Power had a sound.
It wasn't a roar or a thunderclap. It was the quiet tap of Italian leather on marble floors. The hush that fell across a boardroom when he entered. The soft gasp of a woman when his fingers brushed her jaw—not tenderly, but like a man inspecting a toy.
Damian Wolfe had long stopped pretending he was anything other than a god among men.
At thirty-four, he was the CEO of Wolfe Capital, a firm so brutal in its acquisitions that the press had started calling it "The Corporate Guillotine." Billion-dollar contracts were toys to him. People were pawns. And women? Women were mirrors—he only kept the ones who reflected back his greatness.
He rose before the sun. Not because he needed to. Because he could. The world bent for him. He only needed to push.
His penthouse was all stone, chrome, and glass. Cold. Minimalist. Designed not to comfort, but to remind. Everything in its place. Every line sharp. Like him.
He pulled on a black shirt—custom-fitted. No tie. The top two buttons left undone on purpose. A power play. His wrists bore a platinum Rolex and the memory of red fingernail scratches from the night before.
The woman was still asleep in his bed.
Her name was—what was it?
Emily?
No.
Emma.
Yes. The blonde with the loud mouth and the expensive taste in lingerie. She'd cried when he ignored her after sex. Said she wasn't "just a hookup."
He'd laughed in her face.
Now she was still here. That was a problem.
"Emma," he said coldly, stepping into the bedroom.
She stirred, her bare back exposed against his gray silk sheets.
"Damian?" she murmured, mascara smeared under her eyes.
"You weren't invited to stay," he said flatly.
She blinked, slowly sitting up. "I just… I thought we—last night was—"
"A good time. Nothing more."
Silence. Then tears. He hated that sound in the morning.
"You said I was different," she whispered.
"You were. For about twenty minutes."
He turned, already walking out.
By the time he left, she was sobbing into a sheet that wasn't hers.
His driver opened the car door without a word. The Maybach glided through Manhattan traffic like a panther through underbrush. Damian read the morning reports on a tablet, sipping espresso from a cup that cost more than most people's monthly rent.
His phone buzzed. He didn't check it.
Three women had already texted.
Chanel – the French model who called him ma bête. He only saw her for the accent and the way she let him slap her during sex without complaint.
Marissa – the heiress who thought she could tame him. She paid for dinners just to feel like she had some power.
Lexi – his assistant. Tight skirts. Loose morals. She thought screwing the boss would get her promoted. It wouldn't. But it made lunch breaks more interesting.
He replied to none.
Let them wait. Begging looked better when it aged.
At the office, people froze when he walked past. Suits too clean. Faces too polite. No one ever made eye contact for long. Not unless they wanted to be eaten alive.
He took the elevator alone.
On the 47th floor, his kingdom awaited.
The office was cathedral-like: high ceilings, black marble floors, and glass walls that overlooked the skyline. In the corner sat his signature—a sculpture of a silver lion with one paw resting on a crushed human skull.
Appropriate, he thought.
Lexi appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand.
"Morning, Mr. Wolfe," she said, lips painted blood-red.
"Your skirt's two inches too long," he said without looking up. "Fix it."
She blushed. "Yes, sir."
"And cancel my 2:00 with the tech investor."
"But you confirmed it last week—"
"I don't explain myself. I command. Do it."
Lexi nodded and disappeared.
He smiled faintly. She'd wear something shorter tomorrow. They all did.
At noon, he had lunch with Cassandra, the most recent addition to his rotation. A dominatrix in the streets, a pleaser in the sheets. She called herself "unbreakable."
He'd broken her in a week.
Now she giggled at everything he said, touching his hand like she needed to remind him she existed.
"I missed you," she purred.
"I didn't ask you to," he replied, biting into his steak.
The waiter dropped the check discreetly. Cassandra reached for it.
He stopped her with a single look.
"You don't pay in my presence."
She blushed.
The waiter smiled nervously.
Damian tipped him two hundred and walked out before Cassandra had even stood up.
That night, the wolf went hunting.
He didn't need to, but boredom was an itch he refused to scratch with routine.
At a rooftop party in Tribeca, he picked out his next victim: Ariana—curvy, confident, a sharp tongue. She called him arrogant.
He called her a project.
They drank whiskey under the stars. She challenged him. Told him she didn't do flings.
He told her he'd ruin her for every man after him.
Two hours later, she was on her knees in the back of his car, mascara staining his thighs.
He didn't call her the next day. Or the next week.
Just like the others
Part 2: Mirrors and Muzzles
By midnight, Damian was back in his penthouse.
The city below burned like a thousand embers at his feet, but he didn't see beauty. He saw leverage. Every light represented a deal, a name, a weak point.
He stood shirtless at the window, drink in hand, the reflection of a godless man staring back.
His phone buzzed.
Sophia.
Ah. The lawyer. Ambitious. Cold. The only one who hadn't cried—yet.
Sophia: "I'm outside."
He let her wait fifteen minutes before buzzing her up.
When she entered, she was already angry.
"Damian," she snapped. "What the hell—"
He kissed her mid-sentence, backing her against the door. She bit his lip. He pulled her hair. She slapped him.
They didn't have sex.
They fought with their bodies. She wanted to dominate him, to prove something. He let her think she had—for one night. By morning, she'd be like the rest.
The next day, another rotation.
Vanessa, the married one. She claimed she was "trapped" in her marriage.
He didn't care.
She liked being used. He liked using her. She cried afterward, whispering, "I don't know why I keep coming back."
He did.
She wanted to be ruined. She just didn't want to admit it.
"Tell your husband I said hello," Damian said on her way out.
Wednesday: Talia.
A psychology student, fascinated by him. She brought books. Tried to analyze his narcissism. He let her read him like a paper, then made her beg for him between paragraphs.
She asked him once, "What are you really looking for?"
He didn't answer.
Because he wasn't looking.
He was consuming.
Thursday night, he met Jade, a dominatrix who thought she could reverse roles.
They spent the night in a private dungeon in Brooklyn. She brought ropes. He brought silence.
She tried to top him.
He didn't stop her.
He waited.
Watched.
Listened.
And when she asked, "Do you surrender?" with leather gloves and a blindfold…
He whispered, "I don't kneel."
He undid his cuffs himself. Took the flogger from her hand. Made her cry without touching her. Called her predictable.
By morning, Jade didn't speak. She just left her heels behind like an offering.
By the weekend, Damian had cycled through eight women.
Each played a role.
Each believed—somewhere in the mess—that she could be the exception.
None were.
He didn't love them. He didn't hate them.
He just used them.
Because if he didn't, they'd use him.
Because the moment he let one in—really in—they'd see what he saw when he looked in the mirror.
Nothing.
Sunday.
No sex. No club. Just scotch and silence.
He sat alone on his penthouse couch, shirt open, chest scarred from fights both physical and emotional.
The TV played a business channel on mute. A photo sat facedown on the shelf behind him. He never turned it up.
The picture was of his mother.
The only woman who'd ever tried to teach him about gentleness. She'd died when he was seventeen. Shot during a robbery. Left bleeding in front of him, hand still clutched in his.
He learned two things that night.
Love makes you weak.
Weak men die fast.
So he became the opposite.
And now, here he was.
The king. The wolf. The man who made women kneel but never once offered his own heart.
Because if they knew what he really was—how hollow it felt in here—they'd either try to fix him…
Or run.
Neither option interested him.
Until someone would come along one day—not to fix him, not to run.
But to break him.
And not with a kiss.
With a command.