Page 1 of Bosshole Daddy

M y bathroom mirror had a crack running through it like a fault line, splitting my reflection into two uneven halves.

I smoothed my skirt again—the sixth time, maybe seventh—watching my hands shake in the fractured glass.

The fabric was polyester, bought on clearance at Target, and no amount of smoothing would make it look like the silk suits I'd seen in the Stone Enterprises lobby during my interview.

My apartment smelled like Earl Grey (my favorite tea) and the lavender laundry powder I'd splurged on last week to celebrate landing the job.

The radiator clanked its morning greeting, and somewhere above me, Mrs. Anderson's television blared the weather report through paper-thin walls.

Home sweet home—if you could call a studio the size of most people's walk-in closets home.

I turned from the mirror, and my gaze landed on the bed.

There, half-hidden under my pillow, a splash of pastel pink caught the weak morning light filtering through my single window.

My bunny. I'd had her since I was six, when everything felt too big and too loud and too much.

Her fur had worn thin in places, especially around the ears where I used to rub them between my fingers when I couldn't sleep.

"You're twenty-four, Isla," I muttered, but my feet carried me to the bed anyway. I picked her up, running my thumb over one floppy ear. The gesture was automatic, soothing in a way that made my chest tight with something between comfort and shame.

Talking to stuffed animals. Real professional behavior for someone about to work for Manhattan's most ruthless CEO. Even so, I tucked her into my bag—just in case I needed something to cuddle in my lunch break.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand—a calendar reminder that sent ice through my veins. FIRST DAY - STONE ENTERPRISES - 7:30 AM. As if I could forget. As if I hadn't been awake since four, stomach churning with dread and desperation in equal measure.

The HR interview flashed through my mind as I returned to the mirror, attempting to coax my pale face into something resembling confidence. Three people behind a conference table, all sharp suits and sharper expressions. Not a smile among them.

"Mr. Stone doesn't conduct interviews," the HR director had said, her voice dripping with the kind of disdain reserved for people who dared apply for positions beneath his notice.

Martha? Margaret? Something with an M. She'd looked at me over her glasses like I was something she'd scraped off her shoe.

"He has more important matters to attend to. "

"Of course," I'd replied, my voice barely above a whisper. Always agreeing. Always accommodating. Always shrinking myself down to take up less space, cause less trouble, be less of a burden.

"You'll be replacing his previous assistant," M-woman had continued, shuffling papers with manicured nails that probably cost more than my monthly metro card. "She lasted three weeks."

The man to her left had snorted. "More like two and a half."

I hadn't dared ask what happened to her. Hadn't asked much of anything, really. Just nodded and smiled and tried to look competent while my resume—pathetically thin, desperately padded—sat between us like evidence of my inadequacy.

"The position requires absolute discretion, impeccable organization, and the ability to anticipate Mr. Stone's needs before he voices them," M-woman had rattled off. "He does not tolerate mistakes. He does not accept excuses. And he absolutely does not have patience for incompetence."

Well, he just sounded like a total sweetheart.

But what choice did I have? My last job had ended when the company "restructured"—corporate speak for "we found someone cheaper."

"I understand," I'd said, and apparently that was enough, because here I was, tugging my ponytail tighter, the blue ribbon I'd used to tie it back the only splash of color in my entire outfit.

Damian Stone.

Even thinking his name made my hands sweat.

I'd Googled him obsessively after getting the call.

Article after article painting him as a business titan who'd clawed his way up from nothing.

"Ruthless." "Brilliant." "Uncompromising.

" One particularly memorable headline had called him "The CEO Who Makes Gordon Gekko Look Cuddly. "

The gossip blogs were worse. His recent breakup with some socialite had been splashed across Page Six.

She'd called him "emotionally unavailable" and "colder than a January morning in Siberia.

" The photos showed a man who looked carved from marble—all sharp angles and harder edges, with eyes that could freeze hell over.

"It's just a job," I told my reflection, practicing the smile I'd need to survive this day. It looked more like a grimace. "You need this. You can do this."

But my hands wouldn't stop shaking. My stomach felt like I'd swallowed a hive of angry bees.

