The skyline outside the Wolfe Dynamics executive floor was cold and steel-toned, bathed in early morning fog. At 7:14 AM, most of the building still slept—but Damian Wolfe did not.

He had been at his desk for over two hours.

His espresso sat untouched, his sleeves rolled back with precise, practiced creases. Three monitors glared in front of him, each displaying the same infuriating headline in bold font:

"Is Damian Wolfe Off the Market?"

"The Ice King Has Melted—Thanks to Vanessa Sterling?"

"Power Couple in the Making?"

He closed one tab. Then another. Then the third.

Behind him, the office door opened without ceremony.

"You’re going to give yourself a stroke," came Julian Cross’s dry voice as he stepped inside.

Damian didn’t look up. "You’re late."

Julian took a sip from his coffee and dropped into one of the chairs across from the desk. “I’m not late. You’re pathologically early.”

Damian didn’t bother responding. His fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair as he gestured vaguely toward the screen. “It’s everywhere. Seven major platforms. This is the narrative now.”

Julian followed his gaze, then smirked. “To be fair, you do look unusually... pleasant in that photo. Like someone slipped a tranquilizer into your bourbon.”

“It was a smirk. At a joke. From a woman who took the moment and ran with it.”

“PR execs do that,” Julian said with a shrug. “You left a vacuum. She filled it.”

Damian’s jaw flexed. “The gala is in three days. Everyone’s going to expect her there. Or worse—assume I’m hiding her.”

Julian leaned back. “You could just let it play out.”

“Absolutely not.” His tone was sharp, final. “I won’t be maneuvered into a narrative I didn’t create.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “You sound more like your father when you’re mad. You know that, right?”

Damian didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his chair slightly toward the floor-to-ceiling window, eyes narrowing at the city below. His reflection stared back at him in the glass: all clean lines, cold composure, and quiet exhaustion.

The knock came just then—soft, deliberate. Rhythmic.

He didn’t turn. “Come in.”

The door opened, and I stepped inside—folders in hand, posture precise, movements quiet. I was always like that. Efficient. Unobtrusive. Never wasting time with unnecessary words.

I crossed the office, heels light against the polished floor, and placed a stack of contract revisions neatly on his desk. Perfectly aligned.

Julian gave me a small nod from where he sat. Damian didn’t say a word at first. His eyes lingered on the folders—then shifted to me. Something unreadable flickered behind his gaze.

And then, without planning it, he spoke.

“I need you to be my fake girlfriend.”

The room froze.

Julian blinked. His eyebrows climbed, slow and amused. Even I paused mid-step, hands falling still at my sides.

Damian leaned back in his chair with a slow exhale, rubbing the tension from the bridge of his nose.

“This Sterling photo has created a narrative I didn’t authorize,” he said, voice clipped, almost clinical. “The press thinks I’m seeing her. The board is amused. The public is fascinated. And Vanessa is exploiting it.”

He looked briefly at the photo still open on the screen—her face, his half-smile, a moment taken wildly out of context.

“If I show up at the gala alone, it fuels the fire. If I show up with her, it validates it. But if I appear with someone grounded, someone not involved in the circus...” He trailed off, then looked at me again, more directly this time. “It kills the noise.”

Julian gave a soft laugh. “And of course, you’ve landed on the least complicated solution possible.”

“I need someone professional. Someone who won’t turn this into a spectacle. Someone I trust.”

There was weight in that last word. Quiet, but heavy.

Damian didn’t wait for a reply. He simply stood, adjusted the cuff of his shirt, and turned back toward the window.

I was still there—silent, poised, unreadable.

“I’ll have my office draft the event itinerary by noon,” he added without turning around. “You’ll be briefed.”