Chapter 5 The Night That Changed Everything

Time has a way of speeding up when you're not ready. And that's exactly what it did.

The day of the date arrived far quicker than I'd expected. One minute, I was replaying Damian Wolfe's words over and over in my head-"Would you like to go on a date?"-and the next, I was standing in front of my closet, feeling like I was preparing for a red carpet I had no business walking.

The pressure of the night pressed down on me. I stared at my wardrobe like it was a math problem I couldn't solve. I tried on almost everything I owned. Clothes were scattered across my bed, hanging off the back of my chair, and some even made it to the floor. Nothing felt right. I wasn't just picking a dress. I was choosing how I wanted him to see me.

Not as some random girl he ran into at a mall. Not just the one who slashed his tires.

I wanted him to see a woman who could stand next to him, who belonged in his world-without losing herself in the process.

Then I saw it. A red striped, armless gown tucked neatly behind the others, like it had been waiting for tonight. The fabric clung to me in all the right places, not too revealing, but bold enough to make a statement. It made me feel powerful. Paired with silver heels and a clutch to match, it was perfect.

I kept my makeup clean but sultry-bronzed eyes, red lips, and highlighter that kissed my cheekbones. My hair was soft and flowing, styled in a way that made me feel...angelic, but grounded. Feminine, but in control.

I took one final glance in the mirror and whispered to my reflection, "You've got this."

The venue stunned me into silence the moment I arrived.

It was nothing short of a dream. A five-star restaurant with glittering chandeliers, marble floors, and towering glass windows that gave a panoramic view of the city skyline. Everything about it screamed class and exclusivity.

No surprise-it turned out his family owned the place.

"Good evening, ma'am," the hostess greeted. "Mr. Wolfe is expecting you."

Of course he was.

She led me past dining tables draped in white linen and softly lit by golden candlelight. Conversations buzzed around me, but I felt like I was floating in a soundproof bubble.

Then I saw it. Our table. A VIP setup in a private corner near the balcony, elegantly decorated with a single white rose in a crystal vase.

I took my seat, heart pounding in anticipation. Minutes ticked by slowly, dragging me deeper into my own nerves. I wiped my palms against my dress, willing myself to stay calm.

And then, he arrived.

Damian Wolfe entered the restaurant like he owned time itself.

He was dressed in a jet-black tailored suit that looked like it had been sewn directly onto him. The fabric hugged his tall, lean frame, his crisp white shirt peeking through beneath a silk black tie. His thick hair was brushed back effortlessly, and his signature cologne-a mix of sandalwood, leather, and something uniquely him-wafted through the air.

He walked with purpose, eyes locked on mine.

"May I sit?" he asked, that smooth voice echoing just a little louder than it needed to.

"You may," I answered, trying hard not to let my voice betray the chaos going on inside me.

"You look stunning."

"You don't look so bad yourself," I replied, my lips curling into a smirk.

He smirked back, and with a simple clap of his hands, waitstaff appeared as if rehearsed. In moments, they laid out the most extravagant spread I had ever seen-lobster tails in garlic butter, smoked salmon tartlets, duck confit, saffron risotto, and an array of desserts too perfect to eat.

All of it arrived without him saying a single word.

I looked at the table, then back at him. "Do you always eat like this?"

He chuckled. "Only when I'm trying to impress someone."

I leaned in, playful. "Trying?"

He tilted his head, amused. "I take it I haven't succeeded?"

I shrugged, smiling. "The night's still young."

The conversation flowed more easily than I expected. We talked about art, books, our childhoods. I told him about my mother's obsession with baking, how the smell of banana bread always reminded me of home. He told me about boarding school, about losing his wife, about raising a daughter alone.

I hadn't expected that kind of vulnerability from him-not this early, not tonight.

"She was my anchor," he said, swirling the wine in his glass. "Losing her... changed me. Made me harder. Colder."

He looked at me then, eyes searching. "But lately, I've felt something... shifting."

I didn't ask what he meant. I knew.

"You're not like anyone I've ever met, Arielle."

I raised a brow, taking a sip of my drink. "How would you even know? You're too arrogant to see through people."

He laughed, low and rich. "You might be right. But you make it hard not to notice."

We shared a moment of silence. Not awkward, but heavy with meaning.

Then he said something that caught me off guard.

"I know I come off as proud and polished. But most days, I'm drowning. Between board meetings, shareholders, media scandals... it's exhausting. And lonely."

There it was again-another crack in the armor.

I found myself staring at him, trying to reconcile the man I'd imagined with the one sitting in front of me.

Maybe I'd been wrong.

Maybe there was more to Damian Wolfe than wealth and ego.

"You don't have to carry all of it alone," I said softly.

He nodded slowly, as if trying to believe it himself.

After dessert-some divine chocolate mousse and wine-I offered to call a cab. But he insisted on driving me home.

In the car, we didn't talk much. The city lights zipped past us, glowing reflections dancing across the windshield. Music played softly from the stereo-jazz, surprisingly.

When we reached my building, he parked and stepped out to walk me to my door.

We stood there for a moment, suspended in a bubble of quiet.

"Thank you," I said. "For the night. For everything."

"I should be thanking you."

I hesitated, then leaned in to hug him.

His arms wrapped around me, strong but careful, like he was holding something fragile.

And then, without thinking, I leaned in... and tried to kiss him.

But he stopped me-gently, but firmly.

"I won't rush anything," he whispered, his lips close to my ear. "But don't be surprised if I start showing up here more often."

Then he kissed my forehead.

Soft. Tender.

His fingers lingered on my shoulders for a heartbeat longer before he stepped back.

I watched him walk away, my chest tight with a mix of warmth, confusion, and longing.

Once inside, I closed the door, leaned against it, and exhaled like I hadn't been breathing all night.

My heart was pounding. My cheeks were flushed. My thoughts were a mess.

What had I done?

But more than that-what was happening between us?