Chapter 3

Damares Reese

I arrived at Marville Distilleries headquarters thirteen minutes early. The smoked-glass building reflected the gray morning sky like some kind of luxury monster.

A doorman in white gloves held the door open with a "good morning, miss" that sounded more expensive than my parents' entire monthly rent.

The lobby looked like a palace — Italian marble floors, a crystal chandelier that probably cost as much as a car, and the subtle scent of aged oak drifting from the private elevators.

I rode up to the top floor with my heart in my throat. The receptionist, a blonde in flawless attire, sized me up from head to toe but smiled with measured politeness.

"Ms. Reese? Mr. Marville is expecting you."

She led me down a hallway where every painting on the walls was worth more than I'd ever have in my life. The office door was solid wood, no nameplate. She knocked twice and opened it.

"Go right in. Good luck."

I stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind me — a soft sound that felt like a warning of things to come. I ignored it. I needed this job.

The office was massive, all dark grays and aged gold. A mahogany desk that looked centuries old dominated the center. Behind it, a floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooked the entire city below, as if the man who owned the place watched the world from above and decided who lived or died.

I sat in the leather chair facing the desk. My black dress rode up a little on my thighs when I crossed my legs. I tugged it down as best I could. The silence was so thick I could hear my own blood pumping.

The door opened again, no knock this time. He walked in. Derek Marville in the flesh — bone, muscle, and pure danger.

Six foot four of raw power. A navy suit cut to perfection, white shirt open at the first button, revealing the edge of a chest that had nothing in common with your average executive — he had tattoos.

Dark hair threaded with silver at the temples, which only made him more dangerous. Green eyes so light they looked carved from ice. He closed the door with a slow, deliberate motion, like someone caging its prey.

He didn't say a word. Just stared at me. Feet to face. Slowly. As if he were peeling off every piece of clothing with his eyes.

The air left my lungs. My dress suddenly felt too small. My breasts pressed heavy against the fabric. My thighs squeezed together on their own.

He circled the desk, steps sure and steady on the Persian rug. Stopped behind his chair. Planted his hands on the backrest and leaned forward. His scent hit me before his voice did — wood, expensive cognac, and something darker, more masculine. Then the voice came, low, rough, almost a growl:

"Do you have a boyfriend, Ms. Reese?"

I swallowed hard. The question caught me so off guard I nearly stammered. But I lifted my chin.

"No. And I don't plan on having one anytime soon."

He smiled. A half-smile that didn't reach his eyes but made my stomach flip.

"Good."

He picked up a thick contract bound in black leather and pushed it toward me. Over fifty pages. I couldn't even make out the title properly.

"Sign here." He pointed to the last page, a Montblanc pen already waiting beside it.

"But... I haven't even read—"

"HR closes in eight minutes — the team has fire drill training today." He cut me off, voice firm but still low. "If you want the job, sign now. You can read it at home later."

My heart raced. Three times the salary. Getting out of that house. Proving I was worth something. The pen weighed in my hand like it was made of lead.

I signed. Damares Reese. Steady letters, even though my hand was shaking on the inside.

He took the contract back, studied it calmly, slid it into a black folder, and locked it in the drawer. The click of the lock sounded final. He stood. Circled the desk again. Stopped right behind me. I didn't dare move an inch.

Derek leaned in. The heat of his body burned against the back of my neck. I felt his nose graze — barely, almost imperceptibly — the curve of my throat. He inhaled deep. Like he was breathing me in.

A violent shiver ran down my spine. My nipples hardened against my bra. My thighs pressed together even tighter.

"Welcome to Marville, Damares." His voice was a hot whisper against my ear. "Starting tomorrow... you're all mine."

I froze. Every inch of my body broke out in goosebumps like I'd been hit by lightning. He pulled back slowly, returned to his side of the desk, and sat down as if nothing had happened. I stood up on legs that felt like jelly. The door seemed miles away.

"See you tomorrow, Ms. Reese," he said, his eyes never leaving me.

"S-see you tomorrow... Mr. Marville."

I stumbled out. The hallway seemed to spin. It wasn't until I stepped into the elevator that I could breathe again.

"What the hell just happened?" I whispered to myself. "And why — even though I'm terrified — is my entire body still on fire?"

I stepped out of the elevator and crossed the marble lobby on legs that were still trembling. The cold air conditioning hit my flushed face, but there was still a stubborn heat between my thighs, a pulse I couldn't ignore.

That man had looked at me like he'd already fucked me on top of that desk. And the worst part — a piece of me had wanted him to. Right there on the sidewalk, my phone buzzed.

"Girl! How'd it go?!" Mason's cheerful voice exploded in my ear.

"It was... weird as hell." My voice came out hoarse. "But I got the job."

"I knew it! He's intense, right? Don't worry, that's just how he is. You start tomorrow?"

"I do. Mason... I can't spend another night at my parents' house. I can't take it anymore. I'm gonna lose it today."

She went quiet for two seconds on the other end.

"My old apartment's still empty, Dama. I was gonna rent it out next month, but it's yours. Furnished, clean, key's with Mr. Ewan, the doorman. Pay the first month's rent when you get your paycheck — no rush. It's small... bedroom with a bathroom, open-concept kitchen and living room, and a tiny balcony that fits a little table and two chairs. Perfect for starting over."

Hot tears welled up in my eyes.

"You're saving me, girl. Seriously."

"I'll see you tomorrow at the office — I've still gotta fill you in on a few things. Go grab the key, I'll let Ewan know, and sleep there tonight. New life, new Damares."

I hung up and ran for the subway. The ride to Mason's old building seemed to fly by. She'd really left the key with the doorman.

Back at my parents' place, I opened the door with the spare key and immediately ran into the usual duo.

"Look, it's Ellie from Ice Age's cousin, back from her 'job.'" My father mocked from the couch, beer in hand. "You really thought you'd land a real job dressed like a gas tank in a black skirt?"

My mother followed me to the bedroom, and when she saw me pulling out my suitcases, she hissed:

"You're actually leaving? You'll starve on your own, sweetheart. But at least you'll lose weight, right? Maybe then you'll amount to something."

I took a deep breath. Grabbed the suitcases I'd had packed since yesterday.

"I'm leaving. Right now. And I'm never listening to this shit from you two again."

"You'll starve!" they shouted together as I slammed the door.

In the taxi, my heart was pounding so hard it hurt. I arrived at Mason's old building downtown. Ewan, the doorman, greeted me with a wide smile.

"Ms. Mason let me know you're the new tenant — she stopped by so quick earlier I barely got a word in. Welcome!"

I ran up the four flights of stairs. Opened the door to 403.

The apartment was small, simple, perfect. Cold tile floors, a gray two-seater couch, a dining table that doubled as a desk, an open kitchen with a brand-new stove.

Bedroom with a double bed and a nightstand, bathroom with a glass-enclosed shower, and on the little balcony, two iron chairs and a partial view of the lit-up avenue. I let the suitcases drop to the floor, threw open the window, and whispered to the world outside:

"I did it! I did it!"

I turned on the shower, peeled off the black dress that still carried that man's scent, stepped under the hot water, and cried — from relief, from rage, from happiness.

New home. New job. New salary. New life.

Tomorrow I'd walk into that office again. Tomorrow I'd face Derek Marville with my head held high. And whatever came next — bring it on.

I wasn't the Damares who settled for scraps anymore. Starting today, I was taking what was mine.

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