Eva – First Person
I spend the rest of the day trying to forget the way he looked at me.
Trying to erase the low, husky edge in his voice when he said I was "too tempting."
Trying to pretend I'm not walking straight into the fire I came here to start.
But no matter how many spreadsheets I triple-check or how long I linger in the copy room just to avoid his floor, I feel it.
Him.
His presence is like gravity—undeniable, inescapable. I tell myself it's just the tension of the secret I'm keeping. The high-stakes game I'm playing.
But deep down, I know better.
It's not just guilt.
It's not just the twisted history between us.
It's him. Damien Wolfe.
And the worst part?
Every time he walks past me in those tailored suits, smelling like expensive sin and looking like temptation in human form, I forget why I ever hated him at all.
It's nearly 9:30 p.m. when I leave the building.
New York buzzes below me, lit up like it never sleeps. The lobby is mostly empty now, the clack of my heels echoing against polished marble as I walk toward the revolving doors.
"Late night?"
The voice comes from behind me, smooth and familiar. My heart stutters. I turn slowly.
Damien stands there, no jacket, sleeves rolled up again like he owns the night.
My pulse kicks up. "Could say the same to you."
He smirks slightly. "I practically live here."
"I can tell."
He nods toward the doors. "Walk with me."
It's not a request. But it doesn't feel like a command, either. It feels… dangerous. And I say yes anyway.
Because part of me wants to know who he really is.
And the rest of me wants to know what it would feel like if I stopped pretending I didn't want him.
We walk two blocks in silence before he says anything. I steal glances at him from the corner of my eye—broad shoulders, powerful stride, the kind of quiet authority that makes even the city seem to part for him.
"I looked into you," he says suddenly, like he's commenting on the weather.
I stop walking. "Excuse me?"
He turns to face me. "Your records. Columbia. Your work. Your file says you're twenty-two, double major. Clean history. Good references. A little too good."
My throat tightens.
"Is that your way of saying I don't belong here?"
"No," he says. "It's my way of saying I don't believe in perfect."
I force a laugh. "That makes two of us."
He studies me for a moment. "Who are you, Eva?"
I stiffen. "You've read my file. You tell me."
"That's not what I'm asking." His voice drops. "There's something in your eyes. Something angry. Something… hungry. You look at this place like it owes you something."
It does.
It owes my mother her life back.
It owes me a childhood without silence and shadows.
It owes us the truth.
But I say nothing. I just square my shoulders and meet his gaze.
"I know how to fight for what I want."
"And what is it you want?" His words are low. Razor-sharp.
I don't answer.
Not with the truth. Not tonight.
He steps closer. Not touching—but I feel him anyway.
"The first time I saw you," he murmurs, "I told myself I was imagining it. The pull. The spark. That it was nothing."
My breath catches.
"But then you opened your mouth. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since."
Danger.
Red flags.
Sirens in my head.
And still, I whisper, "Then why are you standing there like you're afraid to touch me?"
He exhales—like I just took the air from his lungs.
Then he steps forward.
And touches me.
It's not a kiss.
It's not some sweeping, dramatic moment.
It's his hand brushing my hair behind my ear. His fingers barely grazing my cheek. His eyes locked on mine, searching for something even he doesn't understand.
I should move. I should run.
Instead, I lean in—like I'm falling off the edge of a building and somehow want to hit the ground.
But before our lips can meet, a horn blares in the distance. A car screeches. Reality snaps back in like a slap.
He pulls back. Blinks. Like he's just remembered where we are. Who he is. What this could mean.
His jaw tightens.
"This can't happen," he says roughly.
I swallow hard. "Then stop acting like it already is."
For a second, he looks torn. Like he wants to argue. Or kiss me anyway. Or both.
But then he turns away.
"Go home, Eva," he says. "Before I forget why I shouldn't follow you."
And just like that, he disappears into the night—leaving me breathless, burning, and on the verge of crossing every line I swore I never would.
Later That Night – My Apartment
I sit in my tiny bedroom staring at the folder I stole.
Yes—stole.
I shouldn't have taken it from the archives. But I did. And now it sits in my lap like a ticking bomb.
The documents prove my mother didn't abandon him. That she was bought off. Shut out. Lied to.
And someone named K.W. orchestrated all of it.
I flip to the back of the file, scanning again.
There's a second document I missed before—a letter. Unsent. Handwritten. Addressed to my mother.
Claire—
If you're reading this, it means I found out too late. I never stopped looking. I never stopped—
The rest is smudged. Water-damaged. Unfinished.
But one thing is clear:
He didn't know.
He didn't know.
Damien Wolfe may be ruthless. Arrogant. Controlling.
But he didn't abandon me.
He was cut out.
By who?
Why?
My revenge, once so clear, now feels like a knife in my own chest.
And worse—
I think I'm falling for him.