Page 9 of Bosshole Daddy

My hands wouldn't stop trembling as I applied mascara for the fourth time, having already cried off three attempts while spiraling about everything that could go wrong.

Would they know I didn't belong the moment I walked in?

Would his ex be there, all sharp cheekbones and effortless sophistication, making my inadequacy obvious?

Would I trip in these heels that cost more than my rent and land face-first in some Fortune 500 CEO's lap?

The buzz of my apartment intercom shot through me like electricity. 6:00 p.m. exactly. Of course.

"It's me." His voice through the speaker, just those two words, but they made my pulse race.

I buzzed him in with fingers that barely cooperated, then spent the eternal minute it took him to climb my five flights of stairs trying to remember how to breathe. Last check in the mirror—lipstick unsmudged, hair still pinned, dress still impossibly beautiful on my ordinary body.

The knock, when it came, was firm. Authoritative. Very him.

I opened the door and forgot every word in the English language.

Damian Stone in a tuxedo was a weapon of mass destruction.

The jacket fit him like liquid shadow, emphasizing those broad shoulders that filled doorways and dominated rooms. The bow tie sat perfectly against his throat, though something about the angle suggested he'd been tugging at it.

His hair was styled but not severely, like he'd run his fingers through it once in the car.

But it was his eyes that stopped my heart. Gray storm clouds that swept over me in one comprehensive assessment, starting at my pinned hair and traveling down, down, down to the heels that put me still a foot shorter than him. The journey was slow. Deliberate. Possessive.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. A muscle jumped near his temple. For a moment, we just stood there—him filling my doorway like a GQ fever dream, me frozen in champagne silk and terror.

"You'll do," he said finally, but his voice had dropped half an octave. The casual dismissal was betrayed by the way his gaze lingered on my bare shoulders, the exposed length of leg, the way the dress turned me into someone who might actually belong on his arm.

I wanted to make a joke, to deflect, to somehow ease the electric tension crackling between us. But my throat had gone desert-dry, and all I managed was a nod that made the ribbon flutter against my neck. His eyes tracked the movement, darkening further.

"Get your things." The order came out rougher than his usual commands. "The car's waiting."

I grabbed my clutch—borrowed from my neighbor who'd squealed over my "hot date"—and the wrap that had come with the dress.

When I turned back, he'd moved into my apartment, those gray eyes cataloging every detail of my cramped studio.

The murphy bed I'd carefully made. The stack of overdue bills I'd tried to hide under a magazine.

The cheerful yellow curtains that couldn't quite disguise the water stains on the wall.

I waited for the dismissive comment, the curl of his lip at my poverty. Instead, his gaze landed on my bookshelf—the one luxury I allowed myself, cramped with worn paperbacks and library discards.

"You read," he said, not quite a question.

"When I can." The admission felt dangerous somehow. Too personal. Too real for whatever game we were playing tonight.

He moved closer, and I caught his scent—that cologne that probably cost more than my bookshelf, mixed with his musk. His fingers ghosted over the spines, stopping at my battered copy of Jane Eyre.

"'I am no bird,'" he quoted softly, "'and no net ensnares me.'"

My breath caught. Damian Stone quoting Bronte in my shabby apartment while I stood wrapped in silk he'd bought felt like stepping into an alternate universe.

"You've read it?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

His smile was sharp and knowing. "I read as much as I can, little one. Knowledge is power, and power is everything." His eyes found mine again, held them. "Remember that tonight. You're not there to be ensnared. You're there to help me ensnare others."

The words should have been reassuring. A reminder that this was business, performance, transaction. But the way he said them, low and intense, made them feel like something else entirely.

"We should go," I managed, needing distance from this strange intimacy, from the way he looked too right in my space.

He nodded but took his time moving to the door, his presence lingering like smoke.

In the narrow hallway, descending stairs that creaked with every step, I was hyperaware of him behind me.

The warmth of his body. The way his hand hovered near my elbow, not quite touching but ready to catch me if I stumbled.

The car waited outside—black town car with a driver who didn't look at us as we slid into leather seats that smelled like money. The space felt smaller with him beside me, his thigh inches from mine, the fabric of his tux brushing my bare arm when he adjusted his cufflink.

