Page 19 of Bosshole Daddy

"Now then," he said, stirring his own coffee with meticulous precision. "Let's discuss what's really happening here, shall we?"

The spoon clinked against ceramic, counting down seconds I couldn't get back. Through the coffee shop window, I could see Stone Enterprises building in the distance, and I wondered if Damian would taste another man's cologne on me the way he'd tasted my doubt last night.

Five minutes. What could happen in five minutes?

Everything, that traitorous voice whispered. Everything could change in five minutes.

"You know," Silas began, his tone conversational like we were discussing the weather instead of dissecting my life, "I've known Damian for fifteen years."

He took a measured sip of his coffee, letting the statement hang between us like a threat. Fifteen years. When I was seven, learning to read chapter books with my mother, these two men were already circling each other like rival predators.

"We started at Goldman together. Junior analysts, hungry for everything." His fingers drummed against the table, manicured nails clicking out a rhythm that made my skin crawl. "Even then, Damian had a gift for reading people. For becoming exactly what they needed him to be."

"That's called being good at business," I said, but my voice came out defensive, thin.

"Is it?" Silas's smile was patient, like he was explaining something to a particularly slow child. "Or is it something else? You see, we've competed for everything over the years. Contracts, clients . . ." His pause was deliberate, weighted. "Women."

The coffee cup trembled in my grip. I set it down carefully, aware of how closely he was watching my reactions.

"He's brilliant at it," Silas continued, leaning forward slightly. "The stern father figure for investors who crave authority. The innovative disruptor for tech clients. The commanding presence for board members who need to feel led."

His eyes found mine, held them. "The protective Daddy for lost little girls who need someone to make the rules."

My throat closed. The words were too specific, too knowing. Like he'd been watching us, studying us, cataloging every intimate moment.

"What do you want?" The question came out as barely more than a whisper.

"To warn you." He pulled out his phone with elegant fingers, swiping with practiced ease. "Though I suspect I'm already too late. You have that look—that glazed, devoted expression all his girls get. At least for a while."

He turned the phone toward me, and my stomach dropped.

The gossip blog screamed from the screen in that particular font reserved for salacious headlines: "Stone's Secretary Cinderella Story - Too Good to Be True?"

The photo below made me flinch. It was from the gala, caught in a moment I hadn't known was being photographed.

Damian's mouth at my ear, my face turned up toward his with naked adoration.

I looked small next to him, overwhelmed, completely lost in whatever he was whispering.

I looked exactly like what I was—a girl in over her head, drowning in designer silk and impossible feelings.

"The timing is fascinating," Silas said, taking the phone back but leaving the image burned into my retinas. "Hired two weeks ago. Suddenly engaged. No ring—did you notice they mentioned that? No announcement. No romantic history anyone can find."

My left hand curled into a fist under the table, achingly bare of the diamond that should mark me as his.

"Just perfectly timed," he continued, voice silk over steel, "for the Hartley acquisition.

Did Damian tell you how important this deal is?

Two hundred million dollars, but the Japanese investors are .

. . traditional. They prefer to work with stable men.

Family men. Men who aren't still nursing public wounds from being left by their fiancée. "

Each word was a precision strike, finding every weak point in my armor.

Because of course that's what this was. Of course Damian Stone didn't actually want me—messy, broken, debt-ridden me.

He needed a prop for his business deal, and I'd been convenient.

Desperate. Easy to mold into whatever shape required.

"You don't know anything about us." But even I could hear how weak the protest sounded.

"Maybe. But I know about Rebecca." The name dropped between us like a stone into still water.

I blinked, processing. "Rebecca?"

"The assistant before you. Lasted three weeks." Silas stirred his coffee again, casual as anything. "Smart girl. Sweet. Had that same eager-to-please quality you radiate. She was perfect for the Brennan acquisition—those old-money types do like their women demure."

My hands had started shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs, feeling the fabric of my dress, the ghost of bruises underneath.

"And Melissa before her," he continued, relentless. "Two weeks. Blonde, which worked better for the Scandinavian investors. Also very accommodating. Also left suddenly when the deal closed."

"Stop." The word came out cracked.

"Both young," he pressed on, leaning forward. "Both eager to please. Both thought they were special. Both signed iron-clad NDAs as part of their severance packages, which is why you won't find them talking about their time as Damian Stone's very personal assistant."

The coffee shop sounds had faded to white noise. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears, the echo of Damian's voice calling me special, calling me his, calling me perfect while he moved inside me.

"He calls you 'little one,' doesn't he?"

The question hit like a physical blow. I must have flinched because Silas's smile widened, satisfaction bleeding through the manufactured concern.

"That's what he called Melissa too. She mentioned it during her exit interview—apparently it slipped out despite the NDA.

The Daddy thing is particularly effective, isn't it?

