Page 24 of Bossh*le Daddy
The silence stretched, weighted with disapproval I could feel like a physical thing. Then his footsteps retreated, his office door closing with a click that sounded like judgment.
The afternoon was worse. The Hartley files had arrived—three boxes of due diligence documents that needed cataloging before the preliminary meeting. I'd planned to leave at six, really I had.But six became seven became eight, and suddenly the office was empty except for me and the security lights.
I told myself I was being proactive. Showing initiative. Proving my worth. But underneath, that rebellious voice whispered the truth—I was pushing. Testing. Seeing if he'd notice, if he'd care, if those rules had been real or just another game.
At 8:47, his office door opened. I hadn't even known he was still there.
"It's nearly nine." Not a question. An accusation wrapped in silk.
"I'm almost done," I lied, gesturing at the papers spread across my desk like evidence of productivity rather than defiance.
He stood in his doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled to reveal those forearms that had no business looking that good. The hallway light backlit him, turning him into something mythical and dangerous.
"Go home, Isla."
An order. Clear, direct, impossible to misinterpret. I should have obeyed. Should have gathered my things and scurried out like the good girl he'd named me.
Instead, I said, "Just a few more minutes."
Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or disappointment.
“My office,” he said, quietly.
"God, I'm so pathetic," I muttered, angry with myself for disobeying. The words came out automatically, that familiar self-flagellation that felt like comfort in its familiarity.
"What did you just say?"
"Nothing," I said quickly.
"What did you call yourself?"
My cheeks burned. "It was nothing. Just . . . I forgot the rules and—"
"Pathetic." He said the word like it tasted bad. "You called yourself pathetic."
The disappointment in his voice was worse than any anger could have been. It crawled under my skin, settled in my chest, made me want to apologize for apologizing.
"I didn't mean—"
"Yes," he cut me off quietly, "you did."
"My office. Right now. We need to discuss your inability to follow simple rules."
The words should have sounded like a threat. Should have sent me spiraling into panic about job security and professional boundaries. Instead, that treacherous heat curled in my belly, that same anticipation I'd felt every time he'd looked at me with those hungry eyes.
We walked into his office together, and he closed the door behind me.
"I gave you simple rules." Each word precise, measured. "Rules designed to take care of you. To keep you healthy. To stop you from burning yourself out trying to prove something to someone who's already impressed."
That last bit made my breath catch. Impressed. I loved to hear he was impressed.
"You broke every single one of them." He stopped directly in front of my desk, hands braced on the surface, leaning forward until I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"Stand up."
The command brooked no argument. I rose on legs that trembled, smoothing my skirt with hands that wouldn't quite steady. The desk stood between us, a barrier that felt both protective and frustrating.
"Come here."
