Monday morning arrived too fast.
Ava walked into Wolfe Tower at exactly 7:00 a.m., perfectly pressed, professionally iced over. She refused to let the memory of Saturday night—the dress, the touch, the way Damian said I don't want to—climb back into her chest.
She was here to work. Not to want him.
"Morning, Ms. Sinclair," one of the junior assistants said, handing her a fresh schedule. "Mr. Wolfe's already in. Boardroom at nine. You've got three confidential files to prep for him by eight-thirty."
"Of course," Ava said with a practiced smile.
She didn't glance toward his office as she passed. But she felt him in there. Like gravity.
The hours blurred with reports, calls, fires to put out—and Damian, ever-present in the corner of her world. He barely spoke to her that morning. Just short glances. A clipped request here. A half-second pause when their fingers brushed exchanging files.
But something had shifted.
The energy between them was quieter. Hotter. Waiting.
That night, most of the office emptied out by eight.
Ava stayed.
Her screen glowed, emails flying as she drafted an urgent brief for a legal meeting. She hadn't seen Damian in over an hour. Maybe he'd left. Maybe—
She paused.
His office light was still on.
She hesitated. Then stood, walked softly to the door.
It was cracked open.
Damian was in his chair, head tilted back, eyes closed, shirt collar loosened, fingers still wrapped around a half-empty glass.
Asleep.
For the first time, he didn't look like a CEO or a predator. He looked like a man carrying too much, for too long.
Ava's heart tightened in her chest.
She should leave.
But instead, she stepped inside—quiet as a breath—and stood over him, studying the quiet furrow of his brow, the twitch of his hand.
She raised her fingers to gently shake him awake—
And his eyes snapped open.
Damian's eyes locked onto Ava's, sharp and clear despite the sleep that had only just left them.
She froze, her hand still midair.
"You were watching me," he said, voice thick with sleep and suspicion.
"I—" She dropped her hand. "I thought you were… I didn't want to wake you. You looked—"
"Vulnerable?" he cut in, sitting up slowly. "That's not something I like people seeing. Least of all you."
His tone wasn't cold. But it wasn't safe, either.
Ava crossed her arms. "I wasn't trying to intrude."
"You did."
"You're welcome. You would've woken up with a stiff neck and a scowl. Oh wait—still happened."
He looked at her then, a flicker of something flashing across his face. Not anger. Not amusement.
Something darker. Warmer.
"You're not afraid of me, are you?" he asked.
"No," she said honestly. "But I probably should be."
He stood. And the space between them vanished.
In the quiet hum of the city lights outside the windows, Damian stepped closer—close enough for Ava to smell the faint mix of scotch and skin and something entirely him.
"You should be," he murmured.
Her pulse hammered. "Why?"
"Because you don't know what I want from you."
She swallowed. "And you don't know what I'd give you."
His breath hitched.
For a suspended second, the tension snapped taut—like the last string on a violin before it breaks. Her hand brushed his chest as she turned to walk away.
But he caught her wrist.
Not rough. Just enough to stop her.
She turned back, startled by the war in his eyes.
"I can't cross this line," he said. "Not with you."
"Then don't," she whispered. But she didn't pull away.
He didn't kiss her.
But he looked at her mouth like he wanted to.
Then—he let go.
"Go home, Ava," he said softly.
She nodded. Then walked out.
This time, he didn't follow.
But the heat between them lingered—like something half-lit and ready to explode.
Ava stared at her bedroom ceiling, the city's glow seeping in through half-closed blinds.
It was 2:14 a.m.
She hadn't slept.
Not because of caffeine. Not because of the stack of unread emails or tomorrow's meetings.
Because of him.
That moment in his office—his eyes on her mouth, the heat behind his restraint—it had cracked something open. And now every breath she took felt heavy with the weight of what they hadn't done.
What they almost did.
Her phone buzzed.
She reached for it without thinking, heartbeat already betraying her.
Damian Wolfe: Are you awake?
She sat up. Stared at the screen. Thought about not answering.
Then typed:
Ava: Yes.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then—
Damian: I shouldn't have touched you.
She stared at the words, thumb hovering over the reply box.
Ava: But you did.
Damian: And I'm going to do it again.
Her breath caught. The room felt ten degrees hotter.
She typed and deleted a dozen responses before finally settling on:
Ava: Then why are we still pretending this is just work?
Silence. Long enough to make her heart thud in anticipation.
Then—
Damian: Because if I start with you, I won't stop.
She read it twice. Then a third time. Her skin tingled, her heart pulled taut with something she didn't want to name.
Because it wasn't just lust. Not anymore.
She could feel it in the way he looked at her—not just like he wanted her, but like he needed her. And that scared her more than the fire in his touch.
But it also made her feel alive.
She didn't reply.
But she didn't need to.
Her phone buzzed one more time, just before she set it down.
Damian: Goodnight, Ava.
She closed her eyes. The ache didn't fade. But it settled.
For now.
The next morning, Ava didn't ask questions.
Not when Damian handed her a sleek black itinerary marked Boston – Investor Recovery Summit.
Not when he said, "Pack light. One overnight."
And especially not when he added, "You're coming with me."
The private jet had been quiet. Efficient. Luxurious.
He barely looked at her. She barely breathed.
Now they stood outside their hotel suite. One key. One door. One room.
She arched a brow. "You booked one suite for both of us?"
"It's the only one available," he lied too smoothly.
She walked in, heels clicking on marble. Sleek furniture, a roaring fireplace, a bottle of wine waiting by the window.
One king-size bed.
Ava turned to him. "If this is some kind of test—"
"It's not," he said, loosening his tie. "It's logistics."
"Right," she muttered. "Sexy, expensive, emotionally fraught logistics."
He smirked.
She stalked to the closet, pulling out the garment bag holding her sleek black dress for that night's dinner with key investors.
"I'll get ready in the bathroom," she said.
"You don't have to."
She turned, dress in hand. "Are you trying to make this harder?"
"I'm not trying," he said, voice low. "That's the problem."
The tension snapped tight again. All it would take was a step forward. A breath too close.
But Ava moved first—into the bathroom, away from his eyes, away from the fire.
For now.
Dinner was a blur of names, numbers, champagne, and power plays.
Ava held her own. Graceful. Intelligent. Impossibly composed.
Damian watched her like she was a secret he hadn't earned yet—but would.
Back in the room, she kicked off her heels, toeing them near the bed.
"Shower first?" she offered, voice deceptively casual.
"You go," he said. "I'll take the couch."
She paused. "You don't have to."
"I do."
They stared at each other, two stubborn hearts dressed in self-control and unsaid things.
Ava stepped closer.
"You said if you started, you wouldn't stop," she whispered. "What if I want you to start?"
Damian's jaw clenched. His hand curled into a fist at his side.
He didn't move.
Didn't answer.
Just watched her disappear into the bathroom—his silence louder than any yes.