Page 12 of The Billionaire's Obsession

He finally raises his eyes to mine. "Time is a luxury in my world, Lucy. But I'm not unreasonable. You may keep your apartment for now. Consider the suite here as...an option."

The concession, small as it is, helps me breathe easier. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." He stands, gathering several folders. "We have work to do. The Miyazaki merger won't finalize itself."

For the next hour, I'm too busy to dwell on my situation. Damon dictates emails, explains complex financial maneuvers, and outlines the intricacies of the merger he's orchestrating. Despite everything, I find myself engaged, my mind working to keep up with his brilliant, strategic thinking.

"You're quick," he observes as I correctly anticipate a document he needs before he asks for it. "I was right about you."

The approval in his voice shouldn't please me, but it does. I've spent my life excelling academically, but this is different—using my skills in real-time, with real consequences.

At twelve-thirty, Janet brings in lunch—an elaborate spread of sushi and sashimi that must have cost hundreds of dollars.

"I took the liberty of ordering for you," Damon says, gesturing for me to sit in one of the chairs facing his desk. "You'll need to inform Janet of any dietary restrictions."

"How do you know I like sushi?" I ask, even as I eye the perfect cuts of tuna and salmon.

His smile is enigmatic. "I make it my business to know what's mine."

There it is again—that possessive language that should offend me but instead sends a complicated shiver down my spine.

"I'm not yours," I say quietly. "I work for you. There's a difference."

In an instant, he's on his feet, moving around the desk with that fluid grace that seems at odds with his powerful frame. He leans against the desk directly in front of me, so close his knee nearly touches mine.

"Let me be perfectly clear, Lucy." His voice is soft but unyielding. "When you signed that contract, you became mine in every way that matters. During business hours, you represent me. After hours, you're available to me. Your time, your skills, your loyalty—all mine."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. "In return, I take care of what's mine. Your debt? Gone. Your financial concerns? Eliminated. Your career? Advanced beyond what would take others decades to achieve."

Our fingers brush as he hands me a pair of chopsticks, and I feel a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless. His eyes darken slightly, telling me he felt it too.

"This arrangement benefits us both," he continues. "But make no mistake—I don't share, and I don't tolerate divided loyalties."

I should be outraged. I should stand up, walk out, consequences be damned. Instead, I find myself frozen, caught between indignation and a treacherous fascination.

"Eat," he commands softly. "We have a full afternoon ahead."

I pick up the chopsticks, my hands steadier than they have any right to be. As I take a bite of perfect fatty tuna, I feel his eyes on me, watching with that same possessive intensity. I should feel like prey, but there's something else mixed with the fear—a dark thrill that I'm not ready to examine too closely.

After lunch, Damon takes a call in his private conference room, leaving me alone at my new desk. I seize the opportunity to check my phone, finding three missed calls from my mother and a text from my best friend asking if I'm okay. I send quick reassurances to both, aware that I'm already editing the truth, already protecting Damon's privacy—or is it hiding my own questionable decisions?

When he emerges, he's wearing his suit jacket, car keys in hand.

"The stylist is waiting. We leave now."

Not a request. Not even a proper sentence. Just a command he expects to be obeyed without question.

I gather my purse and follow him to the private elevator. As the doors close, sealing us into the small space together, I find my voice again.

"Mr. Blackwell?—"

"Damon," he corrects. "When we're alone, you use my first name."

I swallow. "Damon. I need to establish some boundaries if this is going to work."

His eyebrow arches. "Boundaries."

"Yes. I understand the job requires unusual availability, but I need some personal space, some autonomy." I rush to continue before I lose my nerve. "I'll be a better assistant if I don't feel...smothered."

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