass and dark marble.
And Damien himself stood behind his desk, watching her approach like a general awaiting a battlefield report.
She handed him the tablet without a word.
He scanned it.
Paused.
Looked up at her, one brow raised.
"You baited her."
Amelia nodded once, throat tight.
Damien's mouth curled—half a smirk, half something sharper.
Not bad, Miss Vale."
A slow, almost imperceptible pulse of approval.
"But remember," he said, setting the tablet aside, "setting traps is easy. Surviving the fallout is the real test."
Their eyes locked.
Something electric passed between them—sharp, dangerous, and thrilling.
Amelia realized, quite suddenly, that she was standing far too close.
That Damien wasn't stepping back.
Neither was she.
The moment stretched—tension coiling, snapping, tightening—
A knock shattered it.
Damien's expression shuttered instantly, his professional mask slamming back into place.
"Go," he said, voice low but firm.
Amelia turned and fled, heart hammering against her ribs.
She didn't look back.
If she had, she would have seen Damien standing behind his desk, watching her leave, an unreadable expression shadowing his face.