Page 18 of Bossh*le Daddy
My breath caught in my throat, trapped like the words I couldn't quite say. But my body knew the answer, had known it since that first morning when he'd swept past my desk trailing authority and danger. I nodded, a tiny movement that felt enormous, unable to meet his eyes because they'd see too much, know too much, take too much.
His smile sharpened then, satisfaction bleeding through the amusement. Not cruel, but knowing. Like I'd just confirmed something he'd suspected all along.
"That's what I thought."
He gave the driver instructions to wait, then we got out. The air was cold and it felt like everything was suddenly in high definition. My senses were on high alert, my heart pounded like a drum.
He climbed the steps beside me, his presence turning my familiar stairwell into something foreign. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting shadows that made him look larger, more imposing. My heels clicked against worn linoleum, each step feeling like a choice, a surrender, a step deeper into whatever web we were weaving.
At my door—apartment 5C, the C hanging crooked because the screw had been loose for months—I slid the key in. The lock turned with a click that echoed in the narrow hallway, and then we were inside, the door closing behind us with finality that made my pulse skip.
He’d already looked around before, and his eyes were stuck on me, not taking in anything of my apartment. Then, he said in that low, deliberate voice that commanded boardrooms and apparently my entire nervous system: "You hungry?"
I nodded.
“Let me fix something for us.”
He moved through my tiny kitchen with that same controlled grace he used to dominate boardrooms, but here, between my chipped cabinets and ancient appliances, he looked impossibly out of place—a panther prowling through a dollhouse.
My fingers found the hem of my dress, worrying the expensive fabric between thumb and forefinger while I watched him open my refrigerator with the same deliberate purpose he probably used to review quarterly reports. The fluorescent bulb inside flickered, casting harsh light on my pathetic food situation. A half-empty jar of peanut butter. A carton of eggs I'd optimistically purchased two weeks ago. Wilted lettuce in thecrisper that had seen better days. The world’s loneliest bottle of sriracha.
His frown deepened with each revelation, that muscle in his jaw ticking the way it did when someone presented him with subpar work. Except this time, I was the subpar work. My lifestyle, my choices, my complete inability to take care of myself on display under that unforgiving refrigerator light.
He moved to the cabinets next, finding them barely better stocked. A box of Earl Grey—at least that was fresh. Instant oatmeal, the kind you bought in bulk and lived on when money got tight. Which was always. Half a loaf of bread that had started to spot with mold at the corners. He held it up between two fingers like evidence in a crime, and I wanted to sink through the floor.
"Isla." Just my name, but the disappointment in it made my stomach clench.
He turned to face me, leaning back against my counter like he owned it. Like he owned everything he touched, including me. The contrast of him there—still in his tux, bow tie hanging loose, looking like sin and authority—against my shabby kitchen made my head spin. Or maybe that was just him, the way he looked at me with those gray eyes that saw too much.
"What did you eat today?"
The question was soft, but I heard the steel underneath. This wasn't a casual inquiry. This was an interrogation, and we both knew I'd fail it.
I couldn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on a chip in the formica where I'd dropped a plate last month. My voice came out small, matching how I felt under his scrutiny. "Toast."
His brow lifted in that way that meant he was waiting for more. When I didn't offer it, he prompted, "And?"
The word hung between us, patient and implacable. I squirmed in my chair, the silk dress suddenly feeling like it was made of sandpaper against my overheated skin.
"...tea," I added, even quieter. The admission tasted like failure.
He exhaled through his nose, a controlled sound that somehow conveyed more disappointment than any lecture could have. His head shook slowly, deliberately, like I was a problem he needed to solve.
"Little one, you can't just run on crumbs and caffeine." The endearment in that tone—exasperated but fond—made my chest tight. "Not on my watch."
On his watch. Like I was his responsibility now. Like what I ate mattered to him beyond this moment, this strange domestic scene we'd stumbled into. The implications made my head dizzy, or maybe that was the hunger I'd been ignoring all day finally catching up.
Before I could stammer out an excuse—work was busy, I forgot, I'm fine really—he was already pulling out his phone. Those elegant fingers that had gripped my waist, that had tangled in my hair, now swiped across the screen with brutal efficiency.
"Protein," he muttered, apparently to himself as he navigated whatever app he'd opened. "Vegetables. Real carbs. Not that processed garbage."
"I can't—" I started, thinking of my bank balance, of the carefully rationed groceries that had to last another week.
"You can and you will." He didn't even look up from his phone. "You're not leaving this table until you've eaten every bite. Is that understood?"
The command in his voice sent an involuntary shiver through me. This was the man who'd made executives cry, who'd dismantled companies before breakfast, who'd kissed me on abalcony until I couldn't remember my own name. And now he was ordering me to eat dinner like I was a recalcitrant child.
"Yes, sir," I mumbled, the title automatic.
