Heat slammed into me the second I stepped across the threshold of Charles Damien's office. It was sharp and completely unwanted. It sliced straight through five years of iron discipline like a blade. My breath hitched once, barely audible, but it was enough.
Fire pooled low in my gut, spreading fast, deliberate, mocking every suppressant I'd swallowed that morning.
I kept walking, because stopping would have screamed weakness.
Charles Damien sat behind a massive obsidian desk, eyes locked on the document in front of him. Posture relaxed, yet the entire room bent around him like it knew who owned it. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline behind him, but the real power was in the man himself, broad shoulders filling a tailored black suit, dark hair swept back, jaw cut like it could break rules and unmistakably Alpha.
The kind that didn't need to growl to make the air thicken.
I reached the chair opposite him and stopped.
The heat didn't fade. It sharpened. My fingers curled at my sides as I forced my lungs to obey. Suppressants were still working—just not well enough. The realization settled cold and quiet in my chest.
Five years, of forging fake credentials, burying my real scent, becoming the perfect Beta candidate. All of it to get close enough to destroy the man who had crushed my father into bankruptcy and then suicide.
I wasn't abandoning the plan because my traitorous body decided to react at the worst possible moment.
He finished the page, then lifted his gaze.
The moment those steel-gray eyes locked on mine, the pressure inside me spiked.
His stare wasn't curious, It was clinical, possessive and itt catalogued my posture, the set of my shoulders, the micro-second delay in my breathing I'd already corrected.
"Eric Hart."
His voice rolled over me, low, controlled, weighted with command. Another pulse of heat ripped through my veins. My jaw tightened before I could stop it.
"Yes, Mr. Damien."
He leaned back in the leather chair, still watching me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve. "You're early."
"I prefer not to be late."
"Most people say that." A faint smirk ghosted his lips. "Few mean it."
I said nothing. Advantage came from silence.
He closed the file with a soft snap and set it aside. "You're aware this position doesn't follow standard structure."
"I am," replied almost immediately.
"And you still applied."
"Yes."
A measured pause stretched between us. Not awkward. Deliberate.
"Why?"
The question landed clean and direct.
Because you destroyed my father, and I've spent five years carving a path straight into your life.
"I work better in environments where decisions are made quickly," I answered instead. "This seemed like one of them."
His expression shifted, tiny, almost invisible.
"You've done your research."
"I make sure I understand where I'm going."
His gaze never wavered. "That implies you think you understand this place."
"I understand enough."
"Enough for what?"
"To be useful."
The answer hung there. He studied me another beat, then stood.
The movement changed the air. He wasn't taller than I expected, but proximity made the difference lethal. He rounded the desk without hurry, closing the distance until I could feel the heat rolling off him. His scent—dark cedar, smoke, and raw power—wrapped around me like chains. My body answered instantly, stronger, faster. I locked every muscle in place.
He stopped inches away. Close enough that one deep breath would have brushed our chests. His eyes moved over me again, slower this time, dissecting.
"You're not nervous," he said. Not a question.
"I don't see the benefit in it."
"Most people do."
"I'm not most people."
That earned a flicker, real interest this time.
Without warning, his hand lifted. Fingers caught my chin, tilting my face up just enough to adjust the angle of my gaze.
The touch was light. Controlled. Devastating. Heat surged so violently my vision blurred for half a second.
I crushed the reaction before it reached my face, but he felt it. His thumb brushed once across my lower lip—slow, deliberate.
My breath stuttered.
His eyes caught it. No change in his expression. Only confirmation.
"You don't react like a Beta," he said quietly.
My pulse slammed against my ribs hard enough to hurt. I didn't pull away. Didn't speak.
He held me there another heartbeat, then released me and stepped back. The loss of contact felt worse than the touch.
He turned, pressed the intercom on his desk.
"Cancel the remaining interviews."
"Yes, sir," came the instant reply.
He released the button and looked at me again.
"You start tomorrow."
The words dropped like a verdict.
I studied him for a long second. "You're making that decision quickly."
"I don't need more time."
"And if I'm not what you expect?"
His gaze stayed locked on mine. "Then I'll deal with it."
No uncertainty. No bluff. Just fact.
I reached for the sleek black keycard he slid across the desk, careful not to let our fingers touch. "Understood."
I turned before my body could betray me again. The door clicked shut behind me with surgical softness.
The corridor stretched long and silent. I kept my pace even, shoulders squared, every step measured. Only when the private elevator doors sealed me inside did I let the exhale escape.
The mirrored wall showed a man who looked perfectly composed. Crisp white shirt, tailored navy suit, neutral expression. Exactly the image I'd spent years perfecting.
But inside, the fire still burned. Lingering. Unwanted.
Five years of planning had delivered me here. Five years of control had held—until ten minutes in the same room with him.
Something had already moved out of my control.
I wasn't supposed to react to him. I wasn't supposed to feel anything except cold purpose.
Worse, he had noticed.
And he hadn't said a word about it.
The elevator began its descent. I stared at my reflection and wondered how long I could keep the mask intact before the Alpha who now owned my days decided to peel it away himself.