Page 2 of Bosshole Daddy

Without thinking, my mind drifted backward, seeking comfort in memory.

Mrs. Patterson's lap, warm and soft, smelling like vanilla extract and cinnamon.

I must have been five, maybe six, crying over some playground cruelty I couldn't even remember now.

"There, there, sweet girl," she'd murmured, stroking my hair.

"Sometimes the world feels too big, doesn't it? But you're stronger than you know."

The memory was so vivid I could almost feel her hands smoothing my hair, the way she'd hum while I calmed down. Everything had been simpler then. Someone else made the decisions. Someone else carried the weight. All I had to do was be good, be quiet, be small enough to fit in the spaces provided.

The elevator dinged softly, yanking me back to reality. Floor fifty-five. Fifty-six. My hands were trembling again. I pressed them flat against my skirt, trying to iron out wrinkles that weren't there.

What was I doing? I didn't belong here. I belonged in libraries, in quiet corners with dusty books, in places where the biggest threat was a paper cut. Not here, about to face a man who apparently collected assistants' careers like some people collected stamps.

Floor fifty-nine. The elevator began to slow, and my heart did the opposite. I could hear it pounding in my ears, drowning out the soft classical music piping through hidden speakers. I willed it to slow, but it wouldn’t.

A soft chime. Floor sixty. The doors didn't open immediately, as if giving me one last chance to reconsider. To press the lobby button and flee back to my cracked mirror and paltry savings. To admit defeat before the battle even began.

But rent was due in two weeks. And after that, student loans. And after that, groceries. And after that, the endless cycle of bills that never stopped coming, no matter how small I made myself, no matter how little space I took up.

The doors slid open with a whisper, revealing a hallway that belonged in a different world than the one I inhabited.

Cream carpet so thick my heels sank into it.

Walls the color of expensive champagne. The air here smelled different—leather and cologne and something that whispered money in a language I didn't speak.

His office doors stood at the end of the hallway like gates to another realm.

Dark wood, imposing, with brushed steel handles that looked like they'd been designed to intimidate.

A small desk sat to one side—my desk, I realized with a jolt.

My workspace. The place where I'd either prove myself or become another cautionary tale whispered about in the lobby.

I forced my feet forward. The hallway seemed to stretch forever, those doors growing larger with each step, until I stood before them like a supplicant at a cathedral.

My hand rose to knock, hesitated, fell back to my side. Seven twenty-six. Four minutes early. Or was it twenty-six minutes late? Should I wait? The HR woman's voice echoed in my memory: "He does not tolerate mistakes."

Trouble is, it felt like everything could be a mistake. I was a mistake, standing here in my clearance skirt and scuffed heels, pretending I could be the kind of person who belonged on the sixtieth floor.

I raised my hand again. I breathed. Then, I knocked.

Somewhere inside, a single word resonated.

"Enter."

He somehow managed to sound both bored and irritated. I pushed through, and the door clicked shut behind me with a finality that made my spine stiffen.

Damian Stone didn't look up.

He sat behind a desk that could have doubled as a landing strip—polished black marble that reflected the morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

His fingers moved across his keyboard with the kind of precision that suggested every keystroke had been calculated for maximum efficiency.

Dark hair, perfectly styled. Dark suit, perfectly tailored. Everything about him screamed control.

I hovered just inside the door, my folder clutched against my chest like armor made of paper.

The office was enormous—bigger than my entire apartment, with walls of glass offering a view of Manhattan that probably cost more than I'd make in a lifetime.

The décor was minimal, modern, cold. Black leather, chrome, stone.

Not a single personal touch anywhere. No photos, no awards despite what must have been hundreds to choose from.

Just that massive desk and him behind it, ignoring my existence with what felt like practiced ease.

The silence stretched. Five seconds. Ten.

Twenty. My palms started to sweat against the folder.

Should I speak? Clear my throat? The HR woman's warning echoed: Don't speak unless spoken to first. So I waited, feeling smaller with each passing second, while he continued typing as if I were furniture.

“Five minutes early,” he finally said, still without looking up. His voice was exactly what I’d expected and nothing like it at the same time. Low, controlled, with an edge that could have cut glass. “Which tells me you don’t understand how to manage your time.”

The words hit me like cold water. “Sir?” The word came out weak, barely a whisper.

His fingers never paused on the keyboard.

“When someone arrives early, it usually means one of two things: either they rushed and cut corners to get here, or they didn’t properly use the time they had.

Either way, it shows poor planning. I expect my assistants to walk in at exactly the appointed time—prepared, composed, and not a second wasted. ”

I stood there, mouth slightly open, trying to process the logic that turned punctuality into a character flaw. My carefully rehearsed introduction evaporated. The smile I’d practiced in the mirror felt like a distant memory.

Now he looked at me.

The full force of Damian Stone's attention was like being caught in a searchlight.

Those gray eyes—steel gray, storm gray, the color of things that could hurt you—swept over me in one comprehensive assessment.

From my escaping hair to my trembling hands to my shoes that I suddenly knew he'd identified as cheap knockoffs.

His expression didn't change, but somehow I felt like he'd cataloged every flaw, every weakness, every reason I didn't belong in his office.

"You'll address me as Mr. Stone." The words were clipped, precise, each one placed with the same calculation as his keystrokes.

"Yes, Mr. Stone." My voice came out smaller than I'd intended, barely disturbing the arctic air between us.

He leaned back in his chair—throne, really—and steepled his fingers. The gesture was probably meant to look casual, but everything about him radiated coiled power. A predator that didn't need to hunt because prey came to him.

"Let me be clear about your position here, Miss James.

" He knew my name. Of course he did. He probably knew everything—my pathetic resume, my clearance rack wardrobe, the forty-three dollars and sixteen cents in my bank account.

"You'll manage my calendar with military precision.

You'll screen my calls with the discretion of a priest. You'll draft correspondence that reflects my voice, not yours.

You'll anticipate my needs before I voice them.

You'll be invisible when I need you to be and instantly available when I don't."

Each responsibility hit like a slap. My fingers cramped where they gripped the folder. A bead of sweat traced down my spine despite the arctic air conditioning.

He stood then, and I understood why every article about him mentioned his presence.

Six foot four of barely contained intensity, he dominated the space in a way that made the enormous office feel cramped.

He moved around the desk with the kind of fluid grace that suggested complete comfort in his own power.

When he stopped in front of me, I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

A mistake, probably. Everything felt like a mistake.

"I don't tolerate excuses." He was close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and sharp, like winter mornings and danger.

"I don't accept anything less than perfection.

I don't have patience for learning curves, hand-holding, or whatever participation trophy mentality you might have developed in college. "

My cheeks burned. I wanted to defend myself, to point out that I'd graduated summa cum laude, that I'd never asked for special treatment in my life. But my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth.

"The last three assistants couldn't handle it." His voice dropped lower, almost conversational, which somehow made it worse.

My eyes burned with the effort of holding back tears. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. Not here, not in front of him, not when he was clearly trying to break me.

"If you can't handle the pressure, if you can't meet my standards, if you can't function without constant validation and reassurance, then leave now.

" He gestured toward the door with elegant fingers that had probably never trembled in their life.

"Save us both the time and embarrassment of pretending you belong here. "

The ultimatum hung in the air between us like a blade. Leave now, with dignity barely intact but intact nonetheless. Or stay and risk complete destruction at the hands of a man who collected broken assistants like trophies.

My legs wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at me to apologize for wasting his time and flee back to my cracked mirror and stuffed bunny and the safety of being nobody special. This wasn't what I'd signed up for. The job posting had said "executive assistant," not "sacrificial lamb."