Chapter 3 Friday Night Rules

The office was a different world after dark.

Gone were the endless footsteps, the ringing phones, the constant hum of ambition.

Now, only the city breathed beyond the glass walls - a sprawling, glittering beast.

Silent. Watching.

Vivienne checked her watch - 7:59 p.m.

Of course she was early.

Of course Damian wasn't here yet.

She slipped into the smaller conference room they'd claimed for their "strategy sessions," her heels muffled by the thick carpet, and spread her notes across the table.

Plans. Goals. Deadlines.

If she kept it clinical enough, maybe she could survive the next twelve months without throttling him - or worse, without wanting him.

The door creaked open behind her.

She didn't need to look up to know it was him.

The air shifted the moment Damian Wolfe walked into a room.

"You're punctual," he said, voice a rough purr.

"And you're late," she countered, refusing to glance up.

If she didn't look, maybe she wouldn't notice how he always smelled - clean, expensive, maddening.

"You wound me, Hart." He dropped into the chair across from her, sprawling like he owned the place.

She focused fiercely on her notes. "Let's get this over with."

"Don't sound so excited."

Vivienne finally looked up - and regretted it instantly.

Damian had ditched the stiff corporate suit for dark jeans and a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, throat bare where a tie should have been.

Relaxed. Dangerous. Devastating.

She hated how her stomach twisted.

"You're not dressed very professionally," she said, tapping her pen against the table.

He smiled lazily. "Friday night rules. Didn't you get the memo?"

Vivienne bit back a reply, shoving a folder across the table instead.

"This is the initial author list I'm proposing for acquisitions," she said crisply. "I've ranked them by-"

Damian didn't take the folder.

Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze pinning her in place.

"Why do you hate me so much, Hart?"

The question caught her off guard, slicing through the room's brittle professionalism.

"I don't hate you," she said automatically.

He smiled - slow and knowing.

"Liar."

Vivienne stiffened. "I hate what you represent," she corrected. "Privilege. Entitlement. People like you who think they can coast on charm and connections while the rest of us work twice as hard for half as much."

Damian studied her for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression.

"You don't know me," he said quietly.

"And you don't know me," she snapped back.

For a heartbeat, the silence between them vibrated with something more dangerous than anger.

Then Damian's mouth curved - that cocky, infuriating smile that made her blood heat for all the wrong reasons.

"Tell you what," he said, voice all velvet and challenge. "Let's make this interesting."

Vivienne narrowed her eyes. "I'm not interested."

He chuckled. "Too bad. Here's the deal: every Friday night, after we finish work, we ask each other one personal question. No dodging. No lying."

Vivienne scoffed. "Why the hell would I agree to that?"

"Because," Damian said, leaning in close enough that she caught the faintest whiff of his cologne, "whether you admit it or not, you're curious about me."

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"No," she said, standing so abruptly her chair scraped against the floor. "I'm not."

He stood too, a mirror of her tension, eyes glittering with dark amusement.

"Scared?" he murmured.

Vivienne stared at him - at the infuriating tilt of his mouth, at the way his voice wrapped around her name like a dare.

"Fine," she bit out. "One question. Tonight only."

Damian's smile was pure sin.

He dropped back into his chair, lazy and lethal, as if he hadn't just lit a match and thrown it between them.

"Alright, Hart," he said, propping his chin on one hand. "Here's my question."

Vivienne crossed her arms tightly across her chest, bracing herself.

His voice dropped to a low, dangerous murmur.

"What's the dirtiest thought you've ever had about me?"

The world tilted.

Vivienne's breath caught, heat flushing up her neck in a violent rush.

For a second, she couldn't move, couldn't think - trapped in the wicked glint of his eyes.

And Damian knew it.

He felt it.

She snapped her folder shut and shoved it into her bag.

"Meeting adjourned," she said tightly, striding toward the door.

Damian's low laugh chased her down the hallway - rich and dark and triumphant.

And as Vivienne fled into the night, she knew she'd just made a fatal mistake.

She was playing a game she couldn't win.

And Damian Wolfe was already three moves ahead.