Part One
He stopped looking in mirrors.
They'd become enemies.
Every time he glanced into one, something unfamiliar stared back—eyes rimmed in sleepless red, jaw clenched too tight, skin pale against the gold of morning light.
Damian Wolfe didn't recognize himself anymore.
Not because he was unraveling. No. He'd never admit that.
But because something—someone—had infected the edges of his reality. And he couldn't name her.
She wasn't real.
She couldn't be.
And yet, every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Not her face. That stayed hidden. But her presence… it was overwhelming. Like velvet laced with steel.
He dreamt of kneeling.
Of her voice—low, amused, dark—slicing through his arrogance like a blade.
He woke hard, sweating, furious.
He was Damian Wolfe.
CEO. Billionaire. Predator.
He didn't kneel for anyone.
Not even God.
Monday morning arrived like a punishment.
He didn't bother with breakfast.
Instead, he wrapped himself in the sharpest navy suit in his closet—tailored so precisely it could cut—and stepped into the elevator of his private penthouse.
The mirrored walls closed around him.
He didn't look at them.
Down, down, down.
Sixty floors into the empire he'd built brick by calculated brick.
As he entered the executive level, silence fell like a veil.
His staff glanced up, then down again. Lexi was gone—fired days ago—and the new assistant hadn't yet learned to breathe quietly around him.
He liked it that way.
"Mr. Wolfe, you have a meeting with—"
"Cancel it."
"Yes, but it's—"
"Did I fucking stutter?"
Silence.
He walked into his office and slammed the door.
The skyline stretched out before him like a kingdom. But today, it didn't feel like one. It felt like a prison.
He sat.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
He didn't open his laptop. He didn't answer the phone. He didn't speak.
He just sat.
Waiting.
For what, he didn't know.
By noon, he caved.
He called her.
Not her—not the woman from his dreams.
He called Eva.
Beautiful, polished, cruel. She was the one who liked pain. She'd let him leave marks, and never once asked for softness.
Perfect.
"Come over," he said.
"No hello?"
"You coming or not?"
Silence.
Then: "I'll be there in thirty."
She arrived in red.
Tight dress. Spiked heels. Dark lipstick.
She didn't say a word when he opened the door.
He didn't need her to.
The moment it closed, he grabbed her by the neck, dragged her toward the couch.
No warm-up. No pleasantries.
He wanted to forget. Needed to.
He choked her.
She moaned.
He pushed harder.
She whimpered.
And then—then—he saw her.
Not Eva.
Her.
In his mind.
The woman from the dreams. Standing just beyond the shadows. Watching him. Not afraid. Not impressed.
Unmoved.
He faltered.
Just a second.
But Eva noticed.
"Something wrong?" she gasped, breathless.
He pulled back, hand shaking.
"No."
She touched his face gently, trying to shift the mood.
That was her mistake.
He slapped her.
Hard.
She screamed—not in pleasure this time.
"You son of a bitch"
"Get out."
She didn't move.
So he grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the door.
"Get the fuck out."
"You're broken," she hissed. "You don't even know what you are anymore."
The door slammed in her face.
He was alone again.
And her shadow still lingered.
Tuesday, 9:47 A.M.
Damian stared at the security feed from his penthouse building.
Rewatching.
Over and over.
Eva, leaving.
Tears on her cheeks, mascara smudged. Rage in her stride.
Good.
Let her feel something.
He rewound again.
Paused.
There, just beyond the frame, was movement. A woman stepping into the elevator seconds after Eva left.
Not someone he recognized.
Her back was turned—sharp black suit, structured shoulders, long legs, deliberate steps. Confidence radiated off her.
She didn't look up at the camera.
She didn't need to.
It was just enough to make his pulse skip.
---
Later that day, a call from his legal team came in.
"Mr. Wolfe, there's been a formal complaint."
He said nothing.
"An assault claim."
Still silence.
