Eva – First Person
I never believed in fate. Only timing—and mine has always been cruel.
My phone buzzes again as the elevator climbs toward the forty-fifth floor of Wolfe Enterprises. I don't need to check who it is. My best friend Lila has been blowing up my messages since this morning:
Eva, are you seriously going through with this?
This is insane. Legendary. But also insane.
Please don't sleep with the man. I don't care how hot he is.
Too late.
Well—technically, I haven't. But the look he gave me yesterday when I handed him his coffee? It burned straight through my skin.
God, what am I doing here?
The elevator dings, and I step out into a hallway that smells like polished power and old money. Everything gleams—marble floors, glass walls, men in tailored suits who glance at me with practiced disinterest. Except I see it in their eyes. They don't know who I am, but they feel it.
I don't belong here.
And yet—I do. I earned this internship fair and square. Sort of. My credentials are real, even if my motives are anything but.
I smooth down the hem of my thrifted blouse, take a steadying breath, and walk toward the executive wing like I've been doing this all my life.
Because today, I'm not just Eva Sinclair, struggling art student.
I'm Eva Sinclair, the secret daughter of Damien Wolfe—the man who destroyed my mother.
The man I came to destroy.
I round the corner, and there he is.
Damien Wolfe.
He stands in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, sleeves rolled up, phone to his ear, brows drawn in deep concentration. The skyline stretches behind him like a throne he rules, and for a second, the oxygen leaves my lungs.
He's taller than I remember. Broader. Older, of course—he's 47, not 27 like he was when my mother fell in love with him. But he wears power like a second skin. The kind of man who owns everything he touches. Including hearts he never intended to keep.
He doesn't notice me at first. I'm just another intern with a clipboard. But then he turns, eyes sharp—and they catch on mine like a match striking.
Blue. Cold at first. Then curious. Then… something else.
Something I feel in places I shouldn't.
His voice drops as he finishes the call. "I'll handle it. Personally." He hangs up and walks toward me. Smooth. Measured. Like a wolf scenting blood.
"Eva, is it?" His voice is velvet over steel.
I nod. "Yes, sir. Eva Holden."
His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long. "You're the intern from Columbia. Art and business."
"Yes."
He studies me. Not the way a boss sizes up an employee. The way a man tries to place a face he doesn't realize he should know.
But he doesn't. Not yet.
God, if he did…
"Follow me," he says.
I obey, because that's what pawns do before they flip the board.
Inside his office, he gestures for me to sit. It's absurdly large. Minimalist. Masculine. No personal photos. No clutter. Just Damien Wolfe and the empire he built on charm, ruthlessness, and lies.
He sits across from me, his hands steepled, eyes never leaving mine.
"Why Wolfe Enterprises?" he asks.
I expected this. Practiced it in the mirror until my reflection hated me.
"Because your company funds a program for artists who want to understand the business side. I thought if I'm ever going to stop starving, I should learn how the wolves think."
He smirks, amused. "Clever."
"I'm serious," I say, leaning forward. "Artists are expected to be poor or passive. I'd rather be neither."
Something shifts in his gaze. Approval? Interest? Heat?
Don't let it show, I remind myself. He doesn't know. He can't.
But I know everything.
How he left my mother after promising her the world. How she wasted the next twenty years waiting for him to come back. How she finally told me the truth on her deathbed, with tears in her eyes and my hand in hers:
He was the love of my life. But he chose money over both of us.
She showed me the photos. Letters. The ultrasound she kept like a prayer. My birth certificate with his name left blank.
Now I'm here. In his company. In his office. Wearing her cheekbones and his eyes.
And he still doesn't know.
"Tell me something," he says suddenly. "What does an artist like you really want from a place like this?"
My heart thuds. I want revenge. Justice. Closure. But mostly—
I want to know why you abandoned us.
"I want to learn," I say aloud. "What it takes to build something that lasts."
He nods, slowly. "Then you're in the right place."
There's silence. Tension. Something unspoken stretching between us like an electric wire. His eyes lower to my mouth for half a second too long.
No. Stop. This can't happen.
Except it already is.
I get up quickly. "Thank you, Mr. Wolfe. I'll get started."
He stands too. Close. Too close.
"Call me Damien."
My stomach twists. I nod and leave, heart pounding. The door closes behind me, and I press my back against it, trying to breathe.
He doesn't know who I am.
But he will.
And when he does—he'll hate me for everything I've already set in motion.
But by then… it might be too late.
For both of us.