Bought with Love

The invitation

Ava Hart’s phone buzzed three times before she finally looked up from the scattered mess of fabric swatches, open folders, and an empty coffee cup teetering on the edge of her kitchen counter. She had been knee-deep in organizing the next small wedding for a client who hadn’t paid a deposit, and the last thing she needed was another telemarketer or an overdue bill notice. Her small event planning company, “Hart & Soul,” ran out of her apartment in Brooklyn. A cramped space that smelled of lavender and ambition, littered with the ghosts of dream weddings and the scent of vanilla candles.

But something about the subject line in the email stopped her breath.

From: Wolfe Enterprises

Subject: Wolfe Foundation Gala – Planning Proposal

Her eyebrows knitted. She hadn’t submitted any proposal. Her hand trembled slightly as she clicked open the email.

> "You have been selected to coordinate the annual Wolfe Foundation Gala. Please report to Wolfe Tower, 2:00 PM sharp. Full details will be disclosed during your onboarding briefing. This opportunity is confidential and non-transferable."

There was no greeting. No signature. Just the kind of curt efficiency you’d expect from a company whose owner had made billions before thirty-five.

Ava blinked at the screen. Was this real?

She checked the address, the embedded watermark, the official email header. It all seemed legitimate. But how? Who referred her? She hadn’t even dared to dream of a contract this massive. She hadn’t dared to think about Alexander Wolfe since reading an interview in Forbes two months ago. Not after what happened in her past.

Two hours later, dressed in her most professional blazer and a pair of black heels she hadn’t worn since her cousin’s engagement party, Ava stood at the base of Wolfe Tower.

The tower loomed like something out of a sci-fi epic—fifty-five floors of glass, steel, and corporate ambition piercing the sky above midtown Manhattan. The building was intimidating, the kind of place that made you question if you belonged just by standing at its doors.

Her palms were sweaty. Her stomach churned with nerves and caffeine. She’d prepared for client meetings before. But this wasn’t just any client. This was Alexander Wolfe—one of the richest, most private billionaires in New York. A man with influence that could make or break careers with a nod.

She stepped inside, greeted by a polished marble lobby and the cool air of success. Her heels clicked with purpose as she approached the reception desk.

"Ava Hart," she said. "I have a 2 PM with Wolfe Enterprises."

The receptionist, a sleek woman with unreadable eyes, checked her list, nodded, and handed Ava a keycard. “Fifty-fourth floor.”

Ava nodded, took a deep breath, and stepped into the elevator. The ride was silent, the numbers ticking up slowly. She could hear her own heartbeat. The mirrored elevator walls reflected a woman trying to look calm but whose eyes betrayed the storm within.

When the doors opened, she was greeted by a tall, young assistant who said nothing but gestured for her to follow. They walked past a row of minimalist offices, where people typed with quiet intensity, and into a boardroom with a view so grand it stole Ava’s breath.

And there he was.

Alexander Wolfe.

He stood by the window, back turned, gazing over the city like he owned it. He did, in many ways. The stories about him were legendary—self-made billionaire, ruthless negotiator, emotionally impenetrable.

He turned slowly. Taller than she imagined. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that screamed power. Every feature on his face looked sculpted. But it was his eyes—gray and sharp—that made her breath hitch. Eyes that seemed to look through you, past your words, down into your soul.

“You’re younger than I expected,” he said.

Ava swallowed. “And you’re exactly as charming as the papers say.”

A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth. But it vanished quickly, replaced by his signature neutrality.

He motioned toward the table. “Sit.”

She did.

He slid a folder toward her. “This is the brief for the Wolfe Foundation Gala. Two weeks. No delays. Budget is fluid. Expectations are not.”

Ava opened it. The pages detailed venue options, guest lists, high-profile figures, sponsors, decor themes, security protocols. It was more than a gala. It was a political chessboard disguised in elegance.

“I don’t usually outsource this event,” he said. “But this year requires a different touch.”

Ava dared to look up. “Why me?”

He paused. “You came recommended. Discreet. Creative. Hungry.”

She didn’t know whether to feel flattered or insulted. But she knew one thing—this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

“I’ll need access to your logistics team, your calendar, and—”

“You’ll report directly to me,” he interrupted. “No middlemen.”

Ava blinked. “Every day?”

He nodded. “Is that a problem?”

She shook her head. “No. Of course not.”

“Good.” He stood. “You start tomorrow. 9 AM sharp.”

As she rose, he extended his hand. She shook it. His grip was firm, his palm warm. She felt something in that brief touch. Power. Precision. Distance.

And something else she didn’t understand yet.

“Don’t disappoint me, Miss Hart,” he said.

“I don’t plan to.”

When she left the room, she barely remembered walking back to the elevator. She was too consumed by what had just happened.

She, Ava Hart, had just landed the Wolfe Foundation Gala. She’d just stood in a room with Alexander Wolfe and walked out with a contract.

But as she exited the building and stepped into the fading afternoon light, her instincts whispered a warning she couldn’t ignore.

This wasn’t just business.

This was the beginning of something far more dangerous.

And falling for the client was never part of the plan.