In the Shadow Of His Heart

Chapter 3: Dinner Orders

The restaurant Damian chose was nothing like the places Ama knew. It wasn’t just expensive — it was untouchable, the kind of establishment where reservations were made months in advance and menus didn’t bother listing prices. The front was guarded by a guard dressed in black, who didn’t so much as blink when Ama approached, only opened the door as if he’d been expecting her.

Inside, crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a soft golden glow. Waiters in pressed suits floated across the floor, and every table was occupied by people who looked like they had the world at their fingertips. Ama felt utterly out of place, like a blemish on a perfect canvas.

Still, she walked forward, head high, because she wouldn’t let them see her c***k.

A host with a sleek chignon and a headset greeted her at the podium. Her lips curled slightly when her gaze swept over Ama’s cheap dress — the best she owned, but still worlds away from the designer outfits around her.

“Reservation name?” the host asked, her tone edged with practiced politeness.

“Wolfe,” Ama said simply.

At the sound of the name, the host straightened instantly, her demeanor shifting from cool disdain to sharp professionalism. Of course. Right this way.”

Ama followed her through the maze of white tablecloths and murmured conversations, heels clicking nervously on the polished floor. She spotted Damian almost immediately — he was impossible to miss.

He sat at a table tucked into a semi-private alcove, dressed in a black suit that looked effortlessly expensive, his tie loosened, but his posture still rigid, powerful. He radiated an aura that made it clear he wasn’t someone to approach casually.

Damian’s eyes lifted to her as she neared, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. His gaze was piercing, intense — as if he were stripping her down to the bones just by looking.

“Sit,” he said quietly, gesturing to the seat across from him.

Ama did as told, careful not to knock anything over. She placed her bag on her lap, her fingers gripping it tightly.

“You’re late,” Damian said, his voice low but firm.

Ama glanced at the clock on the wall. She was exactly two minutes past the time he had texted.

“I apologize,” she said, forcing the words out evenly. “The subway was slow.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Excuses again, Miss Mensah?”

Ama clamped her jaw shut. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like this, and it grated on her nerves. But she remembered the deal — remembered the stakes — and swallowed her pride.

“No excuses,” she said softly.

A ghost of a smirk played on Damian’s lips, and for a fleeting second, Ama wondered if he was deliberately testing her. Seeing how far she could bend before breaking.

A waiter appeared almost instantly, offering wine menus. Damian waved him off with a flick of his fingers. “Bring the ’94 Château Margaux.”

The waiter bowed and hurried away.

Ama blinked. She didn’t know much about wine, but she knew enough to realize that a particular bottle probably cost more than her monthly rent.

“You’re quiet,” Damian said, studying her.

“You didn’t invite me here for conversation, did you?” she asked carefully.

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes — approval? Amusement? She couldn’t tell.

“No,” Damian admitted. But if you’re going to be my assistant, I need to know how you handle yourself outside the office. In public.”

Ama frowned slightly. “You mean like…a test?”

“Exactly like a test,” Damian said, leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back. “This world isn’t kind, Ama. It’s ruthless. Just like me. If you can’t survive a dinner, you certainly won’t survive working for me.”

The waiter returned with the wine and poured it into tall glasses. Damian didn’t toast or smile or make any of the polite gestures Ama was used to. Instead, he simply picked up his glass and drank, his gaze never leaving hers.

Ama followed suit, sipping cautiously. The wine was smooth, rich — nothing like the cheap bottles she sometimes bought to forget the bad days.

They ordered food — or rather, Damian ordered for both of them without asking her preference: steak, rare. Ama didn’t argue. She doubted it would make a difference.

As they ate, Damian asked her rapid-fire questions.

“What’s your greatest weakness?”

Ama hesitated. “Trusting too easily.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “That’ll get you killed in my world.”

He sliced into his steak with precision, his movements sharp and deliberate.

“What’s your greatest strength?” he pressed.

Ama answered without thinking. “I don’t give up.”

That seemed to please him, though he didn’t say so outright.

Dinner progressed like a battlefield — every question another bullet fired. Damian asked about her past, her education, her failures, her fears. He listened carefully, noting every hesitation, every flicker of emotion.

Ama tried to be honest without revealing too much. She spoke about growing up in a poor neighborhood, about working three jobs to support her sick mother, about the nights she went to bed hungry. She didn’t tell him about the loneliness, the resentment that sometimes crept in when she saw other people’s easier lives.

By the time dessert arrived — a delicate crème brûlée she barely touched — Ama felt exposed, stripped raw by his interrogation.

“You’re tougher than you look,” Damian said finally, setting down his fork.

“Thank you?” Ama offered cautiously.

Damian leaned forward slightly, his expression hardening. “But don’t mistake kindness for weakness. I don’t care about your sob stories, Ama. I don’t care about your past. All I care about is whether you can be useful to me now.”

The words stung more than she wanted to admit.

“I understand,” she said quietly.

A tense silence fell between them. Around them, the restaurant buzzed with the soft clink of glasses and muted conversation, but Ama felt like they were sealed in their own little world — one filled with sharp edges and darker undertones.

Finally, Damian rose from his seat, tossing a few hundred-dollar bills onto the table without glancing at the check.

“Come,” he said, his voice brooking no argument.

Ama scrambled to her feet, following him out of the restaurant into the cold night air. The city lights blurred around them, a dizzying mosaic of color and motion. A sleek black car waited at the curb, engine idling.

Damian opened the door for her — a small, unexpected courtesy — and Ama slid inside. He joined her, slamming the door shut behind him.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the tension crackling between them.

Then Damian turned to her, his expression deadly serious. “There’s a charity gala tomorrow night. You’ll attend with me.”

Ama’s eyes widened. “Me? Why?”

“Because I said so,” he said coldly. You’ll be introduced as my new assistant. You’ll wear what I provide, say what I tell you, and do exactly as you’re instructed. Understand?”

Ama’s stomach twisted. She’d barely survived dinner — now she was supposed to navigate a room full of billionaires and politicians?

“Yes,” she whispered. “I understand.”

Damian’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “Good.”

The car pulled away from the curb, the city racing past in a blur.

Ama stared out the window, her

heart hammering.

She was far deeper than she’d ever imagined.

And somehow, she knew:

Tomorrow will change everything.