CHAPTER TWO — THE MAN BEHIND THE EMPIRE
The Voss Tower dominated Lagos' skyline like a monument to ambition — a fortress of mirrored glass and shadowed steel. Its entrance glimmered beneath morning light, flanked by black sedans and men in tailored suits. To most, it was intimidating. To Arielle Stone, it was a stage.
She stepped out of her car, her heels striking the marble with confidence that masked the fire beneath. A sleek white silk blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, gold accents at her wrist, her hair swept into a low twist — power, redefined.
"Miss Stone," the receptionist greeted, wide-eyed. "Mr. Voss is expecting you. The executive elevator, please."
Of course he was.
Inside the glass elevator, Arielle's reflection rose alongside the glittering city below. Every floor was a reminder of what his empire had consumed — industries, names, and lives. Hers included.
When the doors opened to the top floor, she found herself in a vast expanse of glass and charcoal. The air smelled of expensive cologne and power.
And there he was.
Damian Voss.
He stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, gazing out over the city he ruled. Even from across the room, his presence filled the space — controlled, deliberate, magnetic. His dark suit cut sharp lines against the light, his posture an echo of the empire he commanded.
When he turned, it was slow, purposeful — the kind of motion that made time hesitate.
> "Arielle Stone," he said, his voice low, rich, and unhurried. "It's been a while."
Arielle's lips curved faintly. "Long enough for empires to rise and fall."
He smiled — faintly, dangerously. "And yet, you're still standing."
"I make it a point to."
The silence that followed wasn't empty; it shimmered with tension. He studied her, eyes tracing the precision of her attire, the calm fire in her posture. She refused to look away.
"Please," he said finally, gesturing toward a sleek leather chair. "Sit. I assume you received my proposal."
"I did. It was… unexpected."
He poured coffee from a carafe into delicate porcelain cups — gold-edged, like everything about him. "I prefer to surprise people."
"Is that what you call it?" she asked coolly, accepting the cup. "Because five years ago, you called it business."
The faintest muscle flickered in his jaw. "You're still angry."
She took a slow sip, meeting his gaze over the rim. "Do I look angry?"
He chuckled — quiet, low, unsettlingly warm. "No. You look… magnificent."
Arielle set the cup down. "Flattery won't make me forget what you did, Damian."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, voice soft but razor-sharp. "Then don't forget. Use it. That's what you've always done best."
The remark caught her off guard. Beneath the steel of his tone, there was something else — regret? Amusement? It was hard to tell.
"Why me?" she asked, leaning back. "You could hire anyone. There are a dozen designers dying for your signature."
Damian's gaze lingered on her face, unreadable. "Because no one understands luxury the way you do. Because when you create, the world listens. And because…" — his voice lowered — "I wanted to see if time had changed you."
Arielle exhaled a quiet laugh. "You'll find I've changed plenty. I learned how to build from nothing."
He stood then, walking around the desk until he was beside her. The faint scent of his cologne — cedar, smoke, power — wrapped around her like a memory she didn't want.
> "Then prove it," he said softly. "Design the gala. Make it unforgettable. Show me the woman the world should have never underestimated."
Her pulse betrayed her calm, a flutter beneath her skin. She rose slowly, meeting his eyes. "I will. But make no mistake, Mr. Voss — this isn't about redemption. It's business."
"Everything is business," he replied, a faint smile curving his lips. "Even revenge."
Their gazes locked — predator and prey, though neither could decide which was which.
Arielle collected her portfolio, sliding it under her arm. "My team will contact your office regarding logistics. I expect full creative control, as stated."
"You'll have it," Damian said. "And anything else you need."
"I doubt that."
As she turned toward the elevator, his voice followed, smooth as velvet. "Arielle."
She paused, without looking back.
> "You might want to check the last page of the proposal. I left something for you."
The doors slid shut before she could answer.
Inside the elevator, Arielle exhaled and opened the folder. At the very end, a single handwritten note waited:
> Paris is where it all began. Let's see what we can rebuild.
— D.V.
Her fingers trembled — just slightly — before she snapped the folder shut.
The city blurred beneath her as the elevator descended. She told herself it was anger that made her chest tighten. It wasn't.
It was memory.
---
Across the office, Damian watched the elevator's descent, expression unreadable. Jonah stepped forward. "Should I confirm her acceptance, sir?"
"Yes," Damian said quietly. "And make sure Paris is ready. She'll want perfection."
Jonah hesitated. "If I may ask — why her? After everything—"
"Because," Damian interrupted, his eyes still fixed on the city skyline, "some things you destroy to control. Others… you rebuild to atone."
Outside, the sky turned silver with morning light.
Inside, two souls prepared to dance once more — between vengeance and desire, between memory and ruin.
Xoxo Eloura 😘 😘 😘 😘 😘 😘