Chapter 4: The Man Who Waits

The morning sun filtered through the glass walls of the high-rise office, casting golden streaks across the pristine floors. Damian Calloway traced the rim of his coffee mug with his thumb, letting the quiet hum of the city settle into his bones. He had arrived before the office came alive, not out of obligation, but because he liked to watch the world wake up.

Instead of retreating into a fortress of mahogany desks and closed doors, he moved through the halls at his own pace, stopping here and there—greeting the janitor by name, listening to an intern's nervous pitch in the breakroom. He had no interest in power plays or dominance; he thrived in understanding people, in knowing what made them tick.

Damian didn't chase victories. He built something that made them inevitable.

He leaned against the expansive window of his office, sipping a cup of coffee that was just a shade too bitter, his thoughts momentarily elsewhere. A knock sounded at the door, and without turning, he said, "Come in."

His assistant, Valerie, stepped inside, holding a folder. "The lawsuit against our firm has gained traction. The plaintiff is alleging corporate negligence, specifically regarding the recent infrastructure failure at our manufacturing site. The case has been assigned to a high-profile lawyer—Ava Sinclair."

Damian finally turned, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Ava Sinclair," he echoed, rolling the name over his tongue like a quiet memory.

Valerie frowned. "You know her?"

"In a way," he mused, taking the folder from her. His fingers lingered on the edge of the paper, the sensation oddly grounding. "We met once. A long time ago. She doesn't remember."

For a moment, his mind drifted. A dimly lit bar, the air thick with quiet conversations and the clink of ice against glass. She had been younger, not yet molded into the sharp-edged attorney she had become, but her fire had been unmistakable. He had watched her argue with a stranger—measured words, relentless logic, the flicker of something deeper behind her eyes. She hadn't even noticed him, too engrossed in her battle of wits, too determined to be right.

Damian had only listened, amused and intrigued, waiting for the inevitable moment when she would dismantle her opponent completely. When she did, her victory was effortless, but fleeting—because she never celebrated. Just gathered her things, exhaled softly, and walked away.

And he had been left wondering if she had ever allowed herself to enjoy winning."

Valerie raised an eyebrow. "And you do?"

"Of course," he said simply. "She's not the kind of woman one forgets."

He flipped through the documents, though he didn't need to read them to know who she was. He'd seen her name in headlines, heard stories of her courtroom brilliance, her unwavering, almost ruthless, dedication to victory. But what intrigued him wasn't her reputation—it was the woman beneath it.

Valerie cleared her throat. "She has a reputation for being… difficult."

Damian chuckled, setting the folder down. "Difficult? Or simply unyielding? There's a difference."

Valerie hesitated. "You sound like you admire her."

"I do," he admitted without hesitation. "The world tells women like Ava to be softer, to bend, to make themselves more palatable. She never does. And that, Valerie, is rare."

Valerie shook her head with amusement. "Just try not to get steamrolled."

Damian only smiled. "Let's see if she even notices me."