And that stupid, traitorous part of my brain—the part I tried so hard to silence—whispered that maybe I couldn't. Maybe I was exactly what my mother always said: too soft, too sensitive, too much of a disappointment to make it in the real world.

I grabbed my purse from the kitchen counter that doubled as my dining table, desk, and general storage area. Inside, my wallet held my metro card, my ID, and three crumpled dollar bills. My entire life, basically.

One last look in the mirror. Professional blazer that pulled slightly at the shoulders.

Pencil skirt that would require careful sitting to avoid splitting a seam.

Low heels that pinched but looked more expensive than they were.

Hair pulled back severely, not a strand out of place.

I looked like someone playing dress-up in her mother's clothes.

My hand hovered over the doorknob.

"Two and a half weeks," I whispered, thinking of the previous assistant. "I just have to last longer than two and a half weeks."

*

The revolving doors of Stone Enterprises Building swallowed me whole, spitting me out into a lobby that belonged in a museum—or a mausoleum.

Black marble stretched endlessly in every direction, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the overhead lights like captured stars.

My heels clicked against it loudly, each step announcing my presence like an intruder alarm.

The cold hit me immediately. Arctic air conditioning that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with keeping people alert, on edge, productive. I hugged my blazer tighter, but the chill seeped through the thin fabric, raising goosebumps along my arms.

Employees rushed past me in a choreographed dance I didn't know the steps to.

Dark suits, darker expressions, all moving with the kind of purpose that suggested stopping for even a second might be career suicide.

No one made eye contact. No one smiled. It was seven-fifteen in the morning, and these people looked like they'd already been through a war.

The walls told the story of Damian Stone's conquest of the business world.

Framed magazine covers lined the path to reception like trophies.

Forbes: "Stone's Midas Touch Turns Another Startup to Gold.

" BusinessWeek: "The Shark of Wall Street Strikes Again.

" Time: "America's Most Feared CEO." That last one featured a photo of him that made my stomach flip.

Those gray eyes seemed to follow me across the lobby, promising nothing good.

The reception desk loomed ahead—a monolithic black granite altar where a woman with platinum hair and blood-red nails held court. She looked up as I approached, her expression suggesting I'd already wasted valuable seconds of her time by existing.

"Name?" She didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Isla James. I'm Mr. Stone's new—"

"Assistant. Yes." She cut me off with the efficiency of a guillotine, already typing. Her nails clicked against the keyboard like typewriter keys, sharp and staccato. "You're late."

I glanced at my phone. Seven-eighteen. "But I don't start until seven-thirty—"

"Mr. Stone's assistants arrive at seven.

Earlier if there's international correspondence.

" She slid a keycard across the granite without looking up.

"Executive elevator is to your left. Top floor.

Don't use the regular elevators. Don't stop at any other floors.

Don't speak to Mr. Stone unless spoken to first."

"I . . . thank you." I reached for the keycard, and she finally looked at me properly. Her lips pursed like she'd bitten into something sour.

"Good luck," she said, and it sounded more like a condolence than encouragement.

I clutched the keycard like a lifeline as I navigated toward the executive elevator.

The regular elevator banks buzzed with activity—employees cramming in shoulder to shoulder, the doors barely closing before someone jabbed the button again.

But the executive elevator stood apart, its brushed steel doors reflecting a distorted version of myself that looked even smaller than reality.

The keycard reader beeped, and the doors slid open silently. Inside was another world—burgundy carpet, mirrored walls, and buttons that only went to select floors. The very top button was labeled simply "STONE."

As the doors closed, cutting me off from the lobby's chaotic energy, I caught my reflection multiplied infinitely in the mirrors.

A young woman drowning in a blazer, clutching a folder and planner like shields.

My ribbon had already started to slip, wisps of hair escaping to frame my face. I looked terrified. Like prey.

The elevator began its ascent, and my stomach dropped in the opposite direction. Twenty floors. Thirty. Forty. My ears popped, and I swallowed hard, trying to calm the flutter of panic in my chest. The numbers climbed higher, and with them, my anxiety.