Makes you feel special, chosen. Like you're not just another interchangeable assistant playing a role until the deal closes. "

My vision had gone blurry. I blinked hard, refusing to cry in front of this man who was systematically destroying every beautiful thing about last night. But his words were finding purchase, clicking into place with horrible precision.

The sudden job offer when I'd had no experience.

The fake fiancée arrangement that seemed to come from nowhere.

The way he'd had that pacifier ready in his pocket, like this was a script he'd performed before.

Good girls and little ones and Daddy's rules, all designed to make me compliant, devoted, ready to play whatever part his business required.

"You're lying." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.

"Am I?" Silas pulled out his phone again, scrolling with those elegant fingers. "Here's Rebecca's LinkedIn. Started at Stone Enterprises on January 3rd. Last update January 25th—new position at a firm in Connecticut. Generous severance package, I'd imagine, to facilitate such a quick relocation."

The profile photo showed a pretty brunette with a shy smile. She looked young. Eager. Like someone who'd call her boss Daddy if he asked just right.

Like me.

"And here's Melissa." Another profile, another young woman with that same hopeful expression. "November 15th to November 30th. Two weeks exactly. Now working in Chicago, far from Manhattan's gossip circuit."

The phone screen swam in front of me as tears I refused to shed built behind my eyes. Evidence. He was showing me evidence that I was nothing special, just the latest in a line of convenient girls who'd served their purpose and been discarded with a check and a legal gag order.

"Check your employment contract," Silas suggested gently. "I bet there's a generous severance package outlined. Probably three months' salary—enough to seem generous, not enough to raise questions. And of course, a comprehensive NDA covering all aspects of your . . . working relationship."

My hands shook harder. I had to clasp them together to keep them still, but even that couldn't stop the tremors working through my body. Because I remembered that contract. Remembered thinking the severance terms were surprisingly generous for an executive assistant position.

I'd thought it was because he valued his employees.

Now I knew it was because he needed to buy their silence.

"You're wrong." The words barely made it past the constriction in my throat. "What we have—"

"Is temporary." No cruelty in his voice now, just matter-of-fact certainty. "When this ends—and it will end, my dear—call me."

Silas slid a business card across the table with two fingers. The motion was smooth, practiced, like everything else about him. The card stock was thick, expensive, the kind that whispered money and power and opportunities.

"I could use someone with your . . . dedication." His smile was razor-sharp. "I'd offer real employment, not games. A proper salary, clear advancement path, no need to pretend feelings that will be discarded once the deal closes."

Real employment. As opposed to what? The fever dream I'd been living where Damian Stone actually wanted me?

"I won't poach you while you're still useful to him, of course." Silas straightened his already-perfect tie, preparing to leave. "Professional courtesy. But after the Hartley dinner, well. That's only ten days away. The deal will close shortly after, and then . . ."

He spread his hands, letting me fill in the obvious conclusion. Then I'd be Rebecca. I'd be Melissa. I'd be another LinkedIn profile updating with a sudden relocation, another young woman with an NDA and a broken heart, another notch in Damian Stone's bedpost of convenient arrangements.

"Ten days," I repeated numbly.

"Perhaps two weeks if there are complications with the contracts.

But Damian's never kept a personal assistant longer than a month.

" The sympathy in his voice was poisonous, calculated to seem genuine while delivering maximum damage.

"But I'm sure you're different. I'm sure what you have is real.

I'm sure when he called you his good girl while bending you over that desk, he meant it as more than just effective conditioning. "

The blood drained from my face. He knew. Somehow, he knew details that should have been private, sacred, ours. Unless they weren't ours at all. Unless this exact scene had played out before with Rebecca, with Melissa, with however many desperate girls Damian had found to fill his temporary needs.

Silas stood in one fluid motion, looking down at me with that pitying smile. "Enjoy it while it lasts, little one."

The endearment from his mouth was the final violation. I flinched back like he'd slapped me, and his smile widened with satisfaction.

"Do check that contract," he said, already turning away. "Knowledge is power, after all. And right now, my dear, you have neither."

He left me there, shaking in that booth while around us the morning coffee rush continued its cheerful chaos. Baristas called out orders. Customers chatted about weekend plans. Normal people living normal lives while my world tilted off its axis and threatened to spill me into the void.

The coffee shop sounds faded to white noise. All I could hear was the echo of last night—good girl, little one, mine—words that had rewritten my DNA now revealed as nothing more than a well-practiced script.

Ten days until the Hartley dinner.

Ten days to pretend I hadn't just learned I was temporary.

Ten days to play the devoted fiancée while knowing I was already being measured for my severance package.

The gold ribbon in my hair felt like a mockery now. I reached up with numb fingers, touching the silk that marked me as his. Such a small thing, but it had felt like everything this morning. Like belonging. Like being chosen.

Now it felt like a costume piece.