Page 34 of Bossh*le Daddy
His expression shifted as he took in my state. The controlled frustration melted into something darker, more dangerous. Those gray eyes tracked the tear stains, the smudged makeup, the way I held myself like something broken. His jaw tightened, but not with disappointment. This was different. This was the expression he wore when someone had touched what was his.
"Who made you cry?"
The question came out soft, but there was murder underneath it. Like he'd hunt down whoever had hurt me and destroy them with the same methodical precision he used to dismantle companies. The irony of it—that he was the one who'd hurt me, just not directly—made fresh tears spill over.
I opened my mouth to lie again. To blame it on allergies or hormones or anything except the truth. But looking at him standing there, filling the doorway of this cramped closet with his presence and his concern and his terrible careful gentleness, I couldn't do it.
His hand rose again, hovering near my face like he wanted to wipe away the tears but wasn't sure I'd let him touch me. The hesitation in the gesture—Damian Stone, who never hesitated—nearly undid me completely. This was the man who'd fed me by hand, who'd claimed my body with possessive certainty, who'd built rules around my life like he planned to keep me.
Now he couldn't even touch my face without permission.
"Isla." Just my name, but the way he said it—like it mattered, like I mattered—made everything worse.
"Come with me." The words weren't a request. Damian stepped back from the doorway, giving me space to exit my pathetic paper fortress, but his presence still dominated the narrow hallway like a gathering storm.
His hand hovered near my elbow as I emerged, not quite touching after my earlier flinch but ready to steady me if I stumbled. The careful distance he maintained felt wrong—this man who'd gripped my hips hard enough to leave bruises, who'd tangled his fingers in my hair with possessive certainty, now treating me like spun glass that might shatter at the slightest pressure.
We moved through the executive floor in silence, past my abandoned desk with its cold coffee memorial, past his office where Singapore's disappointments no longer mattered. He guided me with just his presence, that invisible magnetism that had always pulled me into his orbit, toward his private elevator. The one that required a special key card. The one I'd seen him use exactly twice in my brief tenure, both times alone.
He produced the card from his pocket and swiped it, the soft beep of acceptance echoing in the empty hallway. The doors slid open to reveal an interior more luxurious than the public elevators—dark wood paneling, subtle lighting, a control panel with floors I'd never seen listed.
His finger hovered over the buttons before selecting P2. Below the parking garage. Below the street level. Down into the building's bones where things got hidden or stored or quietly disappeared.
My stomach dropped along with the elevator. This was it, then. The professional way to handle a hysterical employee who'd learned too much. Not the public humiliation of being fired at my desk but something more private, more contained. Somewhere with soundproofing and senior HR representativesand probably a stack of NDAs thick as my wrist waiting for my tearstained signature.
I wondered if Rebecca had ridden this elevator down. If Melissa had watched these same floors tick by with the same sinking certainty that she'd played herself. If there was a whole protocol for this—Damian's Instructions for Discarding Inconvenient Women, Rev. 3.2, updated quarterly for maximum efficiency.
The descent felt endless, my reflection in the polished doors showing exactly how destroyed I looked. Mascara had given up entirely, leaving me with raccoon eyes that would have been comical if anything about this was funny.
Beside me, Damian stood perfectly composed, hands clasped behind his back in that way that meant he was thinking. Planning. Calculating the exact severance package that would ensure my silence without raising red flags. Three months' salary, just like the contract promised. Just like Silas had known it would be.
The elevator settled with a soft chime that sounded like a funeral bell. P2. The doors opened to reveal not the stark corporate efficiency I'd expected but something else entirely. The hallway beyond was warmer than the floors above, painted in soft cream instead of aggressive white. The lighting was different too—gentler, like someone had considered comfort over intimidation in the design.
"This way," Damian said quietly, stepping out with that same careful distance between us.
I followed because what else could I do? Run back to the elevator and frantically push buttons while he watched with that controlled patience? Make a scene in this hidden part of his empire where no one would hear me anyway? Better to maintain what dignity I had left, sign whatever papers waited, and start researching apartments in Connecticut.
The hallway stretched before us, unmarked doors on either side that could hide anything. Storage. Archives. The secret HR department where they processed the broken hearts of executive assistants with assembly-line efficiency.
He stopped at a door that looked identical to all the others—no nameplate, no number, no warning of what waited inside. Another key appeared from his pocket, this one older, metal instead of electronic. The lock turned with a sound like fate.
"I need to show you something," he said, hand on the doorknob but not turning it yet. His voice carried weight that