The glass walls of Damien Strickland's penthouse blurred the night into a shimmer of lights. From thirty-five stories up, the city below looked softer, almost dreamlike, as if the chaos of it couldn't touch the man who ruled from above.
He watched me as I stepped further inside.
The space was open, quiet, all clean lines and muted tones ivory, slate, black. Nothing cluttered or sentimental. Just sleek furniture, shadowy corners, and a long wall of books that looked untouched.
There was no art on the walls. No family photos. No signs of life beyond what a catalog might stage.
And yet somehow, he filled it entirely.
Damien moved through his home like a man used to silence and solitude. Every step measured. Every movement effortless. He set down his glass, nodding toward the kitchen as though this was something he did all the time.
"Wine?" he asked.
"Yes, please."
He opened a bottle with practiced ease, poured one glass for me, then nothing for himself. His sleeves were still rolled to his forearms. His watch glinted under the soft pendant lights. I noticed again how still he was when he paused not stiff, just utterly in control of himself.
"What's for dinner?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
He turned toward the dining space where a catered meal was already plated and waiting beneath silver cloches.
"I had it delivered. From Sorella. You like Italian, don't you?"
I blinked. "I never said that."
"You didn't have to."
He walked ahead and pulled out a chair for me. I sat, still trying to calm my nerves, and he took the seat across from mine. One candle flickered between us, casting soft light across the table and making the silver cutlery gleam like something sacred.
"You've done your research," I said after a moment.
His mouth curved slightly. "I like to know the people I invite into my home."
"And do you invite many?"
"No."
The answer settled between us. He lifted the cloche on my plate truffle risotto with roasted vegetables and a delicate salad I didn't recognize. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the scent hit me.
"You haven't asked why I brought you here," he said.
"I figured if you wanted to explain, you would."
He studied me for a long beat, then leaned back in his chair.
"You know most people would already be trying to impress me. Overplay their charm. Speak too much. Flatter too obviously."
"And that's not your style."
"No," he said quietly. "It's not."
We ate in silence for a few minutes. But it wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, it felt… focused. Like he was testing how long I could sit in quiet without fidgeting. Without breaking.
"Tell me something real," he said suddenly.
I looked up.
"What?"
"One real thing. About you. Not on paper. Not in your file. Just… real."
I hesitated. The truth felt heavy in my chest. But somehow, in this quiet world of his, it also felt safe.
"I used to sing," I said softly. "Before law school. Before everything. I wanted to be on stage."
His gaze didn't change, but I could tell he was listening.
"What changed?"
"My father's trial. It was messy. Public. People stared at me everywhere I went. It stopped feeling like the world wanted to hear my voice. So I buried it."
There was a long pause. He didn't speak. Didn't offer comfort or judgment. Just let my answer live in the space between us.
And then he said, "I'd like to hear you sometime."
The words were simple. But they hit harder than I expected.
Not flirtation. Not pity. Just interest. A kind of attention that felt rare.
"What about you?" I asked, trying to shift the focus. "One real thing."
He considered that. Took his time.
"My mother left when I was ten," he said finally. "No note. No reason. Just disappeared."
I didn't expect that.
His voice was calm. Controlled. But behind it, I could hear the edge of something else. Not grief. Not anger. Just… finality.
"Did you ever find out why?"
"No," he said. "And I stopped asking."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was a kind of knowing — the quiet understanding of two people who'd been shaped by absence.
He stood then and picked up our plates. I moved to follow him, but he shook his head.
"Stay. You're my guest."
When he returned, he set down two glasses of something darker than wine.
"I thought you didn't drink," I said.
"Only when I want to remember the moment."
I sipped. It was whiskey. Smooth. Smoky. It burned just enough to remind me I was still in my body.
He sat beside me now, not across. The candlelight touched his jawline, sharp and shadowed. He wasn't classically handsome, but something about him demanded attention. That precise mouth. Those watchful eyes.
And the way he looked at me… Like he was dissecting every thought I didn't say aloud.
"You're not what I expected," he said finally.
"What did you expect?"
He leaned forward slightly. "Someone who'd either crumble or seduce."
"And you think I've done neither."
"Not yet."
My pulse thudded. There was no smile on his face. No teasing. Just a statement of fact.
I set my glass down carefully.
"You brought me here for more than dinner."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Because I wanted to see if I was right about you."
"And were you?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached over and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. The touch was brief but intimate. Like he had every right to do it. Like I was already his in some way neither of us had spoken aloud.
"You want this job to change your life," he said.
"Yes."
"I can give you that. But it will cost you."
"What do you mean?"
He stood.
Walked slowly toward the far end of the room where floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Almost distant.
"There are things I need kept quiet. Things that require loyalty beyond the contract. Discretion. Intelligence. No hesitation."
"And you think I'm capable of that?"
"I think you're the only one I've met who doesn't ask for permission to be in the room."
I stood too.
"What exactly are you asking of me, Damien?"
He turned. Eyes sharp now. Darker.
"I'm asking if you're willing to play by my rules."
"And what are those?"
"No lies. No games. No apologies."
I walked toward him until we were close enough to feel the tension thrumming in the air between us. My voice was calm when I spoke.
"I don't sleep with my boss."
His jaw flexed once.
"Good," he said. "Neither do I."
But the way he looked at me said something else entirely.