Chapter 3: Rules Are Meant to Be Broken
1324 Words
Camille walked into the RAISE Gala headquarters the next morning in a crisp navy blazer, heels that clicked with authority, and her planner clutched like a weapon. If she looked professional enough, maybe no one would notice the emotional hangover clinging to her like cheap perfume.
Last night hadn’t been a dream.
She really had been trapped in an elevator with Damien Wolfe, the billionaire CEO.
She really had flirted—then fought—with him.
And he really was the new client.
God.
She mentally screamed into the void while pasting on her brightest event-planner smile. She’d worked too hard for this project. It was her first major independent contract since leaving her toxic ex-boss, and if she played it right, the gala could open doors to a whole new level of clientele.
If she screwed it up because of some accidental elevator s****l tension?
She’d never forgive herself.
Camille walked into the meeting room, where a few junior planners and coordinators were already setting up. A spread of pastries and overpriced bottled water sat untouched at the center of the long conference table.
She was early.
Good.
She needed time to pull herself together.
Ten minutes later, the door opened—and Damien Wolfe strolled in like he owned the room. Because technically, he did.
Dark suit. Loosened tie. Cufflinks catching the light. That same maddeningly smug expression.
Camille’s breath snagged before she could stop it.
He didn’t acknowledge anyone else. His eyes went straight to her. Bold. Sharp. Intrigued.
She forced herself not to look away.
“Miss Hart,” he said smoothly, sliding into the seat across from hers. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“It’s a small city,” she said coolly.
“Is it?”
She took a slow breath and opened her notebook. “Let’s keep this professional.”
“Of course.” He leaned back, folding his hands over his lap. “I’d never mix business with...pleasure.”
Her pen snapped.
The team assistants looked up, startled, but Camille smiled tightly and calmly reached into her bag for a spare.
He was testing her. She knew it. He wanted her off-balance, wanted to remind her that last night hadn’t been a coincidence. And she refused to give him the satisfaction.
The rest of the team arrived shortly, and the meeting began. Camille led the discussion with practiced ease, detailing event timelines, decor themes, VIP guest lists, and venue inspections. She didn’t stumble once. Her voice was steady, her posture composed.
And yet, the entire time, she felt his eyes on her.
Watching. Waiting.
Like he was peeling back layers she hadn’t meant to reveal.
---
An hour later...
The meeting wrapped. Everyone began to shuffle out, talking softly in pairs. Camille stood, gathering her things, determined to escape before Damien could corner her again.
Too late.
“Miss Hart,” he said from behind her, voice silk and heat.
She turned. “Mr. Wolfe.”
“Walk with me?”
“No.”
He blinked, then chuckled. “I admire the honesty.”
“I admire boundaries. Let’s keep this professional, remember?”
He stepped closer. “You can’t deny we have chemistry.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You think because you’re rich and attractive that I’m supposed to fall at your feet?”
“Not at all,” he said, his tone suddenly quiet. “I want you to fight me. It’s more fun that way.”
Her mouth opened—but no sound came out.
Who was this man?
He wasn’t just some arrogant CEO. He was dangerous—charismatic in a way that made women lose their minds. And Camille had never been the kind to lose hers over a pretty face.
She took a breath. “If you want this gala to be a success, we stick to business.”
“Fine,” he said. “Business only.”
Then, with that same maddening confidence, he leaned in close and whispered, “But I should warn you... I’m very persuasive.”
Her heart thudded.
He stepped back, gave her one last smirk, and walked away—leaving her pulse racing and her logic screaming.
---
That evening...
Camille slammed the door to her apartment and tossed her keys into the bowl by the door. Her best friend, Nina, was already curled on the couch with a glass of wine.
“Bad day?” Nina asked.
“Disaster,” Camille groaned, collapsing beside her.
Nina passed the glass. “Tell me everything.”
Camille hesitated. Then blurted, “Remember the guy I got stuck in the elevator with?”
Nina raised a brow. “The hot one?”
“He’s my client.”
Nina choked on her wine. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Damien Wolfe?”
“Yes!”
Nina stared at her, then slowly grinned. “Girl. That’s not a disaster. That’s a romance novel.”
Camille groaned. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m serious. That man is insane levels of hot. You two are already having steamy elevator encounters. You can’t write this stuff!”
“I’m trying to be professional.”
Nina rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, try not to spontaneously combust next meeting. You were redder than your planner.”
Camille buried her face in a pillow.
The worst part?
She did feel something. A magnetic pull she couldn’t shake. And she hadn’t felt anything for anyone in a long, long time.
But it didn’t matter. He was a client. A complication.
And Camille didn’t do complications.
---
The next day...
Camille arrived early to the venue walkthrough—a rooftop garden in Manhattan lined with fairy lights and sleek glass walls overlooking the skyline. The gala was set for two weeks from now, and every detail had to be perfect.
She was reviewing floor plans with the florist when she heard his voice behind her.
“Beautiful choice.”
She turned, already bracing herself.
Damien stood at the edge of the rooftop, gazing out at the city. His profile looked like something off a movie poster—strong, angled, heartbreak waiting to happen.
Camille squared her shoulders. “Mr. Wolfe.”
He turned, his smile slow. “Back to formal, I see.”
“I’m here to work.”
He walked toward her, hands in his pockets. “So am I.”
The florist conveniently took a phone call, disappearing down the stairs.
Damien stopped in front of her, tilting his head. “You always this tense?”
“Only when rich men try to flirt with me while I’m on the clock.”
“Try?” He raised a brow. “That implies I failed.”
Camille flushed. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re irresistible.”
She swallowed hard.
Silence stretched between them like elastic.
Finally, she said, “Why me?”
“What?”
“You could have anyone. Why keep pushing this?”
He stepped closer. “Because you push back. You don’t fall at my feet. You challenge me. That’s rare.”
She blinked. “That’s not romantic. That’s predatory.”
He laughed softly. “You think I’m hunting you?”
She crossed her arms. “Aren’t you?”
He leaned in, his voice lower. “I’m warning you, Camille. If I wanted to chase you… I wouldn’t stop until you were mine.”
The words landed like thunder between them.
Her breath hitched.
Their eyes locked.
And for a split second, she almost—almost—leaned in.
But then—
“I have work to do,” she said sharply, stepping back.
His expression didn’t falter. If anything, he looked more amused. More intrigued.
“You can’t run forever.”
“Watch me.”
She turned and walked away, heart pounding, knees weak.
But even as she put distance between them, she knew one thing for certain:
She was already in trouble.
- Writer
