Chapter 1
Ava's Pov
The coffee in my hands had gone cold an hour ago, but I sipped it anyway. Bitterness was better than emptiness, and I’d grown used to swallowing both. The café was closing in twenty minutes, the landlord’s angry voicemail still sat in my inbox, and my bank account balance—last checked on my cracked phone—mocked me with a bright red negative sign.
I tightened my coat around myself, more out of habit than warmth, and pulled out my planner, its pages dog-eared from too many rescheduled meetings and canceled clients. Once, I had dreamt of becoming one of the city’s most sought-after event planners, creating breathtaking weddings and glittering galas. But dreams didn’t pay rent, and I was one client away from admitting defeat.
My phone buzzed across the chipped table. It wasn’t my landlord this time. It was my best friend, Lila.
[Tell me you found a miracle, Ava.]
I sighed, tapping back a reply with fingers that trembled from fatigue.
[If miracles were for sale, I’d be too broke to buy one.]
My lips twisted into a humorless smile. I shoved the phone back into my bag and closed my eyes for a second. If I let myself break, even for a moment, I’d shatter completely.
Then, like fate answering in the strangest way possible, my phone rang. Not buzzed, not beeped—rang.
The name flashing across the screen was unfamiliar. “Blackwood Enterprises”
My heart gave a violent lurch. Blackwood was more than a name, it was an empire. The Blackwood family owned hotels, banks, and luxury brands that practically ruled the city. And Damien Blackwood, the elusive heir, was whispered about in business circles like a myth. Brilliant, ruthless, untouchable.
I nearly dropped the phone. I hit “accept” before I could second-guess myself.
“Hello?”
“Miss Ava Morgan?” The voice was clipped, professional, carrying the weight of someone who didn’t believe in wasting words.
“Yes, this is she.”
“This is Elizabeth from Mr. Blackwood’s office. He requires a planner for an urgent event. You’ve been recommended. Can you be at Blackwood Tower tomorrow morning at nine?”
My mind blanked. Recommended? By who? I hadn’t had a major client in months.
“I….yes. Absolutely. I’ll be there.”
The line disconnected before I could ask for details. I sat frozen for a long moment, my pulse a rapid staccato.
A job. A real job. And not just any job—the kind that could make or break my career.
I spent the night ironing my one good blouse, patching a loose heel with glue, and praying my makeup could hide the exhaustion etched into my face.
The next morning, the glass facade of Blackwood Tower rose above me like a blade of steel cutting into the sky. Inside, everything gleamed with sharp precision—polished marble floors, gold accents, security guards who looked like they could break me in half without breaking a sweat.
I smoothed my blouse for the hundredth time as I approached the reception desk.
“Miss Ava Morgan. I…I have a meeting with Mr. Blackwood,” I said, my voice shaking.
The receptionist, a severe-looking woman with perfectly red lips, scanned me up and down before offering a tight smile. “Top floor. He’s expecting you.”
The elevator ride stretched forever. The higher it rose, the more my nerves twisted. I knew little about Damien Blackwood except the gossip. An accident years ago had left him in a wheelchair, he ruled his empire with iron control, he rarely appeared in public. Some said he was bitter, cruel. Others claimed he was brilliant but broken.
When the doors slid open, I stepped into a world of glass walls and breathtaking views of the city skyline. At the center sat a massive mahogany desk, behind which a man in a tailored black suit looked up from a screen.
My breath caught.
Damien Blackwood.
His presence was overwhelming. His dark hair was perfectly cut, his jaw sharp enough to wound, his steel-gray eyes locking on me with a force that made my knees wobble. The wheelchair was sleek and understated, but it didn’t diminish the aura of power radiating from him. If anything, it sharpened it.
“You’re late,” he said.
I blinked, startled. “It’s—nine o’clock exactly.”
He glanced at the sleek watch on his wrist. “You should always arrive early. Punctuality is the bare minimum.”
My cheeks burned. “Noted.”
He gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Sit.”
I obeyed, clutching my bag like a shield.
“Tell me,” Damien said, his voice smooth but laced with steel, “why should I trust you with an event that cannot afford to fail?”
I swallowed. Every instinct screamed at me to be cautious, polite. But something in his piercing gaze told me he’d see through any rehearsed speech. So I told the truth.
“Because I don’t have the luxury of failing. Not anymore.”
For a moment, silence stretched between us. Damien’s eyes narrowed, as if he were dissecting my soul piece by piece. Then the corner of his mouth curved, not a smile, but something sharper.
“Interesting.”
He pushed a folder across the desk. I opened it, scanning the details, a charity gala, less than two weeks away, attended by CEOs, politicians, and royalty. It was massive. Nearly impossible.
“You’ll take the job,” Damien said, as if it weren’t a question.
I lifted my chin. “Yes.”
“Good. Then understand this, you will work under my schedule, my rules. If you falter, if you disappoint me even once, I will crush your career so thoroughly you’ll never work in this city again.”
My pulse quickened, but I met his gaze without flinching. “Understood.”
Something flickered in his eyes—approval, maybe, or curiosity.
“You may go,” he said, turning back to his screen as if dismissing me from existence.
I rose, clutching the folder like it was my lifeline. I had just stepped into the elevator, heart still hammering, when my phone buzzed with a new message.
It was from an unknown number.
Message: “You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into. Walk away from Blackwood while you still can.”
A chill swept through my veins. I looked back at the gleaming office doors as they slid shut.
And for the first time, I wondered if this job wasn’t an opportunity…but a trap.