Page 6 of Bosshole Daddy

My face still burned. Would probably burn forever, branded with the memory of standing there while Damian Stone methodically destroyed me in front of people whose names I'd carefully memorized, whose coffee orders I'd learned, whose schedules I'd managed with increasing competence until this spectacular failure.

*

By two o'clock, the humiliation had calcified into something I couldn't carry anymore. Every email notification made me flinch. Every footstep in the hallway sent my shoulders up around my ears. When Henderson walked past my desk with that same satisfied smirk, something inside me finally cracked.

I made it to the executive bathroom on autopilot, muscle memory navigating while my vision blurred dangerously.

The ladies' room was mercifully empty—the other executive assistants were probably at lunch, discussing my spectacular failure over overpriced salads.

I stumbled into the farthest stall and locked it with shaking fingers.

The toilet lid was cold through my skirt as I sank down, face buried in my hands. My breath came in ragged little gasps that echoed off the marble walls. Everything was marble in this building. Cold, perfect, unforgiving marble that reflected your failures back at you from every angle.

My bag sat heavy in my lap, and before I could stop myself, before I could think about how pathetic it was, I pulled out my rabbit.

Her fur was soft against my cheek, familiar in a way nothing else in this chrome and glass tower could be.

One button eye caught the fluorescent light, winking at me like she understood.

"I can't do this," I whispered into her worn ear. The words came out broken, desperate. "I can't. He hates me. They all think I'm incompetent. And maybe they're right. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I'm just not cut out for the real world."

The rabbit offered no argument, just softness and the faint scent of home—lavender laundry powder and Earl Grey.

My phone buzzed with another email. Then another. The disaster growing, spreading, my failure multiplying with every forward and reply-all. Tomorrow there would probably be a company-wide training on "Professional Communication Standards" that everyone would know was because of me.

I pressed the rabbit tighter against my cheek, thumb finding that spot on her ear worn thin from years of comfort-seeking.

What was I doing here? Playing dress-up in a world that would never accept me?

Pretending I could transform myself into the kind of sharp, efficient assistant who belonged on the sixtieth floor?

The truth sat heavy in my chest: I couldn't. I was soft and scared and needed stuffed animals to get through the day.

I apologized too much, cried too easily, carried my damage around like a security blanket.

Damian Stone needed someone steel-sharp and diamond-hard, not a girl who hid in bathroom stalls clutching toys.

"I have to quit." The words came out steadier than expected. Decision crystallized into something solid, something I could hold onto. "I'll quit. Today. Now. Before he fires me. At least I'll have that much dignity."

My reflection in my phone's black screen looked like a ghost—red-rimmed eyes, ruined makeup, professional facade thoroughly destroyed. But there was something else there too. Determination, maybe.

I tucked my rabbit back into my bag with careful hands, smoothing her ears, making sure she was hidden completely.

Then I stood, straightened my skirt, and tried to salvage what was left of my appearance.

The mirror over the sinks showed the damage—mascara smudged despite being waterproof, face blotchy from crying, hair escaping the severe bun I'd wrestled it into this morning.

But it didn't matter anymore. In ten minutes, I wouldn't be Damian Stone's assistant. I'd be nobody again, but at least I'd be nobody on my own terms.

The contract was in my desk drawer, standard employment terms I'd signed with shaking hands just days ago. It felt heavier now, weighted with failure. I folded it carefully, precisely, the way he'd expect even though he wouldn't be expecting anything from me soon.

The walk to his office had never felt longer. Each step was deliberate, final. Other employees glanced up as I passed, probably reading the resignation in my posture.

My knock was firm. No more tentative tapping, no more apologetic hovering. If I was going out, I'd go with whatever scraps of dignity remained.

"Enter."

He didn't look up when I walked in. Of course he didn't. I was already dismissed in his mind, already replaced by whatever sharper, better assistant HR would send up tomorrow.

He sat behind that massive desk, signing documents with the same precise movements that made everything he did look effortless.

