Page 31 of Bossh*le Daddy
My left hand curled into a fist under the table, achingly bare of the diamond that should mark me as his.
"Just perfectly timed," he continued, voice silk over steel, "for the Hartley acquisition. Did Damian tell you how important this deal is? Two hundred million dollars, but the Japanese investors are . . . traditional. They prefer to work with stable men. Family men. Men who aren't still nursing public wounds from being left by their fiancée."
Each word was a precision strike, finding every weak point in my armor. Because of course that's what this was. Of course Damian Stone didn't actually want me—messy, broken, debt-ridden me. He needed a prop for his business deal, and I'd been convenient. Desperate. Easy to mold into whatever shape required.
"You don't know anything about us." But even I could hear how weak the protest sounded.
"Maybe. But I know about Rebecca." The name dropped between us like a stone into still water.
I blinked, processing. "Rebecca?"
"The assistant before you. Lasted three weeks." Silas stirred his coffee again, casual as anything. "Smart girl. Sweet. Had that same eager-to-please quality you radiate. She was perfect for the Brennan acquisition—those old-money types do like their women demure."
My hands had started shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs, feeling the fabric of my dress, the ghost of bruises underneath.
"And Melissa before her," he continued, relentless. "Two weeks. Blonde, which worked better for the Scandinavian investors. Also very accommodating. Also left suddenly when the deal closed."
"Stop." The word came out cracked.
"Both young," he pressed on, leaning forward. "Both eager to please. Both thought they were special. Both signed iron-clad NDAs as part of their severance packages, which is why you won't find them talking about their time as Damian Stone's very personal assistant."
The coffee shop sounds had faded to white noise. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears, the echo of Damian's voice calling me special, calling me his, calling me perfect while he moved inside me.
"He calls you 'little one,' doesn't he?"
The question hit like a physical blow. I must have flinched because Silas's smile widened, satisfaction bleeding through the manufactured concern.
"That's what he called Melissa too. She mentioned it during her exit interview—apparently it slipped out despite the NDA. The Daddy thing is particularly effective, isn't it? Makes you feel special, chosen. Like you're not just another interchangeable assistant playing a role until the deal closes."
My vision had gone blurry. I blinked hard, refusing to cry in front of this man who was systematically destroying every beautiful thing about last night. But his words were finding purchase, clicking into place with horrible precision.
The sudden job offer when I'd had no experience. The fake fiancée arrangement that seemed to come from nowhere. The way he'd had that pacifier ready in his pocket, like this was a script he'd performed before. Good girls and little ones and Daddy's rules, all designed to make me compliant, devoted, ready to play whatever part his business required.
"You're lying." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.
"Am I?" Silas pulled out his phone again, scrolling with those elegant fingers. "Here's Rebecca's LinkedIn. Started at Stone Enterprises on January 3rd. Last update January 25th—newposition at a firm in Connecticut. Generous severance package, I'd imagine, to facilitate such a quick relocation."
The profile photo showed a pretty brunette with a shy smile. She looked young. Eager. Like someone who'd call her boss Daddy if he asked just right.
Like me.
"And here's Melissa." Another profile, another young woman with that same hopeful expression. "November 15th to November 30th. Two weeks exactly. Now working in Chicago, far from Manhattan's gossip circuit."
The phone screen swam in front of me as tears I refused to shed built behind my eyes. Evidence. He was showing me evidence that I was nothing special, just the latest in a line of convenient girls who'd served their purpose and been discarded with a check and a legal gag order.
"Check your employment contract," Silas suggested gently. "I bet there's a generous severance package outlined. Probably three months' salary—enough to seem generous, not enough to raise questions. And of course, a comprehensive NDA covering all aspects of your . . . working relationship."
My hands shook harder. I had to clasp them together to keep them still, but even that couldn't stop the tremors working through my body. Because I remembered that contract. Remembered thinking the severance terms were surprisingly generous for an executive assistant position.
I'd thought it was because he valued his employees.
Now I knew it was because he needed to buy their silence.
"You're wrong." The words barely made it past the constriction in my throat. "What we have—"
"Is temporary." No cruelty in his voice now, just matter-of-fact certainty. "When this ends—and it will end, my dear—call me."
Silas slid a business card across the table with two fingers. The motion was smooth, practiced, like everything else about him.The card stock was thick, expensive, the kind that whispered money and power and opportunities.