"Ground rules," he said as the car pulled into traffic.

The Manhattan twilight painted everything in gold and shadow, beautiful and treacherous.

"You don't leave my side. You don't accept drinks from anyone but me.

You smile, but not too much. Laugh at my jokes, but nothing excessive.

If someone asks how we met, we keep it simple—you work for me, proximity led to attraction. Natural progression."

Natural.

As if anything about this was natural. As if administrative assistants regularly ended up fake-engaged to their terrifying billionaire bosses.

"What about your ex?" The question tumbled out before I could stop it. "If she's there—"

"She won't be." His voice could have cut glass.

"Veronica is in Mykonos with her senator's son, posting Instagram stories designed to prove just how unbothered she is.

" Something flickered across his face—not pain exactly, but maybe its cousin.

"But her friends will be there. And my competitors.

All of them waiting for signs of weakness. "

"And I'm your armor." The words tasted bitter and thrilling in equal measure.

"You're my weapon," he corrected, and his hand moved to rest on the seat between us, pinky finger just barely touching the silk of my dress. "Don't forget that, little one. Tonight, you're mine to wield."

The possession in those words sent heat spiraling through me. I pressed my thighs together, grateful for the dimness that hid my flush, and tried to remember this was pretend.

Just business.

Just a performance worth a bonus I desperately needed.

But when the car stopped outside the venue—a private club that screamed old money and older secrets—and the first camera flash exploded through the window, Damian's hand found my waist. His fingers splayed possessively against silk as he guided me from the car, and the contact burned through every layer of pretense.

"Smile," he murmured against my ear, his breath stirring the loose tendrils of my hair. "They're watching."

As the cameras erupted in earnest and his arm pulled me against his side, I realized the real danger wasn't in being caught in his net. It was in how desperately I wanted to be.

The ballroom opened before us like a golden mouth ready to swallow me whole.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors polished to mirror brightness, turning every surface into a reminder of how much I didn't belong here.

The scent hit me immediately—a suffocating blend of expensive perfume, champagne, and cigars that made my empty stomach turn.

Damian's hand remained fixed at my waist, fingers pressed into silk like he was branding me through the fabric. "Breathe," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. "You look like you're about to bolt."

Because I was. Every instinct screamed at me to run back to my cracked mirror and yellow curtains, to the safety of a world where I knew the rules. But his grip anchored me, kept me moving forward into the sea of Manhattan's elite.

"Damian." A silver-haired man in a burgundy bow tie materialized before us, teeth too white, smile too wide. "We heard you'd be bringing someone tonight. Didn't quite believe it after the Veronica . . . situation."

The pause before "situation" carried weight, judgment, barely concealed glee at past wounds. I felt Damian's body tense against mine, though his expression remained carved from ice.

"Richard." He didn't return the smile. "May I introduce my fiancée, Isla James."

Fiancée. The word dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water. Richard's eyes widened, darting between us with undisguised shock. His gaze lingered on my hand—my ringless hand—and I fought the urge to hide it in the folds of my dress.

"Fiancée?" Richard repeated, like he was testing the word for cracks. "Well, this is . . . unexpected. How long has this been going on?"

"Long enough." Damian's tone suggested the conversation was over, but Richard pressed on with the tenacity of someone who smelled gossip.

"And how did you meet? I don't recall seeing Miss James at any of the usual—"

"Isla works with me." Damian cut him off smoothly, his thumb starting a slow, distracting circle against my waist. "Proximity led to inevitability. Sometimes the best things are right in front of you."

The words sounded rehearsed because they were, but the way he looked at me when he said them—intense, possessive, almost hungry—made them feel like truth. Heat crawled up my neck, and I managed what I hoped was a devoted smile.

"How romantic," Richard's wife, a brittle blonde dripping in diamonds, cooed with false sweetness. "From secretary to fiancée. Every girl's dream."

The condescension in her voice made my teeth clench, but before I could respond—and say what, exactly?—Damian was already moving us along with a dismissive "Enjoy your evening."