2 Rules of Engagement
991 Words
The morning sun bled through Ava Hart’s blinds like molten gold. But sleep had long since escaped her. She’d spent most of the night pacing her tiny apartment, re-reading the Wolfe Gala dossier, organizing her notes, and second-guessing every outfit in her closet. Her brain buzzed with ideas and anxieties—how to impress a man who wasn’t easily impressed, how to stay grounded when the stakes were so high.
At precisely 8:03 AM, she was in a cab, her planner and tablet clutched tightly on her lap, dressed in a navy sheath dress with modest heels and her lucky gold earrings—a gift from her mother before she passed.
By 8:48, she was at Wolfe Tower, passing through security again, keycard in hand. This time, the receptionist nodded without a word, and the assistant—blonde, silent, efficient—was waiting to lead her upstairs.
When Ava stepped onto the fifty-fourth floor, she wasn’t taken to the boardroom. Instead, she was led through a maze of glass offices until they reached a private suite with her name etched on the glass door: Ava Hart – Event Consultant.
She blinked. Her own office?
Inside was a sleek desk, a large screen, shelves already stocked with materials, and a steaming cup of coffee with her name written on the lid.
“What the…” she murmured.
Then she heard it—his voice.
“Get used to it.”
She turned.
Alexander Wolfe stood in the doorway, impeccable as ever. No tie today. Just a black button-down rolled at the sleeves, revealing strong forearms and an expensive watch. He looked infuriatingly composed, like chaos bowed before him.
“I figured if you’re working for me, you should have a space worthy of the task,” he said.
Ava cleared her throat. “Thank you. I wasn’t expecting this.”
“You’ll find I like surprises,” he said. “Sometimes giving them. Rarely receiving.”
She smiled, trying to hide the way her chest fluttered.
He stepped into the room, placed a sleek black folder on her desk.
“Your first deliverables,” he said. “Design mock-ups, vendor lists, and a draft of the press release by Thursday.”
“Thursday?” she blinked. “That’s three days from now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
“No. Not at all,” she replied quickly. “Just... tight.”
“Deadlines teach discipline.”
“I live by lists,” she replied. “Just didn’t expect this one to start sprinting.”
That earned her a look—a faint amusement in his eyes. “You’ll adjust.”
He turned to leave, then paused. “Oh—and dinner. Tonight.”
Ava’s mouth parted. “Excuse me?”
“I meet with every major consultant on projects of this scale. It helps me evaluate their instincts. 7 PM. I'll send a driver.”
With that, he was gone.
Dinner?
Ava stood in her new office, heart racing, wondering if this was part of the job—or something else entirely.
---
The rest of the day was a blur of onboarding emails, phone calls from luxury caterers and florists, and printing design templates she didn’t even remember making. She barely noticed the time until her phone chimed: 6:20 PM – Driver en route.
She changed in the office bathroom into a dark green wrap dress and low heels—elegant but not provocative. Just enough to show she respected the dinner without turning it into something else.
At exactly 6:55, a black SUV arrived. The driver didn’t speak. Just opened the door and nodded politely.
The restaurant wasn’t a typical five-star Manhattan hotspot. Instead, it was a secluded rooftop garden that seemed more like a secret oasis than a dining venue. Candles flickered. Classical music drifted softly. There were only four tables. Alexander sat alone at one of them, sipping a glass of wine.
“You’re punctual,” he said, standing as she approached.
“I’ve never been late to a client meeting,” she replied.
“Let’s keep that streak going.”
Dinner began with quiet observations—about the menu, the city skyline, the peculiar sweetness of the balsamic reduction. Then the conversation shifted.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked suddenly.
“Philadelphia. Small suburb outside the city.”
“Parents?”
“My dad left when I was nine. My mom worked three jobs. Died when I was twenty-two.”
His gaze lingered. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It made me who I am.”
He nodded, then offered, “My parents died when I was fifteen. Car accident.”
Ava blinked. That wasn’t in any of the articles.
“I don’t talk about it,” he added quickly. “Don’t ask why I told you.”
She didn’t. But the air between them shifted—heavier, realer.
They discussed the gala then—its potential to raise millions, the celebrities invited, the legacy it honored. But every now and then, a personal detail slipped in. Like how he hated olives. How she was allergic to shellfish. How neither of them had been on a real vacation in years.
By the end of dinner, Ava wasn’t sure what kind of meeting this was.
When the check came, he signed without looking.
“I’ll have my assistant confirm tomorrow’s agenda,” he said, standing.
She rose too. “Thank you for dinner.”
He looked at her. “Thank you for accepting.”
Outside, the wind had picked up. He walked her to the car.
“You’ll do fine, Ava.”
His use of her first name sent a quiet thrill through her.
“Goodnight, Mr. Wolfe.”
He didn’t smile. Just nodded. But something in his eyes flickered.
And as the car pulled away, Ava knew her life was no longer on the track she thought it was.
- Writer
