Page 4 of Bosshole Daddy

The day's notes looked like evidence of a mental breakdown.

Words crossed out and rewritten, margins filled with frantic additions, Post-Its stuck on top of Post-Its in a rainbow of panic.

Seven different client calls transcribed in shorthand that had devolved into hieroglyphics by noon.

Meeting notes that started neat and ended in what could generously be called abstract art.

But I was still here. Still breathing. Still employed, as far as I knew.

My computer screen swam in and out of focus.

The Morrison contract—successfully delivered without dropping—had led to the Takahashi files, then the quarterly reports, then an endless stream of emails that needed responses drafted in Damian Stone's voice.

Cold. Precise. Utterly without mercy. I'd written and rewritten each one, trying to capture that particular blend of professional and terrifying that came so naturally to him.

My blazer hung on the back of my chair, victim to the nervous sweating that had plagued me all day. The nice professional image I'd tried so hard to project this morning was thoroughly dead.

I rubbed my eyes, then immediately regretted it when I remembered the mascara. Great. Now I probably looked like a raccoon on top of everything else. Professional. Competent. Definitely someone who belonged on the executive floor of a Fortune 500 company.

The exhaustion was bone-deep, the kind that came not just from physical effort but from being constantly on edge.

Every time Damian's door had opened, my entire body had gone rigid.

Every email notification made my heart race.

I'd spent eight and a half hours in a state of barely controlled panic, and it showed.

My hand drifted to my purse, tucked under the desk where no one could see. I glanced around the empty floor—nothing but shadows and the glow of city lights through the windows. Even the cleaning crew wouldn't arrive for another hour. For the first time all day, I was truly alone.

I reached into my bag, fingers finding the familiar softness immediately. Just touching the worn fur made my shoulders drop, tension easing fractionally. I pulled her out just far enough to see those button eyes, one slightly loose from years of love.

"Made it through day one," I whispered, thumb running over one floppy ear. The gesture was automatic, soothing, a remnant from when the world had been smaller and safer and someone else's job to navigate. "Barely. But it counts, right?"

The bunny, wise in her silence, offered no judgment.

Just comfort. Just the reminder that somewhere under all this—the desperate job-seeking, the mounting bills, the constant fear of not being enough—there was still the girl who'd named her stuffed animals and gave them voices and whole personalities.

I held her for just a moment longer, letting that softness ground me. Tomorrow would be another day of Damian Stone's impossible standards. Another day of pretending I knew what I was doing. Another day of—

"If you plan on surviving here."

I jumped so hard the bunny flew from my hands, landing on my desk in full view. Damian stood in his doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. How long had he been watching? How much had he seen?

My face burned as I scrambled to shove the bunny back in my bag, my hands clumsy with mortification. "Mr. Stone, I didn't—I was just—"

"You'd better toughen up." He moved closer, and I realized this was the most informal I'd seen him. Still intimidating, still controlled, but something about the rolled sleeves and loosened tie made him seem almost human.

The words stung, shame flooding through me. He'd seen. Of course he'd seen. Probably thought I was pathetic, playing with toys at my desk like a child. My eyes dropped to my keyboard, unable to meet that gray gaze.

"Yes, Mr. Stone," I mumbled, the words automatic. "I'm sorry."

"There you go again. Apologizing." But his voice had lost its earlier edge. He stopped at the side of my desk, and I could feel him studying my chaos—the disaster of notes, the forest of Post-Its, the evidence of my day-long struggle to keep up.

"I wasn't . . ." I started, then stopped. I was apologizing. I was always apologizing.

"Look at me."

It wasn't a request. I raised my eyes slowly, expecting to find dismissal, disgust, confirmation that I was exactly as pathetic as I felt. But his expression was . . . different. Assessing, yes. But something else too. Something that made my breath catch.

"You took everything I threw at you today.

" The words were measured, careful. "The meeting.

The impossible coffee order. The contract emergency I manufactured just to see if you'd panic.

" My eyes widened at that admission. "Most don't make it past lunch.

The last one was crying in the bathroom by ten a.m."

I didn't know what to say to that. Part of me wanted to point out that I'd definitely considered crying in the bathroom. Multiple times. But admitting that felt like handing him ammunition.

"You're soft," he continued, and I flinched. But then: "That's not necessarily a weakness. Not if you learn to use it right. To bend without breaking."

His eyes dropped to my bag, where the bunny's ear was still slightly visible. Something shifted in his expression, so quickly I might have imagined it. When he looked back at me, there was an intensity there that made my stomach flip.

"Seven sharp tomorrow," he said, but the tone was different now. Not the harsh bark of this morning. Something almost . . . protective? "Don't be late, little one."

Little one.

The words landed like a physical touch, unexpected and strangely intimate. My breath caught, heart doing something complicated in my chest. It should have been condescending. Should have been insulting. But the way he said it, low and careful, made it feel like something else entirely.

He turned before I could respond—not that I had any idea what to say—and headed back to his office. At the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but closer than anything I'd seen all day.

"And bring the bunny if you need to," he added, so quietly I almost missed it. "Just keep her hidden better. I run a Fortune 500 company, not a daycare."

The door closed, leaving me alone with my racing heart and burning cheeks. I sat frozen, replaying the last minute in my head. Had that really happened? Had Damian Stone, corporate destroyer and nightmare boss, just given me permission to bring my stuffie to work?