Chapter One
Her Father's Business Partner
Celine Marlowe had worn heels for exactly twelve minutes before her toes began to ache and her confidence cracked.
She paused outside the gleaming elevator on the top floor of Marlowe International, shifting her weight, trying not to limp. The building smelled of money and lemon-polished power—cool marble, polished glass, and people too busy to look at her. She felt like an intruder. Maybe because she was one.
The receptionist had smiled thinly. "Mr. Wolfe will see you now."
Mr. Wolfe.
Not Damian. Never Damian.
Even when she was a teenager and he'd come over for business dinners with her father, dressed like he'd stepped out of a noir film and stared through her like she was part of the wallpaper—he was never just Damian.
Damian Wolfe was a legend. Her father's partner. His right hand. The man her father trusted with everything, including the empire he'd built.
And now… Celine was supposed to work under him.
Not beside. Not above. Under.
It was laughable. She hadn't even graduated yet. One semester left. One impulsive move to backpack through Lisbon had turned into a family scandal when her father's blood pressure spiked and his doctor demanded he take medical leave. Suddenly, she was the "only option" to step in as interim.
It wasn't her job to be the heir. It was never supposed to be her.
But her father hadn't asked. He'd summoned.
Which brought her here—to Damian Wolfe's office, with blistered feet and a belly full of nerves.
The elevator opened with a soft chime.
She stepped out.
The top floor was a kingdom in itself—floor-to-ceiling glass windows stretched across the skyline, and everything inside gleamed black and chrome. Stark. Modern. Impossibly cold. Just like the man who ruled it.
His assistant wasn't at her desk.
Celine hesitated, then knocked on the imposing glass door marked D. Wolfe – Partner.
No response.
She turned the knob.
It was open.
The office was empty, but everything screamed precision—no clutter, no color, not even a picture on the wall. The desk was a sharp black monolith, free of papers or distraction. Only a single decanter sat on the corner, filled with amber liquid that caught the fading light.
She shouldn't go in. But her feet moved anyway.
Celine crossed the threshold and inhaled. The room smelled like cedar, control, and him.
Damian Wolfe was never late. But maybe, just this once, he was human.
Her gaze lingered on the chair behind his desk. The throne.
Don't, her conscience warned.
But she was already moving.
The leather groaned as she sat.
She leaned back and folded her hands on the desk, trying to imagine the kind of power it took to build empires with words and silence alone. Damian didn't raise his voice. He didn't threaten. He simply existed—and people obeyed.
She spotted the decanter again.
She'd never tried scotch. It seemed like a Damian drink—aged, bitter, commanding respect. Her fingers itched. One sip. Just to say she had.
Celine stood, crossed to the shelf, and poured a shallow glass.
The liquid burned her throat, but she swallowed it without a flinch.
She turned—and froze.
The door was no longer empty.
Damian Wolfe stood in the doorway, tall and still, dressed in charcoal perfection, with a tailored suit that looked hand-stitched and eyes that pinned her in place.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Her mouth went dry.
"You were late," she said because silence would kill her.
His gaze flicked to the glass in her hand. Then the chair. Then her.
"You were in my chair," he said calmly.
It wasn't a reprimand. It was a statement of fact.
Celine stepped aside quickly, setting the glass down. Her skin prickled under his stare.
"I just wanted to understand what kind of man runs this company."
He moved forward slowly, unbuttoning his jacket with one hand.
"Do you?" he asked, voice low and unreadable.
She blinked. "Do I…?"
"Understand."
He was close now. Not touching, but close enough that the edge of the desk dug into her spine.
Her breath caught. "I'm trying."
His eyes dropped to her lips. A moment. A flicker.
Then they returned to hers—colder now.
"Then consider this your first lesson," he said.
Celine's heart pounded. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear, his voice like velvet soaked in sin.
His breath ghosted over the curve of her neck, and the heat of his body lingered like a phantom just beyond touch. He didn't pull back immediately. Instead, he let the silence press in—a quiet warning wrapped in something darker.
Celine's spine stiffened, but her voice betrayed her.
"I wasn't playing."
A small sound escaped him. Not a laugh—Damian Wolfe didn't laugh—but something close. Disbelief. Amusement. Possibly irritation.
"I see." He pulled away slowly, and the cold swept in to replace him. "So you thought sitting in my chair and drinking my scotch would earn you authority?"
