Chapter 6
T he quiet hum of the city filters through the expansive windows of the penthouse, softened by the sound of light rain tapping against the glass. The morning is slow, unhurried. Exactly the kind I need.
I sit at the marble breakfast counter, a sleek tablet propped up in front of me, along with a black leather-bound ledger neatly placed to the side. My stylus rests between my fingers, but I haven’t started working yet.
Instead, I focus on my breakfast—a simple plate of sliced fruit, eggs, and toast, something light to fuel the rest of my day. Across from me, on the counter, there’s another plate, untouched.
I don’t know why I made extra. Habit, maybe. I usually cook breakfast for my roommate and best friend, Eve.
She’d probably burn our place down if she tried to use the stove.
Or maybe I made it for the ridiculous notion that good manners should extend even to fake engagements.
I don’t expect company.
The penthouse is so large, Damien could go about his day without crossing my path once if he wanted to. And based on the quiet atmosphere, I guess he’s already at his office.
That assumption is shattered when I hear the sound of dress shoes approaching.
I glance up just as Damien enters the kitchen.
I ignore that stab in the pit of my stomach.
He’s dressed in a tailored deep-blue suit, the crisp white shirt beneath it open at the collar, his tie hanging loose around his neck like he hasn’t quite decided whether to finish the job. The controlled energy he exudes is effortless—a man who is used to commanding a room the moment he steps into it.
I expect him to grab a coffee and go.
Instead, he hesitates.
His blue eyes flick to the extra plate sitting untouched on the counter, and suddenly I wish I hadn’t made it. His expression remains unreadable, but I don’t miss the way his fingers brush against the marble surface, as if debating something.
And then—he makes a decision.
Rather than leaving, he changes course, stepping closer and planting himself across from me on the other side of the counter.
I blink, caught off guard.
He doesn’t sit, doesn’t make himself comfortable—just stands there, all sharp edges and intensity, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore.
I say nothing, waiting.
He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly before speaking.
“It was really no problem, you using the gym this morning.”
I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. That’s what he came in here for?
Before I can respond, he continues. “You don’t have to check the schedule for things like that. You’re welcome to use anything in the penthouse.” A small pause, then, “The building, too, actually.”
I tilt my head, intrigued. “The building?”
He nods, picking up a stray piece of toast from the extra plate—bold, considering he didn’t even ask if it was for him.
“Yeah. Anything you need. The gym, the spa, the indoor pool, the concierge service. Hell, there are shops and plenty of restaurants.”
A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of my mouth. Is he… rambling?
Damien Wolfe. The Wolfe of Fifth Avenue. Rambling.
He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, but he keeps going anyway.
“There’s a car service on standby, too. If you ever need to go anywhere, just tell them, and they’ll take care of it.” He shifts his weight slightly, breaking off a piece of toast and popping it into his mouth.
I narrow my eyes, watching him carefully.
Is he trying to impress me?
The thought is ridiculous.
Damien Wolfe is the last man on earth who needs to impress anyone. He has wealth, power, and an entire city at his feet.
But still…
I study him for another second, trying to piece it together. His tone is too even, like he’s trying too hard to sound indifferent. And now that I think about it, there’s something almost unnatural about the way he’s lingering here—like he doesn’t actually want to leave but doesn’t have a reason to stay.
The realization is… surprising.
And strangely endearing.
I let a slow, amused smile pull at my lips before responding lightly. “Good to know. I appreciate your hospitality.” My coffee cup clinks softly against the marble counter. “We have Ledger resources, so we don’t impose, but thank you all the same.”
For a second, I think the conversation will move along, easy and effortless. But something shifts in his expression, subtle yet distinct, like my words land in a way he wasn’t expecting.
His jaw tightens slightly before he speaks. “You wouldn’t be an imposition.”
Then, as if realizing he’s given something away, he adjusts.
“It.” A quiet correction. “It would be no imposition.”
I recognize what just happened. A small slip. A moment of unconscious honesty before catching himself.
It’s not what I expected from him, and that alone makes it stand out.
The silence between us lingers a beat too long, and the weight of it makes something twist in my stomach. I don’t know what it is—discomfort? Curiosity? Either way, I do what I do best.
I smooth it over.
“Busy day at the office?” I ask, tilting my head slightly. “Before tonight’s event?”
The change in topic is exactly what he needs. His shoulders ease just the slightest bit, and the tension that had begun to settle between us lifts.
“Always,” he says, the edge of a smirk playing at his lips. “But nothing I can’t handle.”
I don’t push for details. Men like Damien don’t discuss business over breakfast. That’s reserved for boardrooms, for closed-door meetings over top-shelf whiskey, for negotiations worth billions.
But I’ve done my own research.
Wolfe Industries is in the middle of acquiring a major competitor. This merger is high-profile—the kind that cements power, the kind that makes headlines.
Tonight’s event will be a crucial moment in securing that deal.
Damien doesn’t offer more, and I don’t ask. Instead, I simply nod, taking another sip of coffee, letting the conversation settle.
And then, just as I think he’s about to leave, he surprises me.
Instead of walking away, instead of disappearing into his empire as I expected, he pulls out a chair.
And sits down.
His movements are unhurried, deliberate, but there’s something almost uncertain about them—like he hadn’t quite planned on staying.
I say nothing as he reaches for the extra plate of food, sliding it toward himself.
A silent decision.
I recognize this moment for what it is.
He’s choosing to stay.
And for reasons I don’t fully understand, that realization sends a quiet shiver down my spine.
For a moment, we eat in silence, the only sounds the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain, the hum of the city stretching high beyond the penthouse windows.
