Page 23 of Bossh*le Daddy
"Yes," I whispered. Then, because he was waiting, because that hungry look was back in his eyes: "Yes, Daddy."
The change was instant. His pupils dilated, jaw tightening, and for a moment I thought he might grab me, might finish what we'd started on that balcony. Instead, he took a controlled step back, but his voice when he spoke was rough with something that sounded like victory.
"Good girl. Now, let's discuss those adjustments."
He moved to take the chair opposite me. He sat with that controlled grace that made everything look deliberate, one long leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap. The morning light caught the angles of his face, turning him into something out of a Renaissance painting, all sharp shadows and classical beauty.
"Rules," he said simply. “Now that I’m taking the role of your Daddy, we need them.”
“Rules?” I echoed.
The word hung between us, carrying weight I couldn't quite measure. I blinked, my fingers tightening on my notebook, the pen suddenly slippery in my grip.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, bringing him close enough that I could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but absolute, each word placed with the precision of a surgeon's cut.
"No skipping meals."
My stomach clenched with guilt. He knew. Of course he knew. Those gray eyes saw everything, catalogued every weakness, every self-destructive tendency I thought I'd hidden.
"No staying late at work without permission."
Another hit. How many nights had I remained at my desk until security did their rounds, pretending productivity was the same as worth?
"No running yourself ragged just to impress me—I already know you're capable."
That one made my breath catch. The casual acknowledgment of my competence, delivered like fact rather than praise, somehow meant more than any performance review ever had.
"And no talking down to yourself. Ever."
His eyes held mine, unwavering, seeing straight through to that voice in my head that whispered inadequacy with every breath. The voice that sounded suspiciously like my mother, like every person who'd ever told me I wasn't enough.
"Are we clear?"
Something tightened in my chest, a sensation halfway between panic and relief. He was taking control of things I'd never admitted needed controlling. Setting boundaries I'd never been able to set for myself. The care implicit in those rules made my eyes burn with tears I refused to shed.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Words, little one." Gentle but implacable.
"Yes, sir." The title came out automatically, inadequate for what he was becoming to me.
He tilted his head, studying me with those penetrating eyes. "Yes, what?"
My face heated, that now-familiar flush that seemed to be my default state around him. But I knew what he wanted, what he needed to hear, what I needed to say.
"Yes, Daddy."
His smile then was different—satisfied and possessive and somehow proud, like I'd done something remarkable instead of just agreeing to basic self-care. "Good girl," he murmured, and those two words settled into my bones like they'd been waiting there all along.
The day unfolded like a test I was destined to fail.
It was chaos—phones ringing, emails multiplying like viruses, the Singapore contracts needing revisions before the afternoon call. By noon, my stomach was growling loud enough to be heard over the printer, but I had seventeen things to finish and lunch felt like an indulgence I couldn't afford.
I stayed at my desk, attacking the contracts with single-minded focus, pretending the coffee in my system was enough to count as a meal. When Damian emerged from his office at 12:30, I hunched lower over my keyboard, trying to look invisible.
"Isla." Just my name, but the tone made me freeze. "What are you doing?"
"The Singapore revisions," I said to my screen, not turning. "They need to be ready by two."
