Chapter 2: Eyes That Burn
915 Words
Time stopped in the elevator, and so did Camille’s breath.
The stranger’s gaze felt like fire and ice all at once. Bold. Commanding. Dangerous. He didn’t smirk like a man who was flirting. He stared like a man who already knew how this story would end.
And Camille didn’t like that.
No—not true.
She didn’t like how much she did like it.
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, needing a barrier. “You’re awfully confident for someone trapped in a metal box with a stranger.”
The man arched a brow. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you.”
He took a slow step closer.
Camille stood her ground.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
“Damien Wolfe.” His voice curled around his name like it was a slow-burning cigar. “And you are...?”
“None of your business,” she shot back.
He chuckled softly. “It will be.”
What the hell does that mean?
The elevator remained frozen between floors, humming with awkward tension. Or maybe not awkward—maybe electric.
Camille pulled her phone out. No service. Of course.
Damien leaned against the wall again, watching her. “You look like the kind of woman who hates being out of control.”
She snapped her head toward him. “And you look like the kind of man who thinks he’s always in control.”
“I usually am.”
“That’s a red flag,” she muttered, half to herself.
Damien’s grin widened, slow and lazy. “Maybe. But red is your color.”
Camille’s cheeks flushed. She hated that her body responded to the compliment. Hated the way her chest rose and fell just a little faster when he spoke.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she said firmly.
“Yet.”
She rolled her eyes and turned to face the control panel again, desperately pressing the emergency call button. Nothing. She cursed under her breath.
“You really don’t like being stuck, do you?” he asked from behind her, his tone laced with amusement.
“I don’t like being boxed in with cocky strangers,” she snapped.
He walked up behind her, close—too close. She could feel the heat of his body against her back, the quiet thrum of his breath. It made her spine straighten, her senses scream.
“You’ve got a fire in you,” he murmured near her ear. “Don’t let it go to waste.”
She spun around.
Big mistake.
Now they were face to face, just inches apart. Her hand was nearly on his chest. His scent—dark leather and something intoxicatingly masculine—wrapped around her.
“I’m not interested,” she said, voice tight.
He tilted his head, studying her. “Liar.”
Camille’s lips parted. “Excuse me?”
“You feel it too,” he said simply.
“No, I don’t.”
“You want to.”
She glared up at him. “Do you ever shut up?”
He smirked again. “Only when I’m using my mouth for something better.”
That did it.
She pushed past him and moved to the opposite wall. He let her go, laughing under his breath.
Minutes passed in silence. The tension didn’t die down—it simmered. It waited. And Camille didn’t dare meet his eyes again, because every time she did, she felt like she was playing with fire.
But something about this man was impossible to ignore.
He was the kind of man she avoided.
The kind of man who took.
The kind who broke hearts and didn’t apologize.
And yet, standing here, trapped with him… she wondered what it would feel like to let go for just one night. No names. No strings. No rules.
Her phone buzzed.
Finally—service.
She sighed with relief and called the front desk. Within minutes, the elevator jolted back to life, and the silence turned heavier. Neither of them spoke.
The doors opened at the penthouse floor.
Camille stepped out first.
He followed.
“Are you stalking me now?” she said, irritated but breathless.
“No,” he said, voice low. “This is my floor.”
She blinked.
“You’re... who my friend’s phone belongs to?”
“No,” he replied, and then stepped past her.
A door opened down the hall. A woman in heels rushed forward, looking apologetic and flustered. “Mr. Wolfe! I’m so sorry—I left my phone in the car and—oh!”
She looked at Camille, then at Damien, then quickly looked away.
Camille’s heart thudded.
The woman was her friend’s boss. She’d once mentioned him. Ruthless. Cold. Always got what he wanted.
Mr. Damien Wolfe.
The CEO.
Camille’s eyes snapped back to his. “You’re the client for the RAISE Gala?”
“Guilty,” he said, his mouth curving again. “Guess that makes us... business partners.”
Her stomach dropped.
No. No, no, no.
This was a professional job. One of the biggest of her career.
And now the man she’d flirted with, insulted, and fantasized about in a damn elevator… was her new client.
“I’ll see you at our first planning meeting,” he said smoothly. “Don’t be late.”
She opened her mouth to object—but the door shut in her face.
She stood there for several stunned seconds.
Then she muttered, “Shit.”
- Writer
