Enter The Wolf’s Den
1063 Words
I wasn’t hired for my resume
Not really.
Yes, I had the degree, the internship, the polished LinkedIn profile. But Voss International wasn’t the kind of company that cared about how good you looked on paper. Here, only one thing mattered: how well you held your ground.
And from everything I’d heard, Damian Voss didn’t give second chances—or second glances.
The elevator to the 42nd floor moved like it was built to impress, silent and fast, with sleek mirrors and no buttons. You didn’t choose your destination here. It chose you.
The doors opened, and instantly I felt it—the change in air, the hush that came from fear or obsession, maybe both. Everyone walked like they were being watched. Everyone dressed like their future depended on it.
A woman in a headset approached me before I even took two steps out.
“Miss Hart?”
“Yes,” I replied, adjusting my blazer.
“You’re late.”
“It’s 8:59,” I said before I could stop myself.
She didn’t blink. “Follow me. Don’t speak unless spoken to.”
I nodded, keeping pace as she led me down a long corridor lined with glass walls and people who barely looked up from their screens. The whole place felt like a modern cathedral to capitalism. Cold, beautiful, and merciless.
At the end of the hall, we stopped in front of a door. Matte black. No nameplate. No indication that behind it sat one of the most feared and admired men in the corporate world.
The woman knocked once.
Silence.
Then:
“Enter.”
She looked at me. “Alone.”
I stepped inside, my breath catching the second the door closed behind me.
The office was huge. The city stretched out behind the wall of glass like a kingdom below its ruler. Every surface gleamed. Every object had a place. There was nothing soft here. Nothing accidental.
And standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, was Damian Voss.
The rumors hadn’t done him justice.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit so perfectly tailored it looked sculpted. His posture was controlled, rigid. Even the air around him seemed to obey. He hadn’t turned yet, but I could feel it—the energy in the room had shifted. And it was his.
When he finally turned, my body reacted before my brain could catch up.
Sharp jaw. Storm-gray eyes. A face that looked like it had been carved from stone and left in the cold. There was no warmth in him. Just focus.
“Miss Hart,” he said, his voice smooth and deep, like it had been trained not to waver.
“Yes,” I replied, clearing my throat. “Leona Hart.”
He didn’t offer a handshake. Didn’t invite me to sit.
“I’ve gone through twelve assistants in six months,” he said. “Some talked too much. Some didn’t listen at all. Most thought they could handle me.”
His eyes met mine. “They were wrong.”
I nodded once.
“I don’t tolerate mistakes. I don’t like explanations. And I don’t care about effort. You’ll be on call at all hours. My schedule is sacred, my time more so. You follow instructions to the letter. No questions. No improvisation. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Voss.”
He studied me for a long second. “Why are you here?”
“I applied.”
“Don’t be clever.”
I swallowed. “Because I don’t want ordinary. And I don’t scare easily.”
That earned a flicker in his expression—barely there, gone before I could be sure it happened.
He moved behind the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a folder.
“Three NDAs. Read, sign, and return. There are no exceptions. If you speak about anything you see or hear in this office to anyone, it won’t just cost you this job. It’ll cost you everything.”
I flipped open the folder. Triple copies. Legal jargon so thick you could drown in it. I didn’t hesitate. I signed all three.
As I closed the folder, he leaned forward slightly.
“I’m curious,” he said. “You didn’t flinch when I laid out the rules. Most do.”
“I’ve worked for difficult people before.”
“You’ve never worked for me.”
“No,” I said. “But I’m ready.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t have to.
“I doubt that,” he said. “But I’m willing to let you prove yourself. Starting now.”
He stood again, buttoning his jacket with one clean motion. “Cancel my lunch with Donovan. Reschedule the board meeting to three. And send something to my mother. Quiet, tasteful, expensive.”
I blinked. “You didn’t tell me about any of that.”
He paused at the window again, one hand resting on the edge of the frame.
“That was the test.”
Right. Of course it was.
I nodded, heart ticking faster. “Understood.”
As I turned to leave, his voice came again—lower now, silk wrapped in steel.
“You don’t ask many questions.”
“I figure if something’s important, you’ll tell me.”
Another pause.
“You’re wrong. Nothing I say is important. Everything is.”
I didn’t reply. I just walked to the door with purpose, because if I slowed down, I might trip over the weight of what had just happened.
Before I left, I glanced back. Just once.
He was already watching me.
One hand in his pocket. One brow slightly raised. Still assessing.
Still in control.
“You’ll need my mother’s preferences,” he said.
“I’ll figure them out.”
His mouth twitched at the corner. Not quite a smirk. But something close. “We’ll see.”
I closed the door behind me, exhaling for the first time in what felt like minutes.
The woman in the headset—still waiting like a shadow—looked me up and down.
“You’re still breathing. That’s a start.”
“Where’s Donovan’s extension?” I asked calmly.
She raised an eyebrow, then handed me a tablet.
I took it, turned away, and walked straight toward the unknown.
Whatever game Damian Voss was playing, I was already in it.
And I didn’t plan on losing.
- Writer
