Zara had always known how to command a room. She didn't walk; she arrived. But stepping into Wolfe International's headquarters the next morning, she felt something unusual prickling beneath her skin.
Not fear.
Awareness.
Damian Wolfe was watching.
She felt his gaze before she even saw him. The glass-walled executive floor revealed no secrets, every polished surface reflected power back at itself. Zara strode in, high heels sharp on marble, her black pencil skirt hugging her hips, her silk blouse softening the armor.
Their contract had been signed less than twelve hours ago, but she could already feel its weight like a collar around her throat.
"Miss Lancaster," came his voice, smooth as black coffee and twice as bitter.
He leaned against the frame of his office door, dressed in a charcoal suit that fit him like skin. No tie. A hint of stubble darkened his jaw. Arrogance rolled off him like heat off a fire.
"Mr. Wolfe." She didn't stop walking. "If I'd known we'd be doing the full corporate theater, I would've brought popcorn."
He fell into step beside her. "It's not theater if the stakes are real."
"I know that," she said without looking at him. "You're not the only one with something to lose."
His silence was confirmation.
They reached the glass conference room where a handful of executives waited. Zara recognized a few of Wolfe's legal counsel, two PR managers, and the woman who'd leaked her merger's early details to the press last fall. Mable Dalton. Still here. Still fake-smiling like she hadn't nearly torpedoed Zara's career.
Interesting.
Damian motioned for Zara to take the seat at the head of the table. "After you," he murmured.
Game on, she thought.
---
The meeting was smooth, professional at least on the surface. They discussed the public rollout of their "strategic partnership," complete with buzzwords, magazine features, and exclusive galas to attend as a couple.
It was one thing to sign the papers.
Another entirely to perform affection under cameras.
"We'll need to appear together in public by Friday," Bridget her assistant said, tapping her tablet. "There's a benefit at the Conrad high-profile donors, journalists, investors. If you two are photographed holding hands"...
"I don't hold hands," Zara cut in. "Not in public. Not in private."
Damian's voice slid in beside hers. "She's shy."
"Laughter"...
Zara's nostrils flared.
~Careful, she told herself. They want to see you crack.
She smiled thinly. "And he's delusional."
Bridget's brow rose. "Maybe some coaching from our brand team"...
"We don't need coaching," Damian said cutting her off. "We need results. We'll do the event."
Zara turned sharply toward him. "Excuse me! we will?"
"You said yourself, Lancaster," he said smoothly. "Play the game. Or lose the board."
Heat bloomed across her chest, not embarrassment, Anger. She didn't like being outmaneuvered. Especially not in public.
But she bit her tongue.
Fine. Friday it was.
---
Later, back in his office because now they shared that too,Zara paced by the floor-to-ceiling windows while Damian poured whiskey at 11:12 AM like it was orange juice.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she said, arms crossed. "Parading me around like some strategic trophy."
He took a slow sip. "If I wanted a trophy, I'd pick one that didn't bite."
"Try me," she snapped.
Damian stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell his cologne deep, smoky and expensive. "I've tried you," he said. "At least in theory."
She froze.
His hand brushed her arm, just for a second, before he poured her a glass too and handed it over. "You agreed to this," he murmured. "Don't pretend you didn't enjoy the chase."
"I enjoy winning. Don't confuse the two."
He chuckled. "You haven't won anything yet."
Their fingers touched as she took the glass. A sharp jolt passed through her. Neither of them moved away.
For a long, loaded second, they just looked at each other. Damian's eyes dropped to her mouth.
Zara felt her pulse spike.
This was exactly the kind of moment she swore she'd never fall into. Not again. Not with a man like him. She knew his type.. handsome, powerful, hungry and dangerous. The kind of man who used charm like a weapon and s*x like currency.
The kind she'd buried feelings for long ago.
She stepped back, sipping the whiskey without flinching. "You should work on your bedside manner."
He raised a brow. "Is that a request?"
Her laugh was sharp. "Not even a little."
---
By 2 PM, she was buried in onboarding paperwork in a sleek glass office next to his, already regretting her decision.
"Cohabitation." That clause mocked her from the third page.
She hadn't even figured out how they'd pull that off yet.
Her phone buzzed. Damian.
~DAMIAN: Your place or mine?
~ZARA: For what?
~DAMIAN: Moving in. The contract clock started this morning.
Zara stared at the screen, fingers poised over the keyboard.
~ZARA: Yours. I don't want your scent on my furniture.
~DAMIAN: Brave choice. You've been warned.
She rolled her eyes.
~ZARA: Bring extra pillows. I don't share.
~DAMIAN: We'll see.
Her throat tightened. Not with fear. With anticipation.
God help her.
---
That night, she arrived at his penthouse with two suitcases and a dagger of regret lodged somewhere behind her ribs.
The place was cold, clinical, steel and glass shadows. Exactly like him.
"I'll have the guest room made up," he said from the kitchen, not looking up from the wine he was uncorking.
"Make sure it locks."
He smirked. "Scared of me?"
"No," she said simply. "Just don't trust myself when I'm drunk and lonely."
That made him look up. Eyes narrowing.
"Good," he said finally. "At least you're honest."
"Sometimes."
A beat passed between them. He handed her a glass of wine. Their fingers brushed yet again.
Damian didn't let go immediately.
Zara didn't pull back.