Chapter 3 Irresistible Control

Emery didn't sleep that night.

She lay curled on the edge of her very-small bed in her portable apartment, the city bleeding neon light through the thin curtains. The hum of traffic echoed up from the street below-sirens, horns, laughter-but she barely heard it.

Her mind was back on the 74th floor. Back in that glass-walled office. Back in his voice.

Damien Hale.

She'd heard his name before she ever moved to New York. Everyone had. His empire stretched across continents-real estate, biotech, defense contracts, luxury hotels. He owned skyscrapers. Airports. Three private islands.

And he had built it all himself.

His father had been a ghost-some say a Wall Street crook who vanished before Damien turned ten. His mother died not long after, and from then on, Damien was on his own. Foster homes. Boarding schools. By twenty-five, he'd taken his first company public. By thirty, he was worth a billion dollars.

By thirty-two, no one dared say no to him.

So why me?

Emery turned onto her side, eyes tracing the cracks in her ceiling. It wasn't modesty. She knew she was smart. She worked hard. She'd graduated top of her class at NYU's business school after growing up with nothing but hand-me-downs and weekend jobs.

But she wasn't powerful. She wasn't polished. She didn't belong in a world of tailored suits and six-figure watches.

And yet... when he'd looked at her, she'd felt seen.

Like he could see right through her skin. Down to every flaw, every scar she thought she'd hidden. And worse-like he wanted them.

Like he wanted her.

Not politely. Not sweetly.

Like possession.

The Next Morning –on the 74th Floor

The elevator doors slid open again.

This time, Emery didn't hesitate.

She wore a simple black blouse, black loose pants, and shoes she'd shined twice. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and she wore no makeup. Not because she wanted to make a point-but because she had no idea what he expected, and she wasn't about to pretend to be someone else.

The office was empty when she stepped in. Too quiet.

No reception desk. No assistants. Just a vast space of silence, dark wood floors, and art that looked like it cost more than her entire education.

Then:

"Close the door."

His voice. Smooth, low, like honey flowing.

She turned.

Damien Hale stood by the window, back to her, a glass of water in one hand, shirt sleeves rolled up. His watch gleamed in the morning light. He didn't turn to look at her.

Emery swallowed and obeyed.

When the door clicked shut, he finally turned.

And looked at her like she was danger.

"You're here."

"I said I would be," she managed.

He took a step closer. "A lot of people do. Most of them disappoint me."

She didn't know what to say to that. So she said nothing.

Damien walked to his desk. "You'll work from this floor. You'll handle everything I don't have time to think about-calls, schedules, memos, meetings, damage control. You'll be in every room I am unless I say otherwise. Understood?"

Emery nodded slowly. "Yes, Mr. Hale."

His eyes flicked to hers.

"I prefer Damien."

She hesitated. "Okay... Damien."

The way his name sounded in her mouth shifted something in the air between them. His gaze didn't soften-it intensified.

"You said you were from the Bronx?" he asked, unexpectedly.

She blinked. "Yes. How did you-?"

"I read your file last night." He sat down, every motion deliberate. "Scholarships. Part-time jobs. Straight As. Full ride. You worked in a corner deli until three months ago."

She stiffened. "Is that a problem?"

"No," he said. "It's the most interesting thing about you."

She frowned.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Most people come to me polished. Pretending. You didn't."

"Because I didn't ask for this job."

His lips twitched-almost a smile. "Exactly."

Something about him unsettled her. Not just his wealth or confidence or his eyes, which seemed to flicker with shadows beneath the charm.

It was the feeling that there was a second version of him.

One he kept caged.

And she wasn't sure which one had chosen her.