Page 24 of Bosshole Daddy

I finished typing my sentence before looking up, a small power play that made his jaw tighten. The old Isla would have scrambled to accommodate, would have apologized for the delay. This Isla had learned her worth extended beyond her relationship status.

"He's in a meeting," I replied calmly, voice carrying the same professional detachment I'd heard Damian use to devastating effect. My fingers never paused on the keyboard, each click a small rebellion against his presumed importance.

"I'll wait." Henderson moved to claim one of the leather chairs reserved for scheduled appointments, his body language screaming entitlement.

"No," I said simply, finally meeting his gaze with steady eyes, "you'll make an appointment."

The word 'no' hung between us like a challenge. Henderson's face began its predictable shift toward purple, the color of men who'd never been denied by women they deemed beneath them. His mouth opened—to argue, to bluster, to try pulling rank—but I continued before he could speak.

"He'll be unavailable until four." I pulled up Damian's calendar with practiced ease, though I knew his schedule by heart. "I can slot you in at 4:15 for twenty minutes, or Thursday morning at nine."

"Listen here—" Henderson started, leaning over my desk in what he probably thought was intimidation.

The door to Damian's office opened with perfect timing, as if he'd been waiting for exactly this moment.

He probably had. Very little happened on his floor that he wasn't aware of, and the protective instincts that had led him to build a nursery two floors down extended to monitoring any potential threats to what was his.

"Problem?"

One word, delivered in that tone that had made board members cry.

Henderson deflated like a punctured balloon, his blustering authority evaporating in the face of real power.

Damian's presence filled the space between us, not physically intervening but making it clear whose side he'd take if pushed.

My heart pounded.

"No problem," Henderson muttered, already backing away. "I'll take the Thursday slot."

"Excellent choice." I typed the appointment into the calendar with efficient keystrokes, then offered Henderson a smile that was all professional courtesy and no warmth. "I'll send you a reminder Wednesday afternoon."

He retreated without another word, designer shoes clicking rapid defeat against marble. I kept my expression neutral until the elevator doors closed behind him, then allowed myself a small smile of satisfaction.

Damian's hand brushed my shoulder, the touch looking casual to anyone watching but carrying weight that made my skin hum through the silk. He leaned down slightly, his breath warm against my ear, his voice pitched for me alone.

"Good girl."

My thighs pressed together involuntarily, seeking pressure against the sudden ache, and I knew he caught the movement by the way his fingers tightened briefly on my shoulder.

"You handled that perfectly," he continued in a more normal tone, straightening but keeping his hand on me. "Henderson needs to learn the new hierarchy around here."

"I was just maintaining your calendar," I replied, but we both heard the pride underneath my professional tone.

I had handled it perfectly.

"Mmm." The sound rumbled with approval and something darker. "Keep being perfect, and I'll have to reward you later."

The promise in those words made my breath catch. His rewards could be anything—gentle or intense, public or private, but always exactly what I needed. The blue dress suddenly felt too warm, too tight, too much fabric between us.

"I should get back to the Singapore contracts," he said, but his hand made one more pass over my shoulder, fingers trailing down my arm just enough to raise goosebumps. "Wear your hair up this afternoon. I want to see your neck."

Another command disguised as a request, another small way he maintained control even in our professional environment. I nodded, already imagining his mouth on that exposed skin, his teeth marking what everyone already knew was his.

He disappeared back into his office, leaving me to breathe through the arousal that simple touch had triggered. The morning had shifted from routine to charged, the promise of afternoon rewards making every minute stretch with anticipation.

I touched the blue fabric of my dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles, and smiled. The executive floor might hum with different energy now, but one thing remained constant—I was his, he was mine, and everyone from the security guards to the CFO was learning exactly what that meant.

*

The penthouse door opened to the scent of home—thyme and butter and something rich simmering on the stove that made my stomach announce itself with embarrassing enthusiasm.

"Perfect timing," Damian called from the kitchen, his voice carrying that particular warmth reserved for these private moments. "The coq au vin needs another twenty minutes."

I slipped off the Louboutins with a sigh of relief, wiggling my toes against cool stone.

The shoes were beautiful, made me feel powerful, but nothing compared to the freedom of bare feet in our own space.

Our space. Three months in, and I still sometimes had to remind myself this wasn't a dream I'd wake from.

The kitchen sprawled across half the floor, all professional-grade appliances and marble surfaces that Damian used with extreme precision.

He stood at the stove in charcoal slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel thrown over one shoulder.

Domestic Damian still scrambled my brain—this man who commanded boardrooms and broken companies, now stirring sauce with focused attention.

I settled onto one of the bar stools at the massive island, the marble cool under my palms. This had become our routine—him cooking while I perched here, words tumbling out about my day like coins from an overfull pocket.

He'd told me once that he loved this time, when I forgot to be careful with my enthusiasm, when I gestured wildly and interrupted myself with tangential thoughts.

"The foundation board approved the literacy program expansion," I burst out, unable to contain the news any longer. "Not just the pilot program—the full five-year initiative. Do you know what this means?"

He glanced over his shoulder, lips curving at my obvious excitement. "Tell me."

"One thousand kids in the first year alone.

Actual books in their hands, not just digital access.

Physical books they can keep, can write their names in, can carry home.

" My hands moved as I talked, painting pictures in the air.

"We're partnering with local authors for school visits.

Imagine being seven and meeting the person who created your favorite character. "

"You did this," he said quietly, turning to face me fully. "Your proposal. Your passion. Your vision that made them see beyond spreadsheets to actual impact."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I didn't deflect the praise like I once would have.

I had done this. Hours of research, carefully crafted arguments, budget projections that accounted for every penny.

The girl who'd survived on toast and stubbornness had somehow become someone who could direct millions toward changing lives.

"I want to visit the first school personally," I continued, momentum carrying me forward.

"See their faces when they open the boxes.

Mrs. Brooks from P.S. 84 cried when I called her.

Actually cried. She's been using the same classroom set of books for eight years, held together with duct tape and prayer. "

Damian moved around the kitchen with economical grace, pulling plates from cabinets, checking the oven, all while listening with that complete attention that still undid me.

He asked questions—about distribution logistics, author selections, metrics for measuring success—that showed he'd been paying attention to every detail I'd shared over weeks of planning.

"We're calling it 'Pages of Promise,'" I said, watching him plate our dinner with the same aesthetic precision he brought to everything. "Because every book is a promise that someone believes in your potential."

"I’m so proud of you," he said, setting the plate before me. Coq au vin with roasted vegetables arranged like art, fresh bread still warm from the oven. A meal that belonged in a five-star restaurant.

I ate without thinking now, savoring each bite with appreciation rather than anxiety.

My body had learned to trust abundance, to accept nourishment without the old fear of scarcity.

The first few weeks, he'd had to remind me, sometimes feed me himself when old habits crept back.

Now I cleared half my plate while still talking about fundraising possibilities, my fork gesturing dangerously close to his pristine shirt.

"Careful," he warned with amused affection, catching my wrist gently. "That's Italian cotton you're threatening."

"Sorry." But I wasn't, not really, and we both knew it. This version of me—animated, passionate, unguarded—was what he'd been cultivating with patient hands and careful rules.

We finished dinner in comfortable rhythm, conversation flowing between bites.

He told me about the Singapore deal's complications, the board member who'd tried to stage a coup, the satisfaction of outmaneuvering corporate sharks who'd underestimated him.

I shared gossip from the foundation board, the petty drama of charity politics that seemed absurd compared to actual impact.