The limo pulled up to the curb like a predator waiting to pounce.
Ava stared at the glittering entrance of the Astoria Grand, its marble steps glowing under chandelier light. Flashbulbs sparked in rapid bursts as paparazzi shouted names she didn't recognize—actresses, heirs, CEOs, women in gowns worth more than Ava's rent for a year.
She could still turn around. She could vanish into the city, into the safe gray life she'd built brick by brick to protect herself from men like Damian Wolfe.
But instead, she stepped out.
The red silk dress hugged her body like it had been sewn onto her skin—deep plunge, open back, slit that defied gravity. Her heels clicked with authority as she ascended the stairs, chin high, eyes forward, every step saying: I am not afraid of you.
The cameras didn't know her name. But they turned anyway.
Inside, the ballroom was drenched in opulence—golden light, champagne towers, string quartets playing moody jazz. Ava took a glass from a tray without breaking stride and scanned the crowd for the man who'd dragged her into this glittering war zone.
She found him near the center, surrounded by industry titans and velvet whispers.
Damian Wolfe in a black tux. All sharp edges and slow danger.
He turned as if he felt her arrive.
And for the first time since she'd met him… his composure cracked.
Just slightly. But she saw it.
His eyes tracked the curve of the red silk like it offended him. Or captivated him. Or both.
He crossed the room in ten powerful strides.
"You wore red," he said, voice low enough to burn.
"You asked," she said. "Or was that a command?"
"I didn't think you'd listen."
"I didn't do it for you."
He looked like he didn't believe her. "You'll need to smile tonight. Pretend you enjoy this."
"Do I look like I'm pretending?"
His gaze dipped again. "You look like trouble."
"And you look like you want it."
Their eyes locked. Heat surged.
Then, with terrifying calm, Damian offered his arm.
"Let's give them something to talk about."
Ava took it, her fingers brushing his sleeve. She smiled like sin wrapped in silk.
And the wolves began to circle.
Every eye in the ballroom followed them.
Ava felt it—not just the curiosity, but the calculation. The judgment. Women in couture whispered behind rimmed glasses. Men in tailored suits looked at her the way they looked at stock trends: with interest, until something better came along.
"Smile," Damian said under his breath, hand at the small of her back.
"I am," she replied through her teeth. "I'm just choosing which one."
He introduced her to a board member from Wolfe International, a senator with a glassy smile, and an older woman whose diamond necklace could blind a pilot.
"This is Ava Sinclair," he said smoothly. "My new assistant."
The woman's gaze swept over Ava like a scanner. "How lovely. Do you come from a business background?"
"I come from surviving places like this," Ava said, smiling sweetly.
Damian didn't flinch. But the corner of his mouth ticked.
Then she saw her.
Tall. Icy. Beautiful in a way that belonged in magazines, not real life. Blond hair twisted into something regal. Silver dress molded to her like second skin.
She glided over.
"Damian," the woman purred, pressing a cheek-kiss that lingered.
"Celeste," he replied coolly.
Her eyes turned to Ava. "And who is this stunning creature clinging to your arm tonight?"
"Ava Sinclair," Ava said before Damian could. "Personal assistant. Professional pain in the ass."
Celeste laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Charming. And brave."
"I do my best," Ava said. "You're…?"
"Celeste Barrett. Strategic advisor to Wolfe Foundation." She turned to Damian, voice lower. "We should talk about the proposal. Privately."
He didn't move. "Later."
Her smile slipped for half a second.
Ava didn't miss it.
Celeste leaned in toward her. "He doesn't keep them long, you know. Assistants. Pretty distractions. They always end up broken or bored."
Ava blinked. "Thank you. I love a good warning. Or was that a threat?"
Celeste's eyes narrowed. "Enjoy the night."
"Oh," Ava said, her voice honey-laced. "I plan to."
As Celeste walked away, Damian let out a low, amused sound. "You just made an enemy."
Ava sipped her champagne. "She should've picked a better battlefield."
Ava drifted away from Damian after another round of forced smiles and strategic small talk. He was pulled into a circle of board members, all back-pats and veiled threats, while she wandered toward the edge of the ballroom, sipping from a second glass of champagne she barely tasted.
She needed air.
Needed to stop feeling like she was being carved open by a hundred well-dressed knives.
A pair of socialites leaned in near her, whispering in careless voices meant to be overheard.
"She looks like her, doesn't she?"
"Isabelle? A little. The hair, the mouth. It's eerie."
"Maybe that's why he keeps her around. Some kind of twisted replacement therapy."
"Wouldn't surprise me. He's never been the same since the crash. That poor girl…"
"Well, Ava-whatever-her-name-is better be careful. Damian Wolfe breaks more than just hearts."
Ava's stomach turned. She slipped away, her heels silent on the marble floor.
Isabelle. Damian's sister. Dead. And now she knew why that old photo in his office haunted her.
She looked like her.
A door led out to a balcony overlooking the city. She stepped into the cool night air, the lights of Manhattan stretching endlessly ahead. Noise faded. For one moment, she could breathe.
She didn't hear the door open behind her.
"Do you always eavesdrop?"
His voice was lower than usual. Tired. Not sharp, not cruel—just real.
She didn't turn. "Do you always surround yourself with people who talk about you like you're already dead?"
He moved beside her, close but not touching. "I trust no one in that room."
"That's obvious."
He looked at her then, really looked. Wind tugged strands of hair across her face. She didn't brush them away.
"You should leave," he said quietly. "Before this gets worse."
Ava met his eyes. "Before what gets worse?"
"This."
"This what?"
His hand twitched at his side. She could feel the restraint pouring off of him.
"You're becoming a distraction," he said, voice gravel-soft. "And I don't allow weaknesses."
"Maybe I'm not the weak one," she whispered.
Silence stretched.
Then—barely—he reached out. Fingers brushed her arm. Barely a touch, but it lit up everything inside her.
And just as suddenly, he stepped back.
"We leave in ten."
Then he was gone.
And Ava stood there, breathless, furious, and somehow… wanting more.
The car ride was silent.
Not awkward. Not strained.
Just charged.
Ava sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes locked on the city lights streaking past the tinted windows. Damian sat across from her in the spacious backseat of the Wolfe town car, elbow braced against the leather, tie loosened just enough to look lethal.
She could feel his gaze, even when he wasn't looking.
Her skin still burned from that near-touch on the balcony. Just his fingertips, grazing her arm like a warning and a promise.
She hated how her body remembered it.
"I didn't ask to look like her," Ava said finally, her voice breaking the quiet like glass.
Damian didn't move. But the shift in energy was instant.
"I know."
"Do you?" she asked, turning to him. "Because I saw the way they stared. The way you stared."
He exhaled. "Isabelle was light. You're not."
She raised a brow. "Thanks?"
"It wasn't an insult." His eyes finally met hers. "It's why you're still here."
Silence again.
Then—
"You shouldn't be," he added.
Ava's breath caught. "Why not?"
"Because you don't belong in my world. And I can't stop pulling you into it."
She leaned forward slightly, anger curling with something else in her throat. "Then stop."
He stared at her like she was both the problem and the cure. "I don't want to."
The air between them went still.
No kiss. No move. Just the unbearable ache of everything unspoken sitting between them like fire and restraint.
The car pulled to a smooth stop in front of her building. Ava reached for the door handle, hand trembling just slightly.
"Goodnight, Mr. Wolfe," she said.
He didn't answer.
She stepped out, heels hitting the pavement, and walked away without looking back. But her heart was a war drum in her chest, pounding out the truth she didn't want to admit:
She wanted him to follow.
He didn't.
But in the window above, he watched her go.