CHAPTER THREE: A LESSON IN POWER

I stepped into the elevator, unsure whether I wanted the doors to open or trap me inside forever. My reflection in the chrome walls looked far too calm for the riot happening inside my chest. This is fine, I told myself. You’re not a fan girl, you’re a professional. You’re here to say thank you and leave. Nothing more.

The elevator hummed as it climbed. The numbers blinked higher. At the top, I was buzzed in by an assistant who greeted me with a smile and waved me through to the executive suite.

"I believe he’s expecting you," the woman said, already returning to her phone.

The hallway was wide and quiet. The air smelled like cedar, expensive cologne, and power. A single heavy door stood at the end, slightly open. I walked toward it, smoothing the front of my dress, my heels silent against the thick carpet. As I neared the door, I heard it—faint at first, then unmistakable.

A low groan.

I froze.

Then a female voice, breathless and eager: “Don’t stop—”

My heart jumped into my throat.

I should’ve turned around. I should’ve walked back to the elevator and pretended I was never there. Instead, my feet betrayed me. I stepped forward and peeked through the open door.

Damien Blackwood was standing behind his desk—shirt half-open, trousers pushed low on his hips—while his secretary bent over the glass surface, gasping his name.

My stomach twisted. My eyes widened, panic taking root. I took a silent step back, then another, my pulse slamming against my ribs.

But it was too late.

He looked up. His gaze met mine.

And he didn’t stop.

Not immediately.

There was no shock. No shame. Just a long, charged moment where his expression barely changed—only his pace slowed. And then his eyes darkened.

“Clara,” he said coolly, never looking away from me. “Get dressed. We’re done.”

The woman froze, confused. “What—? Damien, what—”

“I said we’re done.” His tone sharpened. “Now.”

Clara cursed under her breath and grabbed her blouse. As she passed me, she hissed, “Unbelievable,” and slammed the door on her way out.

I stood rooted in place, stunned.

Damien buttoned his shirt slowly, not breaking eye contact.

“You’re early,” he said.

“I—” My voice caught. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t.” He adjusted his collar. “Your timing was… impeccable.”

My eyes snapped to his. “This was a mistake.”

He stepped around the desk, now fully clothed but no less dangerous. “You said that last time too.

“I should go.”

“You’re here,” he said, walking toward me, “because I asked. And you accepted. Don’t pretend you didn’t want to see me.”

“I wanted to thank you,” I said stiffly.

“Mm.” He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off his body. “Well, I feel thanked.”

My jaw tightened. “That’s not funny.”

“No,” he agreed, voice low. “It’s not.”

I straightened my spine. “Why would that be a good thing?”

His gaze sharpened, the charm giving way to something darker—more real. “Because it means you’re still in control. The people who aren’t afraid of me usually make the worst decisions.”

My lips parted, then closed again. A dozen emotions tugged at me, none of them easy to name. I should’ve left. The moment I saw him with that woman— I should’ve walked away. But instead, I stood there, heart pounding, half furious and half entranced.

He reached for a crystal decanter on the side table and poured two fingers of whiskey. “You look like you could use something strong.”

“I don’t drink when I’m tense.”

“Then drink,” he said, handing me the glass. “Because you’re about to forget why you were tense in the first place.”

I didn’t take it. Instead, I folded my arms and looked him squarely in the eyes. “That’s not why I came.”

“No,” he said, his voice low. “You came to say thank you. Let’s hear it.”

I drew a breath, centering myself. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwood. Your donation means more than you know. It will change lives.”

His brow lifted slightly. “That sounded rehearsed.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It sounded like something you practiced in front of a mirror.”

“I did not.”

He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. “Tell me what it really means. Two million dollars. What does that buy you, Amelia?”

The words poured out before I could stop them. “It buys new beds for the children who’ve been sleeping on floors. It buys heating for winter. It buys clean bathrooms and new sheets and security cameras to keep them safe at night. It buys counseling, meals, dignity—hope.”

My voice cracked at the last word.

Damien’s eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. “Now that’s the thank you I wanted.”

I exhaled shakily. The moment cracked something open inside me. The mask dropped. All that was left was the woman who worked day and night to keep people afloat with pennies and prayers.

