Page 3 of Bossh*le Daddy
He sat behind a desk that could have doubled as a landing strip—polished black marble that reflected the morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. His fingers moved across his keyboard with the kind of precision that suggested every keystroke had been calculated for maximum efficiency. Dark hair, perfectly styled. Dark suit, perfectly tailored. Everything about him screamed control.
I hovered just inside the door, my folder clutched against my chest like armor made of paper. The office was enormous—bigger than my entire apartment, with walls of glass offering a view of Manhattan that probably cost more than I'd make in a lifetime. The décor was minimal, modern, cold. Black leather, chrome, stone. Not a single personal touch anywhere. No photos, no awards despite what must have been hundreds to choose from. Just that massive desk and him behind it, ignoring my existence with what felt like practiced ease.
The silence stretched. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. My palms started to sweat against the folder. Should I speak? Clear my throat? The HR woman's warning echoed: Don't speak unless spoken to first. So I waited, feeling smaller with each passing second, while he continued typing as if I were furniture.
“Five minutes early,” he finally said, still without looking up. His voice was exactly what I’d expected and nothing like it at the same time. Low, controlled, with an edge that could have cut glass. “Which tells me you don’t understand how to manage your time.”
The words hit me like cold water. “Sir?” The word came out weak, barely a whisper.
His fingers never paused on the keyboard. “When someone arrives early, it usually means one of two things: either they rushed and cut corners to get here, or they didn’t properly use the time they had. Either way, it shows poor planning. I expect my assistants to walk in at exactly the appointed time—prepared, composed, and not a second wasted.”
I stood there, mouth slightly open, trying to process the logic that turned punctuality into a character flaw. My carefully rehearsed introduction evaporated. The smile I’d practiced in the mirror felt like a distant memory.
Now he looked at me.
The full force of Damian Stone's attention was like being caught in a searchlight. Those gray eyes—steel gray, storm gray, the color of things that could hurt you—swept over me in one comprehensive assessment. From my escaping hair to my trembling hands to my shoes that I suddenly knew he'd identified as cheap knockoffs. His expression didn't change, but somehow I felt like he'd cataloged every flaw, every weakness, every reason I didn't belong in his office.
"You'll address me as Mr. Stone." The words were clipped, precise, each one placed with the same calculation as his keystrokes.
"Yes, Mr. Stone." My voice came out smaller than I'd intended, barely disturbing the arctic air between us.
He leaned back in his chair—throne, really—and steepled his fingers. The gesture was probably meant to look casual, but everything about him radiated coiled power. A predator that didn't need to hunt because prey came to him.
"Let me be clear about your position here, Miss James." He knew my name. Of course he did. He probably knew everything—my pathetic resume, my clearance rack wardrobe, the forty-three dollars and sixteen cents in my bank account. "You'll manage my calendar with military precision. You'll screen my calls with the discretion of a priest. You'll draft correspondence that reflects my voice, not yours. You'll anticipate my needs before I voice them. You'll be invisible when I need you to be and instantly available when I don't."
Each responsibility hit like a slap. My fingers cramped where they gripped the folder. A bead of sweat traced down my spine despite the arctic air conditioning.
He stood then, and I understood why every article about him mentioned his presence. Six foot four of barely contained intensity, he dominated the space in a way that made the enormous office feel cramped. He moved around the desk withthe kind of fluid grace that suggested complete comfort in his own power. When he stopped in front of me, I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. A mistake, probably. Everything felt like a mistake.
"I don't tolerate excuses." He was close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and sharp, like winter mornings and danger. "I don't accept anything less than perfection. I don't have patience for learning curves, hand-holding, or whatever participation trophy mentality you might have developed in college."
My cheeks burned. I wanted to defend myself, to point out that I'd graduated summa cum laude, that I'd never asked for special treatment in my life. But my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth.
"The last three assistants couldn't handle it." His voice dropped lower, almost conversational, which somehow made it worse.
My eyes burned with the effort of holding back tears. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. Not here, not in front of him, not when he was clearly trying to break me.
"If you can't handle the pressure, if you can't meet my standards, if you can't function without constant validation and reassurance, then leave now." He gestured toward the door with elegant fingers that had probably never trembled in their life. "Save us both the time and embarrassment of pretending you belong here."
The ultimatum hung in the air between us like a blade. Leave now, with dignity barely intact but intact nonetheless. Or stay and risk complete destruction at the hands of a man who collected broken assistants like trophies.
My legs wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at me to apologize for wasting his time and flee back to my cracked mirror and stuffed bunny and the safety of being nobody special.This wasn't what I'd signed up for. The job posting had said "executive assistant," not "sacrificial lamb."
But behind him, through those wall of windows, Manhattan sprawled in all its unforgiving glory. Somewhere out there was my landlord, waiting for rent. My student loan servicer, preparing another letter about my deferment ending. My empty refrigerator, my maxed-out credit card, my life held together with ribbon and desperate hope.
I couldn't afford to leave. Literally could not afford it.
So I stayed. Frozen in place like a deer that had already seen the headlights but couldn't process what came next. My silence stretched between us, and something flickered in those gray eyes. Surprise? Disappointment? Calculation? It was gone before I could identify it.
"Good," he said finally, and the word felt like both a verdict and a sentence. He turned back to his desk with the same fluid grace, dismissing me without dismissing me. "Your desk is outside. Computer password is your employee ID number. Calendar access should already be loaded. I have a conference call with Tokyo in twenty minutes. I'll need coffee—black, no sugar, temperature exactly 140 degrees. The kitchen is on the fifty-eighth floor. If it's cold when it gets here, you'll remake it. If it's too hot, you'll remake it. If it's anything other than exactly what I asked for, you'll remake it until you get it right."
He sat back down, attention already returning to his computer as if I'd ceased to exist. "Close the door on your way out."
Welcome to Stone Enterprises, Isla. Try not to be the next cautionary tale.
*
By eleven o'clock, my hand had developed a permanent cramp from trying to keep up with Damian Stone's machine-gun delivery of orders, critiques, and casual corporatedestruction. The conference room—all glass and chrome and barely contained hostility—housed twelve department heads who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. I perched on a chair in the corner, my planner already a disaster of crossed-out notes and frantic scribbles.
