7:01 p.m. – Vale Industries Executive Lounge
The office was quiet after hours. Lights dimmed, hallways emptied, footsteps hushed behind thick glass.
Ava sat alone in the executive lounge, trying not to look too eager—or too cautious.
Her phone buzzed.
New Message – Damien Vale
> Private dinner. Tonight. 8 PM. Dress appropriately. Car will pick you up.
No context. No emoji. Just command.
She replied:
> Understood.
But her mind raced. Why dinner? Why so soon?
Ava stood, grabbed her coat, and made her way toward the elevator. Vincent was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He offered no smile, just a low glance down her body.
"You're quick," he said.
"I'm efficient," she replied.
Vincent followed her into the elevator. The doors slid shut.
"Dinner with the boss on day one?" he asked, voice laced with something between jealousy and suspicion.
"I didn't ask."
"Right."
He studied her, voice dropping lower.
"Be careful with Damien. He doesn't like to be played."
Ava offered a small smirk. "I don't play. I win."
The elevator dinged. She stepped out.
Vincent's voice echoed after her: "Everyone thinks that—until they lose."
---
8:00 p.m. – Damien's Private Dining Room
The restaurant wasn't listed on maps. It sat at the top floor of a private building, bathed in candlelight and moon glow, reserved for powerbrokers who sealed deals with $5,000 bottles of wine and unspoken favors.
Damien sat at the head of the table, already nursing a drink. He wore a black suit, no tie. Understated elegance.
Ava entered in a midnight-blue silk dress—modest in length but dangerously cut at the back. Enough to make him look.
He did.
"You clean up well," he said, gesturing for her to sit.
"I try."
The waiter poured wine. Damien raised a glass. "To loyalty."
Ava hesitated—then clinked. "And honesty."
He chuckled, sipping. "Let's not get carried away."
Dinner was exquisite: grilled sea bass, saffron risotto, roasted figs. But it wasn't the food that made Ava sweat—it was the silence between questions.
"So, Ava," he said between bites, "where did you say you were before this?"
She answered smoothly. "Three years at Arkos Securities. Mostly portfolio research."
"References checked out."
"Of course."
"But you left suddenly."
"Creative differences."
Damien leaned forward. "Were you… fired?"
A beat.
"I walked."
He stared for a moment too long.
Then, out of nowhere, he smiled. "I admire boldness. But I hate liars."
The words were casual—but they cut deep.
Ava sipped her wine to hide her nerves. "Then it's a good thing I'm not lying."
They locked eyes. Again.
The silence grew thicker. Heat rose between them—charged, unresolved, dangerous.
Then Damien stood. "Come with me."
---
Private Hallway – 8:45 p.m.
He led her down a corridor. No one else in sight. At the end: a sleek black door with a biometric lock.
"This is the archive room I told you about," he said.
Ava swallowed. "Why bring me here?"
"To test something."
He stepped closer, his presence enveloping her. His voice was velvet-wrapped steel.
"I like control, Ava. I don't offer it. I take it."
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She froze—but didn't pull away.
His breath touched her cheek. "If I opened this door… would you follow me in?"
Ava whispered, "Should I?"
Damien smiled. It was dark. Almost cruel.
"That's the question, isn't it?"
He leaned in closer—but didn't kiss her. Just let the tension burn.
Then he stepped back and turned toward the elevator.
"Goodnight, Ms. Sinclair."
And just like that, she was left standing in front of the one door she needed to open—burning with questions, and the sudden awareness…
She wasn't the only one playing a game.
---