Chapter 2 Lena

The last place Lena Carter expected to be on a Monday morning was the top floor of Wolfe Tower, standing in front of a man who looked like sin in a suit and spoke like every word was a contract.

She clutched her worn leather notebook like a shield, trying not to gape at the view behind him-New York stretching endlessly beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. Or at him, really. Ethan Wolfe looked like he belonged in a glossy Forbes spread, not a room with her, a ghostwriter from Brooklyn still paying off student loans.

"I read your samples," he said, voice low and unreadable. "You don't write like other biographers."

"I'm not a biographer," Lena corrected softly. "I'm a storyteller."

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile-more like amusement flickering behind storm-gray eyes. "Is there a difference?"

"Only if you care about the truth," she said before she could stop herself.

His brow lifted. "Do you?"

"Always," Lena answered. And she meant it.

He studied her, the silence heavy. Then he leaned back in his leather chair and folded his hands. "Fine. You want the truth, Miss Carter? Then write it. But I don't promise to make it easy."

Lena's heart skipped. Not from fear-but from the strange tension curling between them. She wasn't sure if it was challenge or chemistry. Probably both.

"I don't need easy," she said. "Just access."

He rose from his chair with the kind of smooth grace that should be illegal. "You'll have it. My schedule, my past, my world. But there are lines, Miss Carter-and some things, I don't talk about."

Lena nodded, spine straight. "Understood."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her cold.

"One more thing," Ethan said. "If you're here to fix me, don't."

She looked back, her voice soft. "I'm not here to fix you, Mr. Wolfe. I'm here to find out why you're broken."

And with that, Lena walked out-unaware that she had just cracked the first layer of a man who swore no woman ever would again.