Eva – First Person
Lila calls the second I step out of the building.
"So?" she demands before I even say hello. "Did he breathe fire? Throw you out? Bite your neck and mark you as his property?"
"Worse," I mutter, weaving through the crowd outside Wolfe Enterprises. "He asked me to call him Damien."
A pause. Then a squeal so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
"Eva! Are you hearing yourself?! You haven't even been there 48 hours, and the CEO—your secret father-slash-enemy-slash-hot older man—is already handing you his first name like a freaking wedding ring."
"It's not funny."
"It's terrifyingly funny. Like an erotic Greek tragedy." She drops her voice. "Do you feel anything? Like… genetically wrong vibes?"
I don't answer right away.
Because that's the problem.
What I feel isn't wrong.
It's electric.
I should be repulsed. Appalled. I should remember my mother's hollowed-out eyes when she told me who he was. I should see the past, the betrayal, the heartbreak.
But all I saw this morning was a man. And all I felt… was heat.
"I'm not sleeping with him," I whisper.
"Oh, girl." Lila sighs. "That means you're thinking about it."
I hang up before she says more truth than I can handle and slide the phone back into my bag. Across the street, the glass tower of Wolfe Enterprises reflects the skyline like a blade.
This is a dangerous game I'm playing.
And I'm already losing focus.
Later that Day – Wolfe Enterprises, Office Archives
The basement of Wolfe Enterprises is cold, quiet, and dimly lit—filled with decades of contracts, files, and secrets. It's also the one place I can think without catching Damien Wolfe's gaze from across the hallway.
I volunteered to sort archived acquisitions contracts—low-glamour work that keeps me out of sight. But I'm not just here to avoid him.
I'm digging.
Somewhere in these files are records from twenty-three years ago. The year he met my mother. The year he destroyed her.
I flip through boxes labeled 1999, 2000, 2001. My fingers shake as I reach 2002. My birth year.
I almost stop. Almost walk away.
But I open the box.
Inside are neatly labeled folders—Wolfe Enterprises' legal dealings, employee terminations, acquisition notes. My pulse quickens as I spot a name: Claire Sinclair.
My mother.
I pull the folder free. My breath hitches as I scan the contents.
A non-disclosure agreement. A bank transaction. A signed contract. I blink hard. The sum is six figures. The condition?
"Full severance and non-contact following romantic engagement with Damien Wolfe. In exchange for discretion and withdrawal from professional affiliation."
I grip the folder tighter.
She didn't leave him.
She was paid to disappear.
No—forced to.
There's a handwritten note clipped to the back.
"Paid. Confirmed. Sinclair no longer a liability."
Initials: K.W.
Who the hell is K.W.?
A sudden noise behind me makes me freeze.
I turn—and nearly slam into him.
Damien stands in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"What exactly are you looking for, Eva?"
My mouth goes dry.
Think. Lie. Fast.
"I—I was told to organize this section by year. I didn't mean to go through anything confidential—"
He steps forward, eyes narrowing. "That's a sealed personnel file."
I place the folder down, careful not to reveal my shaking hands. "It was mixed in. I didn't read it."
He doesn't move.
Neither do I.
The silence stretches, heavy and sharp.
Then something flickers in his expression. Not suspicion. Not anger.
Pain?
"She worked here, didn't she?" I ask softly, gesturing at the folder. "Claire Sinclair."
His eyes darken. "For a brief time."
I press forward, careful. Curious. A daughter pretending to be a stranger.
"What happened to her?"
He hesitates. Just for a second. Then the billionaire mask drops back into place.
"She left," he says flatly. "She wanted money. I gave her what she wanted."
I want to scream.
But I nod. "Sounds cold."
He looks me dead in the eye. "That's business."
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. "Is that all it was to you? Business?"
There's a pause. Then—
"I don't make a habit of discussing my past with interns."
I laugh, too bitter, too fast. "Right. Interns are for coffee runs and spreadsheets. Not complicated truths."
He steps closer. I can smell his cologne—wood, smoke, something expensive and male. My heart pounds. His voice drops.
"You're different, Eva. I don't know why, but you are."
My body betrays me. I feel the pull. The heat.
"Maybe I'm just good at pretending," I whisper.
His jaw clenches. "Or maybe you're just too damn tempting for your own good."
And then he turns and walks away—leaving me standing there in a vault of secrets, holding the weight of a buried truth and a heart I never meant to feel.