The office looked different when it wasn't a battlefield.
It was 6:58 a.m. when Ava arrived at Wolfe International, still damp from the morning rain and carrying two things: her tote bag and her resolve.
The receptionist barely blinked before directing her to the executive suite. "Mr. Wolfe is expecting you."
Ava nodded and stepped into the lion's den.
Damian was already at his desk, sleeves rolled, jacket gone, fingers flying across a sleek keyboard. The city spread behind him like a kingdom under glass. She wondered how many lives he'd crushed before breakfast.
"You're early," he said, not looking up.
"You said seven. I come from a house where five minutes late was grounds for execution."
"Smart girl," he muttered, still typing. "We'll see if that discipline lasts."
He hit a key. A screen on the wall flared to life—calendars, charts, messages flashing like stock tickers.
"Today is trial by fire," he said. "I want you in every meeting. Don't speak unless spoken to. Learn the system. Learn the people. Especially the ones I don't trust."
She tilted her head. "That's a long list, I assume?"
He looked at her then. "You have no idea."
Ava followed him into a glass-walled boardroom where executives sat rigidly, eyes wary. Damian spoke few words—sharp, commanding—and the entire room shifted like prey under a predator's gaze.
He called out one VP for a quarterly loss, another for a leaked contract. His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.
He didn't shout. He annihilated with precision.
Ava sat silently at his right, hands folded, mouth pressed tight—but inside, something strange stirred. It wasn't fear.
It was fascination.
The second the boardroom emptied, Ava remained still. Damian hadn't moved either. He stood by the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of his chair, eyes focused on something far away—or maybe something buried.
"You didn't take notes," he said, voice low.
"I memorized everything."
"Cocky."
"Efficient," she corrected, standing.
He turned to her then. His gaze moved from her face to the slope of her neck, lingering just long enough for her pulse to spike.
"I don't need efficient," he said. "I need loyal."
"I'm not a dog."
His mouth twitched at that. Not a smile—something darker. "Good. Dogs are predictable."
They left the boardroom in silence, walking side by side through the halls like shadow and flame. Ava could feel the whispers as they passed—the way assistants glanced up, the way junior execs pretended not to stare.
Everyone was afraid of him.
Ava… wasn't. Not exactly. She should've been. But something about Damian Wolfe's sharp edges made her lean in, not pull away.
At his office, he turned to her. "Coffee. Black. No sugar."
She blinked. "I didn't know this was a cliché billionaire novel."
He stepped closer. "It's not. In those books, the assistant usually falls in love by chapter three."
She swallowed the grin threatening to escape. "We're not in chapter three yet."
"I don't believe in love anyway."
"Then what do you believe in?"
His stare locked with hers. "Leverage."
The air between them tightened, thick with tension neither of them dared name.
She left the office, found the high-end espresso machine in the executive kitchen, and returned moments later with a perfect cup. She handed it to him without a word. He took a slow sip, then paused.
"This is French roast," he said.
"Yes."
"I always drink Italian."
Ava raised a brow. "Then consider this your first act of surrender."
Damian looked at her like she'd just flipped the board in the middle of a chess match.
And for a moment, a very small moment… he looked delighted.
By mid-afternoon, Ava had rewritten contracts, rescheduled half the executive calendar, and fielded two aggressive phone calls from international partners who clearly underestimated how hard she could bite back.
Damian hadn't spoken much since the coffee exchange, but she could feel his eyes on her whenever she passed his office. Like a wolf waiting. Or watching. Or both.
At 4:30, a sharp knock broke the tense quiet.
A tall woman in a pantsuit entered without waiting for permission. Mid-thirties, elegant, confident. She barely glanced at Ava before walking up to Damian's desk.
"Your mother called again," the woman said. "She wants to meet before the benefit. Says you've been dodging her."
Damian leaned back, jaw tight. "Tell her I'm unavailable."
"She also said she'll bring reporters if you don't show."
He didn't answer.
The woman dropped a folder on his desk and turned on her heel, heels clicking like gunfire.
Ava didn't mean to speak, but the silence that followed was too sharp.
"You don't get along with your mother?"
His gaze flicked to her. "You think asking personal questions is part of your job description?"
"No," she said softly. "But I think pretending you don't care when you clearly do is exhausting."
He stared at her. Not angry. Not amused. Just… still.
"Do you always say what you're thinking?" he asked.
"Only when it might get me fired."
"Why?"
"Because if I'm not honest with you," she said, folding her arms, "then I'm just another coward in your hallway."
He stood, slowly, and walked toward her. The space between them shrank until there was only breath, tension, and something unspoken.
"You're not like the others," he murmured.
"I'm not trying to be."
His eyes dipped to her lips. Just for a heartbeat. Then back up.
"I should fire you."
"Probably."
"But I won't."
Her voice was steady. "Why not?"
He leaned in slightly, enough for his words to hit her skin like heat.
"Because I want to know what you'll do next."
Ava didn't flinch as Damian stepped back, his presence still lingering in the air like expensive cologne and the scent of danger.
"You're going to the benefit with me," he said.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"It's a fundraiser for the Wolfe Foundation. Black tie. Media. Sharks. You'll be at my side."
"I'm your assistant, not your date."
His expression didn't shift. "And yet, you'll be both that night."
She crossed her arms. "Why me?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Because I want to see how you handle a room that wants to eat you alive."
Ava's mouth curved. "You trying to scare me, Mr. Wolfe?"
"No," he said softly. "I'm giving you the opportunity to prove you belong in my world."
Ava's heart thudded.
This wasn't about a gala. It was about power. About walking into a place where secrets flowed with champagne and loyalty was a currency traded behind closed doors. If she said yes, she wasn't just stepping into his schedule—she was stepping into his game.
"What's the dress code?" she asked coolly.
His smile was sharp. "Anything that'll make them hate you on sight."
Two hours later, Ava sat on the subway with her laptop open and her thoughts racing. She didn't know why she'd agreed. Maybe to prove something. Maybe because part of her wanted to throw herself into the fire and see if she burned.
Her phone buzzed with a message from a number she didn't recognize.
Unknown: "Wear red."
She stared at it for a long time, fingers hovering above the screen. Then she saved the number without replying.
Damian stood alone in his penthouse, the city lights flickering against the tall windows like stars he'd never believed in.
He knew inviting her to the benefit would stir the press. She was unknown, beautiful, unpredictable. The vultures would smell blood.
He wanted to see how she handled it. How far she'd bend before she broke.
But that wasn't the whole truth.
He also wanted to see her in red.