Chapter 3: The Offer I Never Wanted
1104 Words
Avena’s POV
They say first impressions matter.
And my first impression of Damian Carter?
A breathtakingly arrogant nightmare.
The moment I stepped onto campus, I spotted Sarah waiting for me near the entrance, a smug grin already in place.
"There she is," she called out, tossing her blonde curls over her shoulder. "Miss Panel Speaker, ready to take down a billionaire with just her words."
I groaned. "Don’t remind me."
She looped her arm through mine as we walked toward the main hall. "Oh, come on. It’s gonna be fun. And by fun, I mean you’re going to verbally destroy this man in front of a hundred people, and I’ll be there to witness it."
"Sarah."
"What?" She gave me a too-innocent look. "It’s not my fault you were born with a gift for sass. And let’s be real, men like him don’t hear ‘no’ often. I’m just saying, it would be so satisfying to watch him struggle."
"I’m not looking to start a fight."
"Liar."
I sighed. Okay. Maybe I was hoping to knock him down a peg. Just a little.
We reached the auditorium, and my stomach twisted slightly at the packed room. Students filled every available seat, whispering, some craning their necks toward the stage. Anticipation buzzed in the air.
And then, a shift.
A hush fell over the crowd.
And I felt it before I even turned.
That magnetic pull. The kind that made the air heavier, charged with something you didn’t quite understand but felt nonetheless.
I turned my head.
And there he was.
Damian Carter didn’t walk into a room. He owned it.
Tall. Ridiculously tall, at least six-two, dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit that fit him way too well. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline dusted with the lightest hint of stubble, and eyes so cold and piercing they made my breath hitch.
Every step he took was precise, effortless, as if he was completely aware of the way people watched him. And he knew they watched.
A Greek god, sculpted out of arrogance and designer fabric.
"Jesus," Sarah whispered beside me. "That’s unfair."
Yeah. Unfair was the right word.
Because Damian Carter wasn’t just handsome. He was devastating. The kind of man who made you forget your own name if you weren’t careful.
And I had zero intention of forgetting mine.
The lecture started.
His voice was smooth, deep, controlled.
Everything about him screamed power.
"Success isn’t about passion," he was saying, eyes scanning the room like he was assessing who was worth his time. "It’s about strategy. Discipline. You don’t wait for opportunities. You create them."
I crossed my arms, unimpressed.
He continued, unfazed by the sea of students hanging onto his every word. "Most people fail because they believe hard work alone is enough. It’s not. Smart work is what matters. Knowing when to move, when to adapt, when to—"
Blah, blah, blah.
The room was eating up his every word, and that irritated me more than it should have.
So when the Q&A started, I couldn’t help myself.
"Would you say the ability to manipulate people is your greatest asset, or is that just a side effect of being born with too much money?"
The room stilled.
All eyes turned toward me.
And then… his did too.
His gaze locked onto mine, something flickering in those stormy eyes—surprise? Amusement?
Whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it came.
Silence stretched between us, tension weaving itself in the air.
And then, he smirked.
Not a full smile. Not even close. Just a subtle curve of his lips, like he’d found something unexpectedly… interesting.
"Wouldn’t that depend on whether or not I care about manipulating you?"
A few students gasped. Someone coughed awkwardly.
But I? I just tilted my head, unfazed.
"So you admit it."
"I admit a lot of things." His voice was smooth, controlled. "You’ll have to be more specific."
I raised a brow. "Alright. What’s the most valuable thing a writer can have?"
His answer was immediate. "Discipline."
I expected that.
"Not talent? Not passion?"
"Passion fades. Talent is useless without effort. Discipline is the only thing that guarantees success."
I leaned back in my seat. "Sounds exhausting."
"Success usually is."
Our eyes held.
A battle of wills, quiet but crackling with energy.
And for the first time in a long time, I had the sinking suspicion I had just stepped into something much bigger than I expected.
The rest of the day?
A blur.
I sat through my remaining classes, but my mind was elsewhere.
On him.
On the way he had looked at me. The way he hadn’t dismissed me like the other students, hadn’t brushed off my words.
I didn’t like him. That much was clear.
But I was curious.
And I hated that.
When I got home, my father was already asleep. The apartment was silent, the only sound my fingers drumming against the kitchen table as I opened my laptop.
I had two new emails.
The first one?
From Carter Publishing Group.
I stared at the subject line, my pulse skipping.
"Job Offer – Editorial Assistant Position"
I clicked it open.
Miss Cross,
After careful review, we are pleased to offer you the position of Editorial Assistant at Carter Publishing Group. Your skills, academic record, and critical thinking ability make you an ideal candidate. We believe you would be an asset to our team.
Details regarding salary and benefits will be discussed should you choose to accept the offer.
We look forward to your response.
Best,
HR Department – Carter Publishing Group
What.
The.
Hell.
I blinked at the screen, my thoughts racing.
This had to be a joke.
I had not applied for this job.
I was still processing the sheer audacity of it when my second email loaded.
From Professor Graham.
Subject: Take the job.
Avena,
I recommended you for this position because I believe in you. I know working for Damian Carter isn’t something you ever planned, but this is an opportunity most writers would kill for. You’ll learn from the best, and this will open doors for you. Think about it.
Professor Graham
I stared at the screen, my mind whirling.
On one hand—working under Damian Carter? The last thing I wanted.
On the other hand…
A salary.
A real, steady paycheck.
Money that could help my father.
I clenched my jaw, exhaling through my nose.
I knew what I had to do.
But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
I clicked ‘Reply’.
And with that single action, my life changed forever.
- Writer