Then, after another bite, Damien speaks again, his voice even.
“I’ll usually be gone before you wake up.”
It’s not an apology. Just a statement of fact—a warning of sorts.
I nod, unbothered. “That will be no problem. I keep busy.”
His gaze flicks up, studying me over the rim of his coffee cup. “Doing what?”
There’s something about the way he asks—not just the words, but the hesitation before them.
Like he’s debating how to phrase it.
I already know what he’s really asking.
What do you do all day until I need you?
I set my fork down, leveling my gaze with his. “You mean until my contract requires me?”
I don’t miss the way his grip tightens slightly around his coffee mug.
He doesn’t correct me, doesn’t clarify.
Instead, he just watches me. “Yeah.” He nods once.
I hold his gaze, my voice smooth. “I do have my own affairs to manage.” A small pause, letting it settle. “I don’t need to be entertained, Mr. Wolfe.”
Something flickers across his face. It’s so small, so quick, but I see it.
“Damien.” He corrects me, and I nod.
Something switches in him in an instant. For just a moment, it’s as if the polished, controlled version of Damien Wolfe slips, and what’s left behind is something quieter. Something simpler.
Not a billionaire. Not the infamous Wolf of Fifth Avenue.
Just a man.
A man sitting at his own kitchen counter, eating breakfast with someone else.
And for the briefest moment, I wonder if anyone has ever actually seen him like this.
He takes a breath as if to say something—holds it—then wars with some decision in his mind before releasing it.
I see the fuck it moment happen, and he snaps his eyes to mine.
“If I ask you a question, will you answer honestly?” His voice is steady, but there’s a quiet intensity behind it.
“I’ve answered every question honestly.”
Even at Ember & Ash. I want to add, but I don’t.
“What made you smile?” His voice deepens, like we’re sharing a secret. Like he’s daring me to answer.
A fraction of a grin spreads across my face, and he looks at my mouth before returning to my eyes.
“I smile often. Be specific.”
It’s a game, and he wants to meet the challenge.
“At the restaurant. On your phone.”
Ah, that.
Still bothering him, I see.
“What was it that made you smile?”
It’s like he needs to know. Like the rest of these two weeks will hang on my answer.
I hesitate, fingers resting lightly on the rim of my coffee cup.
Sharing personal details isn’t something I do.
Not with clients. Not with contracts. Barely with my friends.
It’s a line I’ve always kept firmly in place—one of the few things in this job that has always been within my control. I offer exactly what’s required, nothing more. My clients get what they pay for: charm, poise, companionship. But my real thoughts, my real dreams?
Those belong to me.
But with Damien…
We crossed so many lines before this even began.
Maybe that’s why I decide to answer honestly.
I take a slow sip of coffee, gathering my thoughts before setting the cup down carefully.
“I want to open a high-end cheesecakery and café.”
Damien’s brows lift slightly, his head tilting just enough to show his interest. “You’re serious?”
A soft smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but his gaze sharpens, studying me like he’s trying to piece something together.
I shift slightly in my seat, tracing the rim of my cup with my fingertip as I continue.
“There’s a specific location I have my eye on. Not just any storefront—it’s personal.”
I don’t explain right away, and he doesn’t press. He just waits, silent and patient, as if he knows there’s more.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself remember.
My early adult years were difficult, and I made hard choices.
Some of those were painful. Horrible, even.
The darkest days of my life. And that’s really saying something.
But the bakery, my job there—those are some of the happiest memories I have.
I don’t tell Damien all of this. Some things are still mine to keep.
“My realtor went and checked it out. And we’re meeting soon to look at it.”
I stare at my coffee, light brown and still steaming, about to lose myself in the memories before I snap them shut again.
“That’s what made me smile.”
His expression shifts slightly, something flickering behind those blue eyes, something unreadable.
“You don’t plan on staying at The Ledger?” he asks, his voice measured. “Lucian says you’re one of the best.”
I let out a soft breath, shaking my head. “Women in my line of work have a shelf life.”
The words hang between us, stretching out the silence.
After a moment, quieter now, I add, “I don’t want to be a hired companion forever, Damien.”
His gaze lingers on mine, and for a brief moment, I see it again—the man beneath the billionaire, the one who’s been sitting with me, eating breakfast like it was something he wasn’t used to sharing.
Like maybe, in some ways, he’s just as unfamiliar with real companionship as I am. When it’s not bought.
He exhales slowly, almost like he’s considering my words, turning them over in his mind.
But then, the shift happens. Seamless and almost imperceptible, but it’s there.
“Dinner tonight.” His voice is back to business, clipped and professional. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Mr. and Mrs. Calloway will be there.”
I nod, the mask slipping back into place as easily as breathing. “Mrs. Calloway is the key.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “Exactly. Mrs. Calloway is the key.”
I don’t need him to elaborate. If he’s bringing her up specifically, it means she’s the one with the final say in this merger. She’ll be scrutinizing every detail, looking for any cracks in our relationship. If I can win her over, this entire deal becomes a sure thing.
I offer him a confident smile, smoothing my hands over my lap. “Leave Mrs. Calloway to me.”
A beat of silence stretches between us before Damien raps his knuckles against the counter twice and stands.
“All right then.” He pulls up a contact in his phone, heading toward the elevator. “Hey, Marcus, can you pull something up for me?”
No goodbye. No pleasantries. No lingering hesitation.
And why would there be?
This is a contract.
I don’t need small talk. I don’t need warmth.
I don’t need anything from him.
But as he walks away without another word, I find myself wishing he’d said something else.