The office smelled like money and menace.
Ava Sinclair stepped into the top floor of Wolfe International with her shoulders squared and jaw tight, heels clicking defiantly against imported marble. She wasn't intimidated by high-rises or high-power men, even if this one towered over Manhattan like a steel god. She just needed a job. Any job. Well—any job that paid enough to shut up her landlord and knock a few zeroes off her debt.
"Ms. Sinclair?" The assistant at the glass reception desk stood. Blond bun. Tablet in hand. "Mr. Wolfe will see you now."
Ava blinked. "You mean the actual CEO is doing the interview?"
"He prefers to assess all new personal hires himself," the woman said, already leading her down a sleek hallway lined with modern art that probably cost more than Ava's entire college degree.
Great. So the rumors were true. Damian Wolfe didn't just run his empire with an iron fist—he personally handpicked every cog in the machine.
Ava's stomach flipped. Not from nerves. From challenge.
She stepped into his office—and nearly tripped over the man's aura.
Damian Wolfe stood behind a massive desk, tall and tailored in charcoal black. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a slice of power and recklessness beneath all that control. His dark hair was artfully disheveled, as if a woman had run her fingers through it before he fired her.
His eyes lifted from the screen. Piercing. Cold.
And then... intrigued.
"You're not what I expected," he said, voice low and smooth like bourbon with a bite.
"Is that a good thing?" she asked, chin high.
He smiled. Not kindly.
"We'll find out."
Ava sat across from him, spine straight, legs crossed, pulse hammering in her throat—but her face showed none of it. Her mother had taught her two things before vanishing: never beg a man for anything, and always keep your lipstick on when walking into battle.
She wore red today.
Damian didn't speak at first. He just watched her with unreadable intensity, like a man dissecting a puzzle or a threat.
She cleared her throat. "Is there a reason you're staring at me like I'm an equation you're not sure how to solve?"
"I don't like surprises," he said. "And you're full of them."
Ava tilted her head. "Because I don't look like someone desperate enough to work for a control freak billionaire?"
He barked a soft, dangerous laugh. "You do know who I am."
"Only because your name is carved into half the buildings in Manhattan and the rest of the tabloids."
His eyes flickered with something—approval? Amusement?
"I don't usually tolerate sarcasm," he said, standing and walking to the window. "But I'm making an exception."
"For me?"
"For the fact you're the first candidate today who didn't try to flirt, cry, or offer me a bribe."
She smirked. "It's early."
He turned then. Slowly. Calculating. Dangerous.
"I need an assistant who can keep secrets, manage chaos, and won't run when the wolves come out."
Ava stood, matching his gaze. "I've already faced worse than wolves, Mr. Wolfe."
And for the first time since she entered, he looked… interested.
"Start Monday," he said. "7 a.m. sharp. Don't be late. I hate late."
She arched a brow. "What if I am?"
His lips curved. "Then I'll find out what it takes to break you."
Her heart skipped—but her voice stayed steady. "Good luck with that."
She turned and walked out, every step bold. She didn't dare look back.
Because if she did, she might've seen the way Damian Wolfe watched her like a man who had just found the one thing he couldn't control.
The elevator doors slid shut, and Ava finally exhaled.
What the hell had just happened?
Her fingers curled tight around the strap of her bag as she leaned against the mirrored wall, heart pounding like it was trying to escape her chest. She didn't rattle easily. Not in interviews. Not in front of cold, rich men who thought power made them invincible. But Damian Wolfe wasn't just power.
He was pressure.
A pressure that had crawled across her skin the moment he looked at her like he wanted to ruin her… or maybe already had.
She reached the lobby floor and stepped out into the chilled summer air, her breath catching slightly as she looked up at the building she'd just walked out of. Wolfe International. It was steel and glass and shadows.
And now it was her battlefield.
Ava didn't know why she'd said yes. Pride should've walked her right back out the door. But something in her—a twisted mix of defiance and curiosity—wanted to see what happened when the coldest man in New York came face-to-face with someone who wouldn't bend.
Someone like her.
Meanwhile, twenty floors up, Damian Wolfe hadn't moved.
He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, staring down at the city with an expression carved from ice and fire.
He'd hired her on instinct.
That alone unsettled him.
Damian didn't do impulsive. He didn't do "gut feelings." His world was data, control, and calculated risks. But Ava Sinclair had walked into his office like she belonged there. Like she didn't care who he was. Her mouth was sharp, her eyes sharper. And when she left, she didn't flinch.
Most people flinched.
His phone buzzed.
PA: "Should I send the runner-up your standard contract for backup?"
Damian's thumb hovered. Then he typed back.
"No. She'll be back Monday. She won't quit."
PA: "You sound sure."
He stared at the street far below, at the red flash of Ava's coat disappearing into the crowd.
"I am."
Ava dropped her keys into the chipped ceramic bowl by the door and kicked off her heels with a sigh. Her apartment was small, cluttered, and lived-in—everything Wolfe Tower wasn't. She liked it that way. A little chaos kept her grounded. Besides, she didn't need steel and glass to remind her of how far from control she lived.
She shrugged out of her blazer and headed to the kitchen, flipping open her laptop with one hand and grabbing a can of soda with the other. She had a habit of researching people after meeting them. It was the journalist in her—a past life she barely touched anymore.
Damian Wolfe filled the screen in less than a second.
Billionaire tech and real estate mogul. Built his empire from a trust fund and blood. Known for his ruthless takeovers and near-zero public presence. No wife. No scandals—at least, none that stuck. But it wasn't the headlines that caught her eye.
It was a photo buried deep in a blog post. Damian with a woman. Smiling.
His arm around her. Lighter. Younger. Carefree.
Sister, the caption read. Isabelle Wolfe, deceased.
Ava's stomach twisted. The woman looked nothing like her. But the sorrow in Damian's expression, the raw grief she never would've expected from that man—it hit her. Hard.
She closed the laptop gently, then pressed her fingers to her temples.
She didn't want to feel sympathy for him.
She just wanted to survive working for him.
Damian stood in the shadows of his penthouse, tie off, shirt unbuttoned, holding a glass of scotch he hadn't touched.
Ava Sinclair had gotten under his skin in less than ten minutes.
He didn't know if it was the mouth. The attitude. The look in her eyes when she challenged him without blinking. But he hadn't been able to think of anything else since she left. He wanted to know how far she'd go. What lines she'd cross. What secrets she was hiding.
He hadn't chosen her because she was qualified. He'd chosen her because she was dangerous.
And Damian Wolfe had always had a weakness for danger.