"Eva Russo. She's filed a preliminary—"
"Handle it."
"We will. But—"
"Handle it."
He hung up.
His hand trembled.
Not with fear.
But with rage.
This wasn't how things worked.
He was untouchable.
He was—
Another knock on the door.
Not Lexi.
Not another intern.
A woman. Unknown.
Poised.
Powerful.
"Mr. Wolfe?" she said coolly. "I'm not on your calendar, but we need to talk."
He looked up slowly.
And for a moment—just a flash—he felt cold.
She wore black.
No makeup.
A severe bun. A sharp jawline.
Her voice didn't ask for permission.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Someone who just bought twenty percent of your company."
He blinked.
"What?"
She smiled.
It was razor-thin.
"You weren't at the board meeting yesterday. Bad move. The chair was ready for a new partner. I filled it."
He stood slowly.
She extended a card.
Elle Hart.
Managing Director. Ironvale Holdings.
And then that smile again.
"Pleasure to meet you, Damian."
He didn't take her hand.
"Get out."
Her smile only widened.
"You'll get used to seeing me around."
She turned, walking out.
Heel clicks echoing like war drums.
---
He didn't sleep that night.
He replayed the encounter again and again.
Her eyes.
Her voice.
She wasn't scared.
She wasn't impressed.
She wasn't interested.
She'd looked at him like… a challenge.
And something inside him twisted.
Not in anger.
Not in desire.
In submission.
A memory that didn't exist—her hands pressing his shoulders down—burned behind his eyelids.
He woke with a gasp.
And a hard-on.
He didn't even touch it.
He didn't dare.
---
The next morning, Elle was already in his boardroom.
Talking to his team like she'd owned them for years.
They laughed. Listened.
She looked like power.
He hated it.
"Meeting's over," he growled, stepping in.
Elle didn't flinch.
"Actually, it's just starting."
The team looked between them.
No one moved.
"I don't remember inviting you."
"You didn't."
She placed a folder on the table. "But these figures suggest your ego's tanking the Q2 projections. Want to explain why our most profitable division is losing clients?"
Silence.
He stepped closer.
"Get out of my office."
Her gaze locked on his.
Level.
Patient.
Unshaken.
"No," she said softly. "Get control of yourself, Mr. Wolfe. Before someone else does it for you."
And then she walked out.
Like she owned the floor.
Like he didn't matter.
---
He didn't yell.
He didn't rage.
He just sat.
For a full hour.
Staring at her empty seat.
The shape of her still lingered in the air.
And something inside him—some old, rotten pride—began to crack.
He tried to avoid her.
For days.
Told himself she didn't matter.
That her twenty percent stake was a technicality. That she wasn't a threat.
He was lying to himself.
Because every time she entered the room, the temperature shifted.
People noticed.
People listened.
He noticed.
She didn't dress for seduction—there was no tightness to her clothes, no scent of perfume, no soft laugh.
Yet somehow, he couldn't stop watching her.
The crisp line of her collar.
The sound of her voice—low, deliberate, always commanding without raising a single octave.
Elle didn't flirt.
She didn't beg.
She spoke, and people followed.
Even him.
Especially him.
---
Thursday, 6:04 P.M.
Everyone had left.
Except them.
He hadn't meant to stay late. She hadn't either. Or maybe she had. She was impossible to read.
Damian stood at the window, watching the sun bleed orange into the skyline.
She stood behind him.
Not close. Not far.
"Why do you hate me?" she asked, casually.
He didn't turn around.
"I don't."
"Yes, you do. You hate that I walk into your kingdom and don't kneel."
He inhaled through his nose.
Still facing the glass.
"You're arrogant," he said.
"So are you."
"You manipulate people."
"So do you."
"You don't respect boundaries."
Her silence was a challenge.
Then, finally: "Neither do you."
He turned.
Slowly.
She was leaning on the long table now, one hand resting beside a leather file.
Her eyes met his.
Still unreadable.