Damien took a step closer again. “You carry a lot, Amelia Hart.”

“Someone has to.”

“Tell me,” he said, voice soft and dangerous, “Are you always this careful?”

I hesitated. “Careful keeps me safe.”

He stepped forward again—now just inches away. “And what keeps you satisfied?”

My breath hitched.

Then his fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from my cheek. The contact was light, but it sent a current through my body. My pulse jumped.

“You're shaking,” he said softly.

“I’m not.” But I was.

“I don’t think it’s fear,” he said, his fingers trailing just barely along my jaw. “I think it’s anticipation.”

My skin flared with heat. The worst part was… he was right.

Damien leaned in slightly—not enough to kiss me, but close enough that I felt the weight of his attention.

“You’re furious.”

“I’m uncomfortable.”

“You’re intrigued.”

“I’m not like her,” I snapped.

His expression didn’t change. “I know.”

I blinked. “How?”

“Because you’re still here.”

My throat dried. My instincts screamed at me to turn and run—but another part of me, quieter but stronger, whispered: See this through.

“I’m not one of your… things, Damien.”

“No,” he said. “You’re a habit waiting to happen.”

My breath caught.

His hand moved from my hair to the side of my neck, thumb gently tracing the edge of my jaw. I didn’t flinch, but I didn’t lean in either.

“You came here to thank me,” he said. “But you also came because you wanted to know if I was real. If what happened between us was a one-night illusion or something that could live in daylight.”

“I came because you gave two million dollars.”

He smiled slightly. “That, too.”

My hand came up and wrapped around his wrist—firm, resisting. “I don’t like power games.”

“Then stop playing.”

He dipped his head slightly. His lips hovered near mine, but he didn’t move. Just waited.

I felt suspended between two worlds—mine and his. Safe and unknown. I hated the thrill that bloomed under my skin.

“I should hate you,” I whispered.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know you.”

“You’re getting there.”

Our mouths were inches apart. My fingers still wrapped around his wrist, but the grip had loosened.

Damien's other hand moved to the small of my back, warm through the fabric of my dress.

“Why her?” I asked, needing something to ground me.

“She was available,” he said plainly. “I was angry. It didn’t matter.”

“Why were you angry?”

He studied me for a long moment.

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

My heart stuttered. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know what you sound like when you’re passionate. I know how your mind works when you fight for something you love. And I know you wrote a letter that shifted something in me—and I don’t shift easily.”

The honesty in his voice pulled something taut inside me.

“This is dangerous,” I murmured.

“For who?” he asked.

“Me.”

He leaned closer. “I told you before—I don’t stop halfway.”

His thumb grazed my lower lip.

I should’ve stepped back. Should’ve slapped him. Should’ve said something sharp and clear.

Instead, I whispered, “Then maybe don’t start at all.”

He laughed under his breath—low, pleased.

“But you’re already here.”

And then he kissed me—not hard, not rushed, but like a question he already knew the answer to.

My mind screamed at me to push away.

My body? It betrayed me.

My fingers tightened around his shirt. My lips moved with his.

When I finally pulled back, it was only to breathe.

“This can’t happen again,” I whispered.

“Then you shouldn’t come back,” he replied.

“But you want me to.”

He nodded once. “I do.”

I took a small step back, trying to reclaim space—clarity.

I looked at him one last time, trying to read his face. But Damien Blackwood was not someone you read. He was someone you felt—in every nerve, every breath, every inch of your skin.

“Next time,” I said, walking toward the door, “give a woman some warning before she walks into your personal life.”

“Next time,” he replied, “don’t show up early.”

I turned to say something—anything—but the look in his eyes stopped me.

It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t even lust.

It was curiosity. Hunger. Like I was a puzzle he hadn’t finished solving yet

I didn’t turn around when I said, “I haven’t decided if I will.”

He said nothing, but I felt his eyes on my back like gravity.

The elevator doors slid shut behind me, cutting off the suite and everything that just happened inside it.

My heart thudded in my chest. My skin still tingled. And my mind? It was a warzone.

I had crossed a line. One I couldn’t uncross.

But worse? I didn’t regret it.