Power was a drug. The kind that burned bright and left you hollow.
Damian Wolfe had been chasing the high for years. The thrill of control, the intoxicating rush of bending others to his will, the endless parade of women like trophies beneath his hand—these were his lifeblood.
But lately, the edge had begun to dull.
Monday, 6:00 A.M.
The darkness in his penthouse felt thicker than usual. Damian woke drenched in sweat, gasping for breath as if some unseen weight crushed his chest.
His heart pounded like a war drum.
He didn't remember the dream fully—only fragments. A woman's hands—strong, commanding—pushing him down, undoing his buttons, breaking his control.
He poured whiskey into his espresso, savoring the bitter burn.
Routine was everything.
At the office, the day began with blood.
He strode into the glass-walled conference room where his executive team waited like prey.
"Family leave policies," one of the managers said tentatively.
Damian's jaw clenched.
Weakness.
He hated weakness.
"Emotions have no place here," he said icily. "If you want to waste company time on personal matters, the door is that way."
He pointed sharply.
Security appeared, swift and silent.
The man was escorted out, head down, dignity shattered.
The rest watched, mouths tight.
Fear was a tool, and Damian wielded it like a scalpel.
Later that day, Damian sought control in a different arena.
He summoned Maya, the new intern.
Nineteen, green-eyed, with dreams far too big for her own good.
She thought he was going to mentor her.
Instead, he took her in the elevator.
The sleek metal doors closed behind them, sealing her fate.
His hands were cold and demanding.
Her protests were soft, quickly muffled by kisses.
The bathroom became a cage.
She gasped, eyes wide with confusion and excitement.
By the time they emerged, Maya was silent.
Damian left without a word.
He never called.
She didn't speak to him again.
Good.
That night, alone in his penthouse, the dreams returned.
This time, clearer.
The woman wasn't pleading. She was commanding.
Her voice, though silent in his sleep, echoed with authority.
He was the one undone—vulnerable, exposed.
Damian refused to acknowledge the tremor of fear twisting inside him.
Tuesday, Damian broke routine.
He did not go to the office.
Instead, he drove out to the river.
The Maybach glided past city lights, heading to a quiet spot where no one could find him.
He sat there, staring at the water, empty and restless.
His phone vibrated endlessly with messages.
Three women.
Two investors.
Lexi.
None got a response.
He didn't want their voices.
He wanted silence.
That evening, Damian tried to drown the growing unease.
He booked a hotel suite.
Summoned three women.
Chose the finest champagne.
Silk ropes and leather straps lined the room.
They begged, performed, offered themselves in worship.
He lay on the bed, detached.
He didn't even finish.
His usual hunger was gone.
Wednesday was worse.
At the office, he snapped.
His temper flared like a wildfire.
He struck a wall in his anger.
His knuckles bled.
Lexi arrived wearing the wrong lipstick shade.
She was fired on the spot.
No one protested.
His empire trembled on the edge of chaos.
The cracks inside him deepened.
He could feel a shift.
A presence invading his mind.
A woman—uninvited, unstoppable.
Thursday came with confrontation.
He lashed out at Vanessa.
The married woman who kept coming back.
She cried, but Damian was merciless.
She whispered, "I don't know why I'm trapped in this."
He replied coldly, "You're not trapped. You're just weak."
Later, a psychology student named Talia tried to analyze him.
She brought books and theories.
She wanted to understand.
But Damian wasn't a puzzle to be solved.
He consumed her curiosity.
Made her beg for his attention between pages.
Friday night was a test.
He met Jade, a dominatrix who tried to break him.
She tied him down.
Whipped him.
Asked if he'd surrender.
He whispered, "I don't kneel."
He untied himself, took the whip, and made her cry.
She left without a word.
Saturday was supposed to be quiet.
But Damian's control shattered.
He met Elena, a woman who wasn't like the others.
She challenged him.
She called him out.
He tried to dominate her.
She pushed back.
Their fight spilled over into the dark alley behind the club.
He lost.
His hand hit her face.
The moment was frozen in time.
She looked at him—hurt, shocked.
He felt a pang he didn't understand.
Sunday, Damian sat alone.
No women.
No distractions.
Just the cold weight of solitude.
He looked at a photo of his mother.
The only woman who'd ever tried to show him kindness.
She was gone.
And with her, any chance of softness in him.
He was a king who ruled a kingdom of ashes.