Still calm.
And then she said it.
Not loudly.
Not cruelly.
Just… plainly.
"You're unraveling, Damian."
He stiffened.
She tilted her head.
"I've seen your kind before. Men who built everything by force. Men who believe domination is the same as leadership. But it's not. You don't lead anymore. You lash out."
"You think you know me?" he said, voice low, dangerous.
"No," she replied, stepping closer. "I don't. But I will."
And then—God help him—he stepped back.
A single step.
Instinctive.
Submissive.
His body realized it before his mind did.
She saw it.
Didn't smirk. Didn't gloat.
But her eyes flickered. Just briefly.
As if she'd caught the scent of something she'd waited years to find.
"I'm not the enemy, Damian," she said.
She walked past him.
Then paused at the door.
"You just don't know who you are without fear holding your leash. And that leash… is starting to slip."
Then she left.
---
That night, he didn't go home.
He sat in his office.
Alone.
Thinking.
Remembering the feel of her voice inside his skull.
It didn't ask for permission.
It didn't scream.
It commanded.
Softly. Silently.
Completely.
He sat in that chair until morning.
Hard.
Hollow.
Hungry.
By Friday, he couldn't stop watching her.
Not openly, of course.
But he timed his meetings around hers. Took the longer route to the boardroom just to cross paths. Watched from his office as she walked into rooms he once dominated.
Elle didn't take space.
She redefined it.
Every step, every glance, every breath—measured. She never rushed. Never apologized. Never smiled unless it was deliberate.
And people shifted around her like water around a stone.
She didn't need to speak loudly to be heard.
She was the kind of quiet that demanded silence in return.
The kind of quiet that made Damian's skin itch.
---
He hated the effect she had on him.
How she never flinched when he barked.
How she never lowered her eyes when he stared.
How she never softened when he flexed his control.
He used to be the sun around which everyone orbited.
Now, Elle Hart walked into his building and warped gravity around herself.
And somehow… he couldn't breathe without her presence tightening in his chest.
---
Friday, 7:12 P.M.
Another late night.
Another excuse to stay.
He saw her in the hallway, alone.
No files. No laptop.
Just walking.
Like she belonged.
He followed without thinking.
Not stalking.
Just… curious.
She reached the elevator.
Pressed the button.
Turned.
Saw him.
Held his gaze.
"Leaving?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Where to?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Then: "Somewhere that doesn't orbit your ego."
The doors opened.
She stepped in.
Didn't invite him.
Didn't stop him.
Just stood there, waiting.
Like a question.
He stepped inside.
They descended in silence.
Not tense. Not awkward.
Just aware.
At the ground floor, she exited first.
He followed again, still unsure why.
Out into the garage.
To a sleek black car.
She unlocked it.
Paused with her hand on the door.
Then looked over her shoulder.
"You hungry?"
He blinked.
"What?"
"You look like you haven't eaten all week."
"I haven't."
"Then come."
She got in.
He stood frozen for a full second before getting in beside her.
---
Dinner was quiet.
Some hole-in-the-wall place downtown.
No cameras.
No recognition.
Just two people in the dim corner of a nearly empty restaurant.
She ordered for both of them.
Didn't ask what he liked.
Didn't ask if he had allergies.
He said nothing.
He ate every bite.
Halfway through, she finally spoke.
"You didn't bring me here because you wanted company."
"I didn't bring you anywhere."
"You followed."
He didn't argue.
She sipped her wine.
"You're exhausted," she said. "I can see it. You've been living in survival mode for so long, you think it's power."
"And what do you think you're doing?" he asked.
She met his eyes.
"I've already survived. I'm building."
"Building what?"
Her lips curved.
"Control."
Then, silence.
And in it, something in Damian cracked again.
Because he wasn't in control.
Not anymore.
Not really.
And the way she looked at him—
Not with pity. Not with lust.
But with potential—
It terrified him more than anything else ever had.