ELARA...
The email still glowed on Elara's phone when she woke. Lunch meeting. 12:30.
A simple command, yet it had rearranged her entire morning.
She stood before her closet longer than she cared to admit. Every outfit looked like it was trying too hard or not enough. In the end she chose the quiet middle—black slacks, cream blouse, hair pinned back. Professional armor.
Jamie passed behind her, munching toast. "You look suspiciously like you care."
"It's a business lunch."
"Right. And I'm applying for sainthood."
She tossed a pillow at him. "Eat your breakfast."
He ducked and laughed. "Relax, sis. You're good at your job. Even billionaires eat food, you know."
Elara managed a smile. "Thanks for the reminder."
By ten, she was at her desk pretending to focus on reports. Stella hovered nearby, grin sharp as caffeine.
"So, about this lunch—"
"Don't."
"Oh, come on! Mr. Voss doesn't eat with people. He absorbs them for nutrients. You have to tell me everything."
"I don't even know if it's real food or spreadsheets."
Stella leaned in conspiratorially. "If he orders salad, run. That's a power move."
Elara snorted despite herself. "I'll keep that in mind."
At eleven-thirty, Luke's message arrived: Car waiting outside. Please bring the data files.
Stella clasped her hands. "You're meeting the wolf in daylight. Brave woman."
The car was sleek and silent, its interior smelling faintly of leather and restraint. Elara clutched the folder in her lap as the city blurred past. She told herself it was just another meeting.
The restaurant was the kind that hid itself behind tinted glass and subtle wealth—no signboards, no noise. The maître d' greeted her by name and guided her to a secluded corner.
Damon was already there. Of course he was.
He rose when she approached, hand briefly touching the back of her chair as she sat. "Miss Quin."
"Mr. Voss."
The waiter melted away, leaving only quiet jazz and the pulse in her throat.
"You received the files?" she asked, opening her laptop.
"I did," he said. "But numbers can wait."
He was dressed simply—dark shirt, no tie—yet the air around him felt deliberate, precise. "You're efficient," he said. "Most people flinch under pressure."
"I had good practice."
His eyes held hers. "From me?"
"From life."
A faint curve touched his mouth. "Fair enough."
For a while they spoke of restructuring—budgets, timelines, market shifts. Normal words, abnormal intensity. Then he set down his glass and asked, "What drives you, Miss Quin?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You work harder than most. You don't chase credit, but you don't hide from challenge. Why?"
She hesitated. "Because work doesn't lie. People do."
"Interesting philosophy."
"It keeps things simple."
"Does it?"
Something in his tone unthreaded her calm. "I thought this was about publishing, Mr. Voss."
"Everything is about publishing," he said. "We just choose the stories we tell."
Elara met his gaze, steady but uncertain. "And which story am I?"
"The kind people underestimate," Damon said, knife cutting cleanly through his steak. "And that's dangerous—for them."
"Not for me?" she asked.
His eyes lifted, slow and deliberate. "You already know the answer."
The silence that followed was thick enough to taste. The waiter refilled their glasses, the sound of water against crystal slicing the moment.
She forced her attention back to her notes. "The editorial turnover will stabilize by next quarter. If you keep moving departments this quickly, you'll burn out your staff."
"I prefer efficiency to comfort."
"People aren't machines."
"I know," he said softly. "That's what makes them unreliable."
"Or human."
Something flickered behind his expression, almost regret, quickly masked. "You don't like obedience much, do you?"
"I don't like puppets."
He smiled, the kind of smile that knew it could unnerve. "Neither do I."
The conversation became a duel disguised as dialogue: every phrase measured, every glance a move. Elara found herself forgetting her meal, forgetting time. Only the subtle rhythm of him—his voice, his stillness—filled the space between.
When dessert arrived—coffee, nothing sweet—he asked quietly, "Tell me something you've never told anyone at work."
"Why?"
"Because curiosity reveals more than résumés."
She hesitated, then said, "I don't like closed doors."
"Claustrophobic?"
"No," she said. "I just don't like being locked out."
He leaned back, studying her as though committing the words to memory. "Then I'll try not to lock them."
Her pulse jumped. You already do, she thought.
Outside, sunlight hit like clarity she hadn't asked for. Luke appeared, efficient as ever. "Car's ready, Miss Quin."
Damon stood beside her on the curb, his shadow crossing hers. "Thank you for lunch," she managed.
He nodded. "You held your ground. Most don't."
"I wasn't fighting."
"Good," he said, stepping closer so his voice dropped just above a whisper. "Because I haven't started yet."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving her heartbeat scattered across the sidewalk.
Back at the office, Stella practically pounced. "You're alive! Tell me everything."
"It was work."
"Work doesn't make your cheeks look like that."
Elara grabbed her files. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."
Stella grinned. "Alex dropped by, by the way. Asked if I'd seen you. I think he's spying for Damon."
"Then you should charge him for intel."
"Tempting."
Their laughter eased the tightness in Elara's chest—for a moment, she could almost forget the way Damon's words still hummed in her ears.
DAMON...
Night settled over the penthouse like smoke. Damon stood by the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, city burning beneath him.
Luke's voice drifted from the doorway. "Everything all right, sir?"
"She's sharper than I thought," Damon said.
"The lunch went well?"
He considered that. "She doesn't flinch anymore."
"That's good."
"No," Damon said, quiet but certain. "It's dangerous."
Luke hesitated. "Shall I schedule another meeting?"
"Not yet. Let her think she's safe."
When Luke left, Damon poured himself a drink. The glass caught the light like a wound.
He replayed her words—I don't like closed doors.
He'd opened enough of them to know how darkness looked on the other side.
He told himself it was still business.
But when he looked at the skyline, he realized he was already calculating what would happen if she ever learned the whole truth.
She had walked into that lunch thinking she was being evaluated. But by the time it ended, Damon Voss looked like the one being tested.