Chapter Three
6:01 A.M.
The elevator doors slid open onto the top floor of Wolfe Enterprises.
Celine stepped out into an ocean of glass, marble, and silence. The sky outside was still tinged with early dawn, streaks of pale pink bleeding into steel grey. The reception desk was empty—of course it was. No one sane started at this hour.
Except him.
Her heels clicked softly on the marble as she approached Damian Wolfe's private office, a towering corner space encased in floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking half of Manhattan. The view was power itself. You didn't need to ask who ruled this building. The skyline bowed to it.
She raised her hand to knock—when the door opened on its own.
He was already waiting.
Damian stood behind his desk, black dress shirt rolled to his forearms, dark grey slacks cut sharp. No tie today. No jacket. He looked both casual and lethal as if this office doubled as a war room.
His eyes lifted slowly to meet hers—cool, unreadable, and then… something else. A flicker of memory from the red dress the night before.
"You're late," he said.
"It's six-oh-one."
He held up his watch. "Discipline is a matter of seconds. Not minutes."
She arched a brow but said nothing. Her palms were slick, her heart annoyingly aware of how closely he was watching her.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the single chair opposite his desk.
She sat.
He didn't.
Instead, he rounded the desk, hands in his pockets, circling her like a man reading a very valuable, very volatile report.
"You surprised me last night."
"I'm not here to surprise you."
"No," he said softly, "you're here to learn how this world works. And decide if you can survive in it."
She didn't flinch.
He stepped closer, now standing beside her, not behind the desk—but beside her, like an ally. Or a storm.
He placed a thick file in front of her.
"Open it."
Inside: financial documents. Contracts. Non-disclosure forms. A blueprint of the merger between Wolfe Enterprises and Marlowe Global that had been shelved after her father's incident. And at the top… a copy of the Marlowe-Wolfe Confidential Agreement, with her name now typed under "junior signatory."
She blinked. "You want me… involved in this?"
"I want you to understand it. And then decide whether you want in."
Celine looked up at him, her voice low. "Why are you trusting me with this?"
Damian's gaze lingered on hers for a long beat. "Because the board already thinks you're just your father's puppet. I want them to be wrong. Prove it."
The next few hours were a blur of controlled chaos.
Damian walked her through legal clauses, hostile shareholder structures, and merger complications. His brilliance wasn't just intimidating—it was surgical. He didn't teach; he dissected. And she absorbed every cut.
There were moments when she wanted to scream. Others when she caught him watching her—not with desire, but something more dangerous: calculation. Curiosity.
At exactly 9:00 A.M., he dismissed her.
"I'll expect your take on clause six by tonight. Verbally. No notes."
She stood, confused. "Tonight?"
He smirked. "You're having dinner with me."
Before she could argue, he returned to his computer. Dismissed.
The conversation was over.
But the game?
It had just begun.
Later That Evening – The Private Penthouse Lounge
When she arrived, she expected a restaurant.
She didn't expect Damian's penthouse.
The elevator opened directly into his private lounge—a vast space wrapped in glass and brushed steel. Black marble floors. A fireplace is as tall as a man. And in the center, a long mahogany dining table set for two, beneath a hanging crystal chandelier.
Celine paused in the doorway. "You said dinner."
"I didn't say where."
He poured two glasses of wine—deep red. Like the dress. She wore navy this time, more reserved, but the effect wasn't lost on him. His gaze swept over her like a signature being read.
"Clause six," he said, handing her the glass.
She took it, voice steady. "The non-compete loophole hidden in the proposed acquisition. LangCorp could use it to corner the South Asia exports."
He smiled.
Not cruelly. Not gently either.
"Good," he murmured. "Very good."
They dined slowly. Talked strategy. She asked questions. He challenged them. He didn't treat her like a child or a burden. He treated her like a rival in training.
And that… thrilled her more than it should've.
But it wasn't until dessert—just the two of them, the city lights spread out like spilled diamonds—that the conversation shifted.
"What are you doing here, Celine?"
His voice was smooth, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable—like velvet sheathing a blade.
Celine set down her fork slowly. The chocolate soufflé he'd flown in from Paris suddenly felt like lead in her stomach.
"I told you," she said. "My father left a mess. I'm here to help clean it up."
Damian leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, eyes fixed on her like he could hear everything she wasn't saying.
"No," he said quietly. "That's what you think you're doing. What I'm asking is why you're still here—sitting in front of a man like me—knowing exactly how dangerous this world is."
A chill danced across her skin.
She swallowed. "Because walking away would mean letting them win."
"Them?"
"The board. The press. The people who look at me like I'm nothing but a last-minute substitute in a game I wasn't even invited to."
Damian's expression didn't change, but something in his posture did—just a tilt of his head, a flicker of interest behind his cool grey eyes.
"I admire conviction," he said. "But in this world, conviction without strategy is suicide."
She met his gaze head-on. "Then teach me to survive it."
Silence stretched between them, thick with meaning. The air in the room shifted, electric, tight.
Then Damian stood.
Without a word, he walked over to a black lacquered cabinet against the wall, unlocked it, and withdrew a small leather box.
He returned and placed it in front of her.
"What's this?" she asked, eyeing it cautiously.
"Open it."
She did—and gasped.
Inside was a slim, vintage Montblanc fountain pen, its gold trim gleaming beneath the chandelier light.