"I can't do this." The words came out steadier than I felt. "I'm sorry. I'm—not good enough."

The admission hurt more than his public humiliation. Because it was true. I wasn't good enough for this world, this job, this man who turned incompetence into an art form of destruction.

At that, he finally looked up.

Those gray eyes pinned me in place, and something sharp and dark flashed through them. Not the cold dismissal I'd expected. Not even satisfaction at being proven right. Something else, something that made my breath catch.

"No."

Just that. One word, delivered with the same authority he used to move millions of dollars and destroy careers. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying me like I was a contract he was considering signing. Or tearing up.

"You're not leaving." Each word was precise, measured, carrying weight that pressed against my chest. "You signed a contract. You belong to me until I say otherwise."

The air left my lungs. You belong to me. Present tense. Possessive. Final.

"And I'm not done with you yet."

My pulse spiked, blood rushing in my ears. There was something in his voice, something that made those words sound like both a threat and a promise. Like maybe being owned by Damian Stone was scarier and safer than anything I'd experienced before.

“You’re not like the others. Isla, I can tell you’re worth my time. I’m sorry about today. I’m sorry I spoke to you harshly. I had to do it in front of the others.”

“I don’t think it was very kind.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Well, I agree with you. I will try harder. As will you.”

I couldn't meet his gaze. Couldn't process the way those words settled into my bones like they'd always been there, waiting. My eyes fixed on the contract between us, watching as he picked it up and, without breaking eye contact, put it into his desk drawer.

"Get back to work, little one." Softer now, but no less commanding. "We have the Morrison situation to fix. And you're going to help me fix it."

*

The sixtieth floor emptied in waves, productivity bleeding out through closing elevator doors until only the ghosts of the day remained. Six o'clock became seven, seven became eight, and still I sat hunched over my keyboard, trying to type my way back to competence.

The Morrison email chain had grown into a hydra—every response spawning three more, each more carefully worded than the last. Legal wanted clarifications. HR wanted documentation. Morrison himself wanted blood, preferably mine.

I drafted response after response, channeling Damian's voice but softening the edges, turning his steel into something more like stern diplomacy.

The office fell into that particular quiet that only came after hours.

The constant hum of printers and conversation faded to nothing, leaving only the whisper of climate control and the distant ping of elevators carrying the last stragglers home.

Security would do rounds at nine, I'd learned.

Until then, the executive floor was mine.

Or ours. Because his office door stood slightly ajar, spilling a blade of light across the carpet. He'd left an hour ago, sweeping past my desk without acknowledgment, but that cracked door felt like an invitation. Or a test. Or maybe just an oversight from a man who never made oversights.

I saved my draft—the seventeenth version—and stood on legs that protested the sudden movement. Everything ached. The kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from holding yourself rigid for hours, waiting for the next blow to fall.

But it hadn't fallen. After shredding my resignation, he'd simply returned to work as if the whole interaction hadn't happened.

As if he hadn't just claimed ownership of me with the casual certainty of someone buying a newspaper.

The memory of those words—you belong to me—sent fresh heat through my chest.

My feet carried me to his door without conscious decision. Just to look. Just to see the space without him filling it, dominating it, making everything else seem small by comparison.

I pushed the door wider. No alarm sounded, no security descended. Just me and this cavern of marble and leather that smelled like him—cedar and cologne and pure masculinity.

The city spread below the floor-to-ceiling windows, lights beginning to twinkle as full darkness fell.

His desk dominated the space, that black marble surface now clear of everything but a single pen, aligned precisely parallel to the edge.

The perfection of it, the control, made something twist in my chest.

But it was the chair that drew me. High-backed leather that probably cost more than my annual rent, positioned to survey both the office and the city beyond.

I'd seen him in it dozens of times already, leaning back with that casual arrogance that made everything look effortless. Now it sat empty, waiting.

I shouldn't. The thought was immediate and absolute. But my fingers were already trailing along the leather, feeling the butter-soft texture that might still hold warmth from his body. Before I could talk myself out of it, I sank into the seat.