HEIR OF RUIN: HEART OF STEEL

The lights of New York shimmered like scattered diamonds across the midnight sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city's chaos below, but inside the boardroom of Creed Industries, there was only silence, tension, and one man who owned everything he surveyed.

Damon Creed.

He stood at the far end of the table, hands folded behind his back, a tailored black suit clinging to his tall, muscular frame like armor. Every man in the room feared him. Every woman whispered about him. Damon was the ghost story told behind locked doors in boardrooms and back alleys alike-a CEO whose power didn't just build empires, it buried them.

And tonight, he was staring at a single profile on the tablet in his hand.

"Celeste Carter," he said, the name rolling off his tongue with measured weight. "New consultant for Marlowe & Cole?"

His second-in-command, Julian Knox, cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. She's the strategic asset they're placing on the merger. Harvard grad, background in international markets, low digital footprint."

Damon arched a brow. "Low digital footprint?"

"Suspiciously low. No social media, few press appearances, minimal public data. Almost like she doesn't want to be found."

Damon's lips twitched. Not a smile-he didn't smile. It was a flicker of something sharper. "Or she doesn't want someone to find her."

He handed the tablet back to Julian. "I want everything on her. Family. Friends. Enemies. Fake identities, if any. People who disappear usually leave a trail of bodies behind them."

"Yes, Mr. Creed."

The meeting was dismissed with a silent nod, and like shadows, the boardroom emptied. Damon stayed behind, watching the city blink at him through the glass. He didn't trust the quiet ones. And he especially didn't trust women who looked like angels but carried secrets in their smiles.

He turned away and walked toward his office, his mind already dissecting the puzzle that was Celeste Carter.

-

Celeste stood in front of the floor-length mirror, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from her crimson sheath dress. It was bold, too bold for someone trying not to be noticed-but tonight she had no choice. Being invisible wouldn't open doors. Tonight, she needed to be seen.

The gala at The Astoria Hotel was one of the most exclusive in Manhattan, a playground for the rich, the powerful, and the dangerous. She had spent years building this life-a new identity, a new past, a perfect resume. If Damon Creed looked too closely, she'd be finished.

"Celeste," a voice called from outside the dressing room. "Car's ready."

She stepped out, slipping her locket over her neck with practiced ease. Inside the tiny gold shell was a picture of her mother-before the blood, before the fire, before the name Moretti meant something you had to run from.

"Coming," she replied, her voice steady even if her heart wasn't.

She couldn't afford a single crack.

-

The ballroom was a sea of wealth and manipulation, women in diamonds and silk, men in suits stitched with quiet violence. Celeste navigated it like a trained assassin, her smile flawless, her handshake firm, her voice smooth as champagne.

But then she saw him.

Damon Creed.

She'd never seen him in person before, only in security footage, dossiers, and whispered stories passed through criminal circles like forbidden scripture.

He was taller than she imagined. Colder, too.

His presence was lethal.

Their eyes met across the ballroom, and the air seemed to shift. He didn't smile. He didn't blink. He just stared-studying her like a threat. Like prey. Like something worth hunting.

Celeste's spine straightened. She turned to the man next to her and resumed their conversation, pretending she hadn't noticed Damon at all.

But inside, she was burning.

He knows.

No, she told herself. He suspects. That's not the same.

She just had to stay ahead of him. For one more week. Maybe two.

And then she could disappear again.

-

Damon's gaze followed her through the crowd.

Who was she really?

She moved like someone born to wealth, but there was a precision to her gestures that came from training, not breeding. Her smile was charming, but her eyes scanned like a soldier's-counting exits, judging threats.

Not normal.

Not harmless.

He approached her slowly, giving her enough time to notice. She did.

Celeste turned as he reached her, her face a mask of polite curiosity.

"Mr. Creed," she said, offering her hand. "An honor."

He took it. Her grip was cool, measured, unshaking.

"Miss Carter," he said, voice low, smooth, laced with danger. "You hide very well."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"In your field, I mean. Strategic consulting. You've stayed out of the press, off the radar. Very unusual in this city."

"I find exposure overrated," she replied easily. "I prefer results."

He smiled then, a slow, wolfish thing.

"Results are why I'm watching you."

A pause.

"Should I be flattered or concerned?" she asked.

Damon leaned closer. "Both."

Celeste's stomach tightened, but she didn't flinch. She couldn't. Not in front of him.

He stepped back.

"Enjoy the gala," he said. "We'll talk soon."

She nodded, watching him disappear into the crowd like a storm vanishing over the horizon.

And then she exhaled.

He was dangerous.

Not just because he could expose her.

Because he intrigued her.

And that was far worse.