Damian Wolfe
The Wolfe Grand Hall gleamed like the inside of a cut diamond, glass, gold, and precision. I watched from above for a moment, behind the smoked-glass of the mezzanine, scotch in hand, as the guests began to trickle in.
The city's most powerful had come dressed in their finest armor. Politicians draped in entitlement. CEOs with blood-stained cufflinks. Royals of commerce and shadow, all milling under my roof, sipping my wine, and pretending they belonged. The air was expensive cologne, champagne, and well-bred ambition.
Jasper stood near the entrance, the perfect assistant. A professional, polished, hollow. He greeted each guest like a man with nothing to hide. But I knew better.
I'd read Bishop's report an hour ago. A package. Sent to an unregistered location. Jasper hadn't mentioned it, hadn't even flinched. He was still playing his game. Good. Let him think the board is still his.
I descended the stairs just as the string quartet shifted to something warmer, something meant to welcome. The flashbulbs hit me before I even reached the floor.
Charcoal silk, hand-stitched in Milan. Every inch of me groomed to perfection. The look of a man built by legacy, sharpened by ruthlessness. A living portrait of elegance with knives under the surface.
The room turned.
They always do.
Smiles widened. Conversations shifted. Ladies leaned in closer. Men straightened their backs. The aura does that, dominance cloaked in grace.
I moved through them like water. Warm handshakes, soft kisses on manicured cheeks. Laughter where it was expected. Strategy where it mattered. I discussed trade policies with the Minister of International Affairs while my mind mapped the exits. I charmed a media mogul's wife while watching for threats in the reflection of her wine glass.
And then the true snakes slithered in.
Monarch.
They came cloaked in respectability. Tailored suits. Subtle watches. Polite nods. But every one of them was a blade waiting for blood. I welcomed them with the same practiced warmth because power doesn't flinch in the face of deception. It smiles wider.
The hum of conversation peaked. The servers began circulating flutes of vintage champagne. A hush began to fall. My cue.
I took the stage like I was born to it.
The spotlight hit, and for a moment, I could see my reflection in every eye in the room.
I cleared my throat, glass in hand.
"Sixty years ago, Wolfe Enterprise was just a signature on a lease. One man. One dream. My father built it from sweat and steel. And I"... I paused for effect, let the room settle "turned it into something more."
There were nods. Eyes fixed. Even Jasper paused at the back of the hall to listen.
"We've conquered markets. We've outlasted wars, economic and otherwise. We've employed thousands, innovated faster, pushed harder. And we did it not with luck, but with blood."
I raised my glass.
"To every hand that helped build this empire. To every investor who placed their bet. And to the future we still have the audacity to claim."
They toasted.
I felt the vibration of my phone in my pocket as the applause swelled.
*Bishop: She's here.*
And like that I saw her.
Crimson.
Crimson.
Crimson.
She stepped into the light like a sin on silk. The fabric hugged every curve with tailored devotion. Backless. Bold. Her eyes lined in smoke and fire. Her lips—blood red. Aria Vale was no woman in that moment. She was a reckoning.
Our eyes met as I stepped off the podium, glass still in hand, applause fading behind me like static.
She looked away first, of course. She moved with purpose, shaking hands, trading smiles, playing the room like a second skin. But she felt me.
I made my way toward her through a sea of faces I no longer saw. Just before I could reach her, she turned and slipped through the side doors, out toward the balcony.
I didn't hesitate.
I followed.
Not rushed.
Measured.
Let her feel it, my footsteps behind hers. The tension in the air. The danger of being too close to the flame.
I stepped through the glass doors and closed them gently behind me. The music inside faded, replaced by the distant hum of city lights below. She stood with her back to me, arms resting on the marble railing, her hair catching the wind like firelight.
"You always did love an entrance," I murmured.
She didn't turn. "You always did love a performance."
A breath. A pause. Then her head tilted slightly.
"Well?" she said. "Was it everything you hoped for?"
"No," I said quietly. "It was more."
Absolutely. Let's carry the tension between Aria and Damian forward, keeping it seductive, sharp, and dangerous—two apex predators circling.
---
Aria turned slowly, finally facing me. The city lights bathed her in gold and shadow, painting her like a forbidden masterpiece. Up close, the crimson dress was even more lethal, strategically delicate, effortlessly bold. It didn't just hug her frame. It dared the world to touch.
"You clean up well," she said, her voice velvet-laced steel. "Though I expected something darker. Charcoal? Not quite the villain's shade."
I stepped closer, each movement deliberate. "A villain dresses for the occasion. Tonight, I'm the charming host."
Her mouth curled into something between amusement and disdain. "And tomorrow?"
I studied her. The way her gaze flicked to my jaw, to my hands, back to my eyes. Calculating. Dangerous.
"Tomorrow," I said, "depends on what you plan to do tonight."
She didn't flinch, but her fingers tapped lightly on the balcony ledge, a subtle tell. "Relax, Damian. I'm not here to start a war. Not in front of your precious shareholders."
"No," I agreed, tilting my head. "You'd rather steal the battlefield and set it ablaze in secret."
The silence between us thickened.
I stepped into it.
"Jasper sent you something," I said.
Her eyes didn't widen—but they cooled. "And you know that how?"
"Nothing moves in my city without me hearing about it. A courier. No return address. Delivered to an abandoned art gallery on Langston Street. Yours, I presume?"
A beat.
Then she smiled. "You know, I almost missed this, the way you corner with questions disguised as compliments."
"And you deflect like a queen hiding a dagger in her hem."
She leaned closer, just enough that I could see the shimmer at the corner of her eye. "Maybe I am. Maybe I'm here for your crown."
"I hope so," I whispered. "I'd rather lose it to you than anyone else."
Her breath caught for half a second. A glitch in the mask.
Then: "You're not supposed to say things like that. Not when we're enemies."
I leaned in until her perfume—jasmine and danger—blurred my reason. "We were never enemies, Aria. Just two people trying to win the same war."
She didn't move. Neither did I.
Below us, the gala carried on. Music. Laughter. Deals being struck with champagne.
But up here?
It was the edge of a blade.