Forced to be with her
1122 Words
Damien POV
I stared down at the glow of my laptop screen, half-reading quarterly reports while a headache pulsed at the back of my skull. Numbers had always calmed me—columns of clean profit and projections that behaved exactly as they should. Unlike people.
The door to my study opened without a knock. Patricia stepped inside, moving with that feline elegance she had perfected over decades of pretending to be gracious.
She didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Have you seen it yet?”
I frowned. “Seen what?”
She tilted her head, an expression of feigned pity creasing her surgically preserved face. “The internet.”
I exhaled sharply. “Patricia, if this is about one of your charity galas—”
“Damien.” Her tone dropped to ice. “Look at your goddamn phone.”
I picked it up from the desk, irritation buzzing in my veins. The screen flashed with missed calls—some from board members, others from contacts I hadn’t spoken to in years. My brows knit tighter as I unlocked it.
The first message I opened was from my head of PR:
“Call me now. We have a situation.”
Another pinged in immediately, this time a link.
I clicked it.
My own face stared back at me on the gossip site’s front page—my hand at the small of a woman’s back as we entered the Grand Meridian Hotel. Another photo captured her turning toward me, long brunette waves spilling over bare shoulders. Her mouth was caught mid-laugh, her eyes glinting in the dim glow of the lobby chandelier.
Her.
The lady from last night.
The headline screamed in block letters:
“Wolfe Heir’s Secret Tryst: Who Is the Mystery Woman?”
Heat crawled up my neck, a rage that tasted almost metallic. I scrolled through image after image—her delicate hand on my chest, her face tipped up to mine as if she belonged there. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t known who she was then. Or that she’d looked up at me like I was something more than a hollowed-out bastard in a suit.
What mattered was perception—and this was the kind of scandal that cost billions.
Patricia watched me from across the room. “Care to explain why you were photographed stumbling into a hotel with a woman you’ve known for all of five minutes?”
I slammed the laptop shut so hard the sound echoed. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Oh, but you do,” she said softly, savoring every word. “Because the board is already calling. They think you’ve lost control. And if Wolfe Enterprises looks unstable, the vultures will come circling.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“You’d better,” she purred, moving to the door. “Fix it, Damien. Or you won’t be the only one paying the price.”
She closed the door behind her, leaving me alone with the shadows.
I turned back to the laptop, jaw clenched so tight my molars ached. My fingers flew over the keyboard, bringing up more articles, more speculation. Words like gold-digger, secret engagement, illegitimate child flashed in neon accusation.
The idea that she—Elara—had engineered this was the only thing that made sense. She’d played the timid, nervous little girl in that bar, fluttering her lashes like she was half-afraid of me. And I’d been fool enough to believe it.
Fool enough to fall for it.
My hand curled into a fist.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Mason poked his head in, face pale. “Sir, we traced the origin of the leak to one of the club employees. It looks like photos were sold to half a dozen tabloids overnight.”
“Find out how much they were paid,” I ordered flatly.
“Yes, sir.”
“And find her.”
He blinked. “Her?”
“The lady in the picture.” I didn’t know her name and didn’t care to either. “I don’t care what it takes. I want her here. Now.”
Mason swallowed. “Understood.”
When he left, I sank into my chair, my pulse a steady roar in my ears. A thousand scenarios played in my mind—her walking into another man’s arms, her telling this story to every parasite reporter who would listen.
The rage coalesced into something sharper, something cold.
If she thought she could humiliate me, she’d miscalculated.
By the time my security team tracked her down, it was after midnight. She was in some shabby apartment in the Bronx, exactly the kind of place I’d imagined—cramped, dingy, beneath her. She opened the door with wide, startled eyes that almost made me hesitate. Almost.
I stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. She stumbled back a step, hugging a threadbare cardigan around herself like it could protect her.
“You must be happy,” I spat. “You got exactly what you wanted. A few photos, a ruined reputation, and the chance to see me again.”
Her lips parted. “Damien, I didn’t—”
“Save it.” I advanced, crowding her back against the peeling wall. “Don’t pretend this wasn’t your plan. You played me. You think you can drag my name through the mud and walk away unscathed?”
Her hazel eyes shimmered, but I couldn’t tell if it was guilt or defiance. “I never sold those photos.”
I ignored her. Because if I let myself believe her for even a second, I’d lose the edge I needed.
“You’re going to fix this,” I said low. “You’re going to stand next to me in front of every camera and pretend you’re mine.”
Her breath hitched. “Pretend?”
I leaned in, close enough to feel her shiver. “Marry me. For one year. You’ll smile for the press, wear the ring, play the perfect wife. In return, I’ll make you rich enough to disappear.”
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.
“Or,” I added softly, “I can make sure you never work again. That your family loses what little you have left. Your choice, Elara.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “You’re serious.”
I smiled without warmth. “Deadly.”
For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
But her eyes—those big, haunted eyes—met mine, and I felt something I hadn’t in years. The tiniest flicker of doubt.
Too late.
This was the only way.
And if she hated me for it…
Better she hate me than destroy me.
- Writer
