Page 2 of Bossh*le Daddy
The walls told the story of Damian Stone's conquest of the business world. Framed magazine covers lined the path to reception like trophies. Forbes: "Stone's Midas Touch Turns Another Startup to Gold." BusinessWeek: "The Shark of Wall Street Strikes Again." Time: "America's Most Feared CEO." That last one featured a photo of him that made my stomach flip. Those gray eyes seemed to follow me across the lobby, promising nothing good.
The reception desk loomed ahead—a monolithic black granite altar where a woman with platinum hair and blood-red nails held court. She looked up as I approached, her expression suggesting I'd already wasted valuable seconds of her time by existing.
"Name?" She didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Isla James. I'm Mr. Stone's new—"
"Assistant. Yes." She cut me off with the efficiency of a guillotine, already typing. Her nails clicked against the keyboard like typewriter keys, sharp and staccato. "You're late."
I glanced at my phone. Seven-eighteen. "But I don't start until seven-thirty—"
"Mr. Stone's assistants arrive at seven. Earlier if there's international correspondence." She slid a keycard across the granite without looking up. "Executive elevator is to your left.Top floor. Don't use the regular elevators. Don't stop at any other floors. Don't speak to Mr. Stone unless spoken to first."
"I . . . thank you." I reached for the keycard, and she finally looked at me properly. Her lips pursed like she'd bitten into something sour.
"Good luck," she said, and it sounded more like a condolence than encouragement.
I clutched the keycard like a lifeline as I navigated toward the executive elevator. The regular elevator banks buzzed with activity—employees cramming in shoulder to shoulder, the doors barely closing before someone jabbed the button again. But the executive elevator stood apart, its brushed steel doors reflecting a distorted version of myself that looked even smaller than reality.
The keycard reader beeped, and the doors slid open silently. Inside was another world—burgundy carpet, mirrored walls, and buttons that only went to select floors. The very top button was labeled simply "STONE."
As the doors closed, cutting me off from the lobby's chaotic energy, I caught my reflection multiplied infinitely in the mirrors. A young woman drowning in a blazer, clutching a folder and planner like shields. My ribbon had already started to slip, wisps of hair escaping to frame my face. I looked terrified. Like prey.
The elevator began its ascent, and my stomach dropped in the opposite direction. Twenty floors. Thirty. Forty. My ears popped, and I swallowed hard, trying to calm the flutter of panic in my chest. The numbers climbed higher, and with them, my anxiety.
Without thinking, my mind drifted backward, seeking comfort in memory. Mrs. Patterson's lap, warm and soft, smelling like vanilla extract and cinnamon. I must have been five, maybe six, crying over some playground cruelty I couldn't even remembernow. "There, there, sweet girl," she'd murmured, stroking my hair. "Sometimes the world feels too big, doesn't it? But you're stronger than you know."
The memory was so vivid I could almost feel her hands smoothing my hair, the way she'd hum while I calmed down. Everything had been simpler then. Someone else made the decisions. Someone else carried the weight. All I had to do was be good, be quiet, be small enough to fit in the spaces provided.
The elevator dinged softly, yanking me back to reality. Floor fifty-five. Fifty-six. My hands were trembling again. I pressed them flat against my skirt, trying to iron out wrinkles that weren't there.
What was I doing? I didn't belong here. I belonged in libraries, in quiet corners with dusty books, in places where the biggest threat was a paper cut. Not here, about to face a man who apparently collected assistants' careers like some people collected stamps.
Floor fifty-nine. The elevator began to slow, and my heart did the opposite. I could hear it pounding in my ears, drowning out the soft classical music piping through hidden speakers. I willed it to slow, but it wouldn’t.
A soft chime. Floor sixty. The doors didn't open immediately, as if giving me one last chance to reconsider. To press the lobby button and flee back to my cracked mirror and paltry savings. To admit defeat before the battle even began.
But rent was due in two weeks. And after that, student loans. And after that, groceries. And after that, the endless cycle of bills that never stopped coming, no matter how small I made myself, no matter how little space I took up.
The doors slid open with a whisper, revealing a hallway that belonged in a different world than the one I inhabited. Cream carpet so thick my heels sank into it. Walls the color of expensive champagne. The air here smelled different—leather and cologneand something that whispered money in a language I didn't speak.
His office doors stood at the end of the hallway like gates to another realm. Dark wood, imposing, with brushed steel handles that looked like they'd been designed to intimidate. A small desk sat to one side—my desk, I realized with a jolt. My workspace. The place where I'd either prove myself or become another cautionary tale whispered about in the lobby.
I forced my feet forward. The hallway seemed to stretch forever, those doors growing larger with each step, until I stood before them like a supplicant at a cathedral.
My hand rose to knock, hesitated, fell back to my side. Seven twenty-six. Four minutes early. Or was it twenty-six minutes late? Should I wait? The HR woman's voice echoed in my memory: "He does not tolerate mistakes."
Trouble is, it felt like everything could be a mistake.Iwas a mistake, standing here in my clearance skirt and scuffed heels, pretending I could be the kind of person who belonged on the sixtieth floor.
I raised my hand again. I breathed. Then, I knocked.
Somewhere inside, a single word resonated.
"Enter."
He somehow managed to sound both bored and irritated. I pushed through, and the door clicked shut behind me with a finality that made my spine stiffen.
Damian Stone didn't look up.