She swallowed. "I thought it might give me perspective."
"Perspective," he repeated, his voice flat now. "You want perspective?"
He circled the desk, stepping behind it like a king reclaiming his throne. He didn't sit. He didn't need to. Just standing there made it his again.
"You're twenty-two. You still wear your rebellion like it's perfume. You think walking into this office means you belong here. But you don't. Not yet."
Celine felt heat rise in her cheeks—shame, anger, or something else entirely. "I was asked to help run the company."
"You were asked to sit in the seat your father vacated. That's not the same thing."
Her jaw clenched. "He trusts me."
"No," Damian said coolly. "He trusts me. You're here because your father has the same weakness most men do—he doesn't know how to let go of what he loves."
His words hit low. Too precise. Too cruel.
Celine's voice dropped. "And what exactly do you love, Mr. Wolfe?"
He smiled, slow and dangerous. "Control."
The word hung between them.
For a moment, neither moved. Outside the massive window, the sun was sliding behind the skyline, casting the office in a blood-orange glow. Shadows lengthened. And still, the tension curled tighter.
"I'm not a child anymore," she said softly.
"No," he agreed. "But you're still naive enough to think your last name is enough currency in this room."
She hated how calm he was. How unshaken. How he looked at her like he could see all the parts of her she tried to hide.
"I'm not here to threaten you, Damian."
"You couldn't if you tried."
Her spine straightened.
"You don't have to like that I'm here," she said, voice crisp. "But I'm not going anywhere. So maybe save the intimidation games for someone who's still afraid of you."
That got his attention.
He studied her—truly studied her—for the first time since she walked in. His gaze dragged from her eyes to her lips, then down to the edge of her tailored blouse. She wore it buttoned up, with no jewelry, and no distractions. It was intentional. But now she wondered if it made her seem more exposed instead.
"I don't intimidate people," he said finally. "I show them the truth."
She tilted her chin. "Then show me."
He moved without warning.
One hand slammed down on the desk between them. The other reached for a drawer, retrieving a file thick with legal print.
He flipped it open. Celine recognized the pages immediately. A contract. One she hadn't seen before.
"This is the kind of truth you'll need to stomach if you want to survive here," he said, tapping a clause with his index finger.
Her eyes scanned it.
A merger. Confidential. Executed six days ago. Wolfe Holdings had officially absorbed one of Marlowe International's sister companies.
Without her knowledge.
Her fingers curled into fists. "Why wasn't I told?"
"Because you're not part of the inner circle yet. Your father signed off before he left. I finalized the deal."
"You used his absence to consolidate more power," she said, anger sharpening her words.
His eyes gleamed. "I ensured the company stayed afloat. You're welcome."
Celine stepped back. "This is exactly why he wanted me here. To keep you in check."
Damian's smile was razor-sharp. "Sweetheart… no one keeps me in check."
The pet name landed like a challenge.
Her heart pounded. "You're afraid."
That made him pause.
"You're afraid of what I might become," she said, stepping around the desk, and daring to close the space between them. "Because if I prove myself, you lose your grip. You stop being the puppet master."
Damian's gaze darkened. He moved so close she could feel the tension crackling between them like electricity.
"You want to prove yourself?" he murmured.
"Yes."
"Then be at the boardroom tomorrow. 9 a.m. There's a meeting you weren't invited to. You'll sit beside me and listen. Say nothing. And try to understand how the game is actually played."
Celine nodded, chest tight with something hot and rebellious.
But then his gaze dipped—slowly—down her figure. Not lewd. Assessing. Possessive.
"And wear something less… fragile," he added.
She bristled. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"You look like you're trying to prove you're serious." He leaned in, lips barely a breath away from hers. "Confidence doesn't need proof. It just walks into the room and owns it."
She didn't back away.
Neither did he.
The air between them snapped tight.
And then—
His phone buzzed.
Damian turned away without another word, answering the call with clipped precision.
She stood there, heart in her throat, wondering if she'd just survived round one—or lost it entirely.
Then, just as she reached the door, he said something that stopped her cold.
"Oh, and Celine?"
She turned.
He didn't even look up from his phone. "If you ever sit in my chair again… I won't stop at words."
Her skin prickled.
And as the door clicked shut behind her, one thing was clear.
This was no internship.
This was war.
And she wasn't sure who'd win.
But one of them was going to break.