Chapter Two
The boardroom was colder than she expected—glass, steel, and silence swallowing everything warm.
Celine walked in exactly at 8:58 a.m., her heels clicking like a declaration across the marble floor. She'd traded yesterday's buttoned-up blouse for a fitted black dress with structured shoulders. Simple. Clean. Commanding. A subtle rebellion stitched in silk.
Half the room turned to look.
The other half already knew who she was.
Damian Wolfe sat at the head of the table, his black suit crisp, shirt collar open just enough to mock the rules he never followed. A Montblanc pen tapped slowly between his fingers. His eyes, unreadable and sharp, flicked up as she entered—but gave her nothing.
No smile. No nod. Just a flicker of approval too faint for anyone else to catch.
She took the empty seat beside him.
The room smelled of money and legacy. Not perfume. Not flowers. Nothing soft. Just polished ambition and leather-bound strategy.
To her left was a man with silver hair and sharp eyes—Walter Byrne, the CFO. Two seats down, a woman in a navy pantsuit whispered something to her assistant while glancing at her tablet. Celine recognized her: Isabella Cross, head of international development. Brilliant. Ruthless. The kind of woman who'd chew you up and smile about it later.
Then came the others. Legal. Marketing. Mergers. Every chair around the long obsidian table was filled with someone who had earned their place through cutthroat years, not bloodlines.
Except her.
She felt it—the weight of their skepticism. The slow drag of their eyes over her profile. The quiet hum of doubt.
Damian didn't introduce her.
He didn't have to.
At 9:00 a.m. sharp, he spoke.
"The acquisition of FarenTech is moving forward. Walter?"
The CFO cleared his throat, launching into projected earnings, integration timelines, and stakeholder reactions. Charts were passed. Digital summaries appeared on tablets. No one looked at Celine. No one asked her anything.
She took notes anyway.
Every number. Every name. Every player.
Damian didn't look at her once. But he noticed. She felt it in the air—the way his silence was deliberate like he was watching without watching.
Halfway through the meeting, Isabella Cross raised a brow.
"We've accounted for pushback from the FarenTech board, but not from the media. With Celine's sudden presence at Marlowe International, we may be inviting scrutiny we're not prepared for."
The room stilled.
All eyes turned to her.
Celine straightened in her chair. "I'm not here to make headlines, Ms. Cross. I'm here to make sure my father's company stays ahead. I have no interest in being a distraction."
Isabella smiled coolly. "Then I suggest you keep your interviews to a minimum. And your social media presence quieter than it's been."
A faint flicker of heat rose in Celine's cheeks. She knew exactly what Isabella was referencing. That one picture from the gala six months ago. The champagne. The French actor. The tabloid headline: Heiress Gone Rogue.
She opened her mouth, but Damian spoke first.
"Miss Marlowe will attend the press briefing this Thursday," he said smoothly. "And I'll be standing beside her."
That shut Isabella up.
Celine blinked. Beside her? He hadn't told her anything about a press event. She glanced at him, but he was already scanning the agenda again like the conversation was beneath his notice.
The meeting stretched another hour. Every decision was made without emotion, every sentence trimmed of excess. It wasn't business. It was warfare with structure.
By the time the room emptied, Celine's head was spinning.
She stood, gathering her notes, when Damian spoke—quiet and close.
"Stay."
She looked up. The others were gone. It was just them now.
"I told you to listen," he said, folding his arms. "You did."
Celine arched a brow. "Was that a compliment?"
"An observation."
"And Thursday?"
He circled the table slowly like a lion assessing a challenge. "It's time the public sees us together. Optics matter. So do whispers. Let them talk. Let them wonder."
Her stomach tightened. "Let them think what, exactly?"
He stopped beside her.
"That something's happening between us." A pause. "And that you're dangerous."
She exhaled sharply. "You're using me."
His voice lowered. "I'm elevating you."
A beat.
Then he reached for something in his jacket and held it out to her—a sleek black card, no text, only a golden logo embossed in the corner.
"What's this?"
"Invitation. Private fundraiser tonight. Political and corporate giants. You'll wear red. You'll smile. You'll speak when I tell you to."
Her lips parted. "And if I don't?"
He stepped closer—just enough to make her skin hum. "Then I'll assume you prefer to watch this world from the sidelines while someone else writes your story."
She took the card, pulse hammering.
As she turned to leave, he added, "And Celine?"
She paused.
His voice dropped into a whisper behind her. "Don't let anyone else tell you who you are. That privilege is mine… for now."
Celine walked out of the boardroom with Damian's card clenched tightly in her hand, the weight of it far heavier than the gold embossing should allow.
The hallway was cool and silent, the kind that echoed too much. She paused at a glass wall, her reflection staring back: poised, collected… but shaken beneath the surface. Her reflection was a mask she hadn't fully learned to wear yet.
"Impressive," came a voice to her right.
She turned to see Isabella Cross approaching—tall, with dark auburn hair twisted into a perfect low chignon and cheekbones that could cut glass. Her navy pantsuit was tailored within an inch of its life, and her heels clicked with calculated purpose.
