The morning after the gala, I found a single white rose on my vanity.
Not from Damien.
Not from Claiborne.
The card read:
Careful, little wolf. Even thorns can be trained to bleed.
—R.L.
Rhys Langston.
He wasn't just watching. He was waiting.
Waiting for me to fall.
Or to fight.
I left the note in my drawer and said nothing. I knew better now. In Damien Wolfe's house, even whispers could turn into weapons.
**
Cassie had a new assignment for me—organize Damien's upcoming board meeting, prepare files, and sit in the same room with twenty ruthless executives while pretending I wasn't just a pawn in heels.
She handed me the folders with a tight smile. "Let's see if the pretty porcelain doll can be useful after all."
I didn't flinch.
"Thank you," I said sweetly. "You must be tired. Polishing Damien's ego all night must be exhausting."
Her smile cracked.
Just slightly.
Claiborne passed behind us and stifled a laugh.
Later that evening, I found her waiting for me in the hallway outside my room. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
"You're sharper," she said. "Less... breakable."
"I'm learning," I replied.
"Don't learn too fast," she warned. "He doesn't like change he can't control."
I looked at her. "Are you warning me about Damien... or yourself?"
Claiborne smirked. "Both."
**
The boardroom was glass-walled, high above the city skyline. I stood by Damien's side in tailored navy, files in hand, silent as a shadow. Every executive's eyes flicked toward me like I was an exhibit, a girl-shaped distraction.
"Gentlemen," Damien began, his voice cool and lethal, "this is Diana Wolfe. My wife. She'll be observing today."
The room shifted.
Watches tapped. Pens clicked.
Someone whispered, "So young…"
Damien's jaw flexed, but he didn't correct them.
Instead, he placed a firm hand on my lower back—claiming, reminding, branding.
The meeting was brutal. Every number dissected. Every risk debated.
But I took notes. I remembered names. I noticed the power plays.
And when Damien paused to take a call mid-meeting, one man leaned over and whispered behind his folder, "If you ever need rescuing, Mrs. Wolfe… blink twice."
I didn't blink.
I smiled.
And whispered back, "If you ever want to live… shut up."
He blinked.
**
That night, Damien cornered me in his study.
"You're getting bold."
"I'm surviving."
He studied me for a long moment, then reached into his drawer and pulled out a torn envelope.
My heart stalled.
Inside: the card Rhys had sent.
"You think I don't know?" he asked, voice low. "That he's sniffing around what's mine?"
I held my ground. "I didn't respond."
"You didn't burn it either."
"I didn't burn you, either."
Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with a gentleness that didn't match the tension in his jaw.
"I don't share, Diana."
"Neither do I."
The silence pulsed between us.
Then he said something that made my skin crawl.
"I want to trust you."
It was a lie.
A twisted game.
But for a moment, I saw it—just a flicker of conflict in his gaze. A hint of emotion. Possessiveness sharpened by something deeper.
Fear.
Of losing control?
Or of losing me?
**
That night, Claiborne came to my room again.
She sat at the edge of my bed, quiet.
"I heard about the rose," she said.
"Everyone hears everything in this house."
"Damien doesn't want you," she said. "He wants the idea of you. The innocent. The unbroken."
"Then I'll shatter on purpose."
She looked at me. "Just don't lose yourself doing it."
"I already did."
Claiborne stood to leave, but paused at the door.
"For what it's worth," she said, "if I'd had half your spine at your age, I wouldn't be here."
I didn't ask what that meant.
I already knew.
**
The next morning, a second white rose appeared.
No note. Just a petal soaked in something dark—red, almost like blood.
Rhys Langston wasn't playing games anymore.
And neither was I.