Chapter 2 Terms of war

Vivienne stared at the glass conference room door like it was a guillotine.

Inside, Damian Wolfe lounged in one of the chairs, spinning a pen between his fingers with casual boredom.

She squared her shoulders, inhaled a breath sharp enough to cut, and pushed the door open.

Damian looked up, all lazy smiles and lethal charm.

"You're late, Hart."

Vivienne closed the door behind her with deliberate calm.

"I'm exactly on time," she said, sliding into the chair across from him. "You're just early. Overcompensating, maybe?"

He chuckled - a low, rich sound that curled under her skin.

"If I wanted to overcompensate," he murmured, voice dipping just enough to make her skin prickle, "trust me, you'd know."

Vivienne fought the blush clawing up her throat and reached for the folder she'd brought, snapping it open like a weapon.

"Let's be clear," she said crisply. "This is a working partnership. Strictly professional. We divide responsibilities, we stay out of each other's way, and we get Scarlet Press launched without killing each other."

Damian leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, shirt pulling taut across his chest in a way that felt almost obscene.

"And here I thought we'd be braiding friendship bracelets and confessing secrets at sleepovers," he said dryly.

Vivienne fixed him with a glare. "Grow up."

Something flickered in his eyes then - a flash of something real, something raw, gone as quickly as it came.

"You're right," he said, voice softer. "We work. We don't...whatever this is."

He waved a hand between them, as if trying to dismiss the thick, humming tension that hung in the air.

Vivienne tapped her pen against the folder.

"I propose we divide the imprint in half. You handle acquisitions. I handle editorial direction."

Damian arched a brow. "So you want me chasing new authors while you sit here polishing manuscripts and calling the shots?"

"If that's your interpretation," Vivienne said sweetly, "then yes."

He laughed - a genuine one this time, low and unguarded.

It hit her like a sucker punch.

Vivienne didn't know this Damian - warm, teasing, almost...charming.

And she didn't like how her pulse responded.

"Fine," he said, smile still tugging at his mouth. "But I have one condition."

She narrowed her eyes. "What?"

Damian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice dropping into something dangerously smooth.

"One strategy meeting. Every Friday night. Just you and me. No distractions."

Vivienne blinked. "Friday nights?"

He shrugged. "If we want to build something serious, we have to put in the time. Unless you're scared to be alone with me?"

Her cheeks flamed - not from fear, but from the sheer gall of him.

"Scared?" she said, voice like ice. "Of you?"

He smiled, slow and wicked.

"Of yourself."

For a moment, the air between them sizzled - full of words they couldn't say and touches they refused to make.

Vivienne stood abruptly, gathering her folder.

"Fine," she said. "Friday nights it is. But don't flatter yourself, Wolfe. I've survived worse than you."

Damian rose too, moving closer, his shadow brushing over her.

"Good," he said softly. "Because you're going to need that survival instinct."

Their eyes locked - an invisible thread tightening, pulling, daring.

The tension was a living, breathing thing now, crackling in the inches between them.

Vivienne broke the gaze first, yanking open the door and stepping into the hallway like the room was on fire.

Maybe it was.

Behind her, Damian's low chuckle followed her down the corridor - dark, amused, and far too knowing.