"My first pen," Damian said, his voice a little softer now. "I signed my first contract with it. A deal that made me the youngest partner in the city's most ruthless investment firm."
Her eyes snapped up. "Why are you giving this to me?"
"I'm not," he said. "I'm loaning it to you."
Celine blinked.
"If you want to prove you're more than just Marlowe's daughter… then sign your beginning."
There, tucked beneath the pen, was a fresh contract.
A formal apprenticeship under Damian Wolfe, with limited decision-making power—but direct access to everything. Strategy, legal, financial, and corporate warfare. She'd be stepping into the lion's den.
It wasn't just mentorship.
It was immersion.
"Sleep on it," Damian said, his voice low as he stepped closer. "But know this—once you sign, there's no going back. No second chances. I don't protect. I don't soften the blows. I make killers out of lambs."
"And if I stay a lamb?" she asked quietly.
He leaned in, so close his breath stirred the hair by her ear.
"Then I'll devour you."
Celine's heart thundered.
And just like that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of his penthouse, leaving her alone with the city, the pen, and a decision that could end her—or forge her into something more dangerous than she ever imagined.
Chapter Three Cliffhanger Ending:
As the door hissed shut behind him, Celine picked up the pen, her fingers trembling.
Then she saw it—etched faintly into the underside of the lid:
"You don't win by being right. You win by being unforgettable."
Her reflection stared back at her in the black lacquer.
And for the first time since she arrived in this twisted world of billionaires, betrayals, and brutal games…
She felt the fire rise.
Celine Marlowe wasn't going to survive Damian Wolfe.
She was going to match him.
The pen felt heavy in her hand.
Not just in weight—but in what it meant.
Celine traced a fingertip along the engraved initials on the cap. D.W. Damian Wolfe. A man built like a sin and carved in shadow, who could destroy a legacy with a single sentence—and yet here he was, offering her the very weapon he once used to rise.
The glass walls around her reflected the skyline, glittering with dangerous promise. Beneath her, the city kept breathing, indifferent and brutal.
She didn't sleep on it.
She signed.
With her name inked in deliberate strokes across the bottom line, the apprenticeship became real. It was the first move she made not to defend her father's empire… but to claim something of her own.
Her fingers hovered over the paper after the last letter. Not shaking anymore.
She wasn't scared.
She was hungry.
And Damian Wolfe had just fed her ambition.
Later That Night – 11:43 P.M.
Celine sat on the edge of the massive bed in the guest suite Damian had assigned her upstairs—because of course his penthouse had multiple wings.
She was still in her navy dress, her curls now slightly tousled, mascara smudged just beneath her eyes. The city pulsed outside like a heartbeat.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
Meet me downstairs. You have five minutes.
Her heart skipped.
She slipped on her heels, threw on a structured blazer, and padded out into the hallway.
The elevator opened onto a dimly lit private floor. Not a lounge. Not an office.
A training room.
Not for fitness. For war.
There were mock boardroom tables. LED screens flashing stock market changes. Audio recordings playing in loops—angry investors, fake press conferences, crisis simulations.
And Damian—already there, in black, barefoot on the hardwood, holding a folder in one hand and a stopwatch in the other.
Celine froze. "What is this?"
"Your second lesson," he said. "Theoretical pressure is easy. Real-time decisions? That's where most people break."
He tossed her the folder.
Inside: a hypothetical case study—a hostile takeover scenario between two conglomerates. Scandal. Misappropriated funds. Explosive press coverage. The board had five minutes to decide who would take the fall.
She looked up. "I'm the board?"
"You're the CEO. Your father's replacement. Make a decision. Five minutes. Go."
He hit the stopwatch.
Celine stared at the pages. Her heart thudded. She read fast—names, companies, timelines. It was chaos. Misinformation. Half of it was fabricated to throw her off.
And then…
She saw it. A buried clause in a minor agreement—an NDA signed by a junior exec that could clear the board entirely if spun correctly.
She looked up at 4:58. "I make him the scapegoat. Offer him a seven-figure severance, and tie the announcement to a charitable pivot—donate half a million to mental health advocacy and frame it as a step toward accountability."
Damian's brows lifted slightly.
She wasn't just surviving.
She was maneuvering.
"Interesting," he murmured. "You sacrificed one pawn to protect the empire. That's not bad."
"It's not personal," she said, echoing his tone. "It's strategy."
A glint of dark amusement crossed his face. "Lesson three: You don't get to not make it personal. Everything becomes personal eventually. Especially if they bleed for you."
He stepped closer.
And the air between them shifted again.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "This training. This… manipulation."
"I'm not training you to survive the company," he said lowly. "I'm training you to survive me."
Her breath caught.
"I'm not afraid of you," she whispered.
Damian took one more step until they were only inches apart.
"No," he said softly. "But you should be."
He leaned in—not touching her, but invading her space, a storm barely restrained. His voice brushed her ear like smoke.
"Because the last person who stood this close to me tried to win… and lost everything."
Then he turned and walked away, barefoot, quiet, leaving her in the middle of a corporate battlefield with her pulse hammering and adrenaline thrumming through her blood.
Chapter Three Final Cliffhanger :
The lights overhead flickered off.
Only the city lights remained.
And Celine?
Standing, still holding the folder.
But something inside her shifted—hardened.
If Damian Wolfe thought he could break her…
Then maybe he didn't understand her after all.
She wasn't here to learn how to play the game.
She was here to rewrite the f**king rules.