Up close, Isabella's eyes were even sharper—ice blue and unblinking. She looked like someone who read annual reports for breakfast and shredded competition with a smile.
"I wasn't sure if you'd survive that room," Isabella said lightly. "But you did."
Celine offered a practiced smile. "Thank you. I'll try not to make a habit of impressing you."
A flicker of something—respect, perhaps—passed through Isabella's gaze.
"Watch your back, Miss Marlowe," she said. "This place doesn't forgive mistakes. It feeds on them."
With that, she walked away, leaving a faint trail of Chanel and warning in her wake.
Later that evening, Celine sat in front of the massive vanity in the guest suite Damian had arranged for her at the Wolfe Residences, one of the most exclusive penthouses on the Upper East Side. The suite was bigger than her college apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered views of the Manhattan skyline, but Celine couldn't take her eyes off the dress laid out on the bed.
Red. Bold. The silk that looked like it would melt on her skin.
A small card had accompanied the delivery:
"Arrive at 7. Wear this. I'll handle the rest. — D."
She took a breath, stood, and slipped into the gown.
7:42 PM – The Blackwell Estate
The fundraiser was held at the historic Blackwell Estate, a neo-Gothic mansion perched on a private hill overlooking the city. Statues lined the garden. Spotlights danced across the façade. Security was tight, the kind that suggested not all guests were political donors—some were powerbrokers.
Celine stepped out of the Wolfe limousine, the red gown hugging her frame like it was stitched to her spine. Her dark hair was swept up into a sleek twist, revealing the soft slope of her shoulders. Diamond studs glinted beneath the lights.
Eyes turned. Whispers began.
She didn't look like the daughter of a businessman.
She looked like someone who belonged here.
Damian appeared beside her the moment she reached the top step. He wore a custom tuxedo—black-on-black—with a velvet jacket that whispered danger and wealth. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back tonight, and his jaw looked freshly shaved. Sophisticated. Dominant. The kind of man who could devastate boardrooms and bedrooms alike.
Without asking, he offered his arm.
"Breathe," he murmured. "And smile. Everyone's watching."
Inside, the ballroom glowed with golden light and soft music. Politicians mingled with CEOs. Crystal glasses clinked. Waiters in white gloves passed around canapés Celine couldn't pronounce.
A tall man approached them first—Preston Halvorsen, senator and rumored presidential hopeful. He was broad-shouldered and graying at the temples, with a fake tan and a real sense of power. His handshake was strong, his eyes curious.
"This her?" he asked Damian bluntly.
Damian nodded. "Celine Marlowe."
Preston's gaze flicked over her. "Looks like your taste is improving, Wolfe."
Damian's smile was razor-thin. "And your tact is worsening."
Celine didn't flinch. "Pleasure to meet you, Senator. I hear you're fond of playing hardball. I grew up with that."
That earned her a bark of laughter. "Oh, she's sharp. Careful, Damian—this one might just run you over."
As the senator moved on, Damian leaned in. "You're learning. Quickly."
"Flattery from you?" she smirked. "I should frame this moment."
Throughout the evening, more characters filled her mental ledger.
Veronica Lang, chairwoman of LangCorp, wore an emerald dress and had eyes that missed nothing. Her platinum-blonde bob was severe, and she walked like someone used to commanding armies of lawyers.
Caleb Wolfe, Damian's younger cousin and CFO of Wolfe Enterprises, was charming in a polished, calculated way. Early thirties. Trim beard. Cufflinks are worth more than her car. He looked at Celine too long.
"You must be the new mystery," Caleb said with a slow grin. "If I'd known Damian was recruiting beauty and brains, I might have offered you a job myself."
Damian cut in, his tone cool. "She's not available."
Celine raised a brow at that, her voice calm. "I speak for myself, Mr. Wolfe."
Caleb chuckled. "God, she's perfect. Careful, cousin. She might steal your empire one day."
It wasn't until just after ten when the evening was winding down, that Celine found herself alone for a moment on the grand terrace. The city lights glittered in the distance, and the buzz of the party softened behind the glass doors.
She finally exhaled.
And then—she heard him.
"Careful. Someone might think you're running."
Damian.
He stepped onto the terrace, a glass of scotch in one hand. The moonlight kissed his features—sharp cheekbones, hard jaw, those arresting grey eyes. A scar barely visible beneath his jawline curved like a half-forgotten secret.
"I needed air," she said.
"Or distance."
She turned to him. "Why me?"
He studied her.
"Because you're not just your father's daughter," he said quietly. "You're the only one in that room who watched everything without blinking. And because the more I look at you… the more I realize you don't know what you're capable of."
Her breath caught.
Then, before she could respond—
He took a step closer, the air between them thinning.
"But we'll find out."
And just as he turned to leave, his voice dropped low enough to curl around her spine.
"Tomorrow morning. 6 a.m. Be in my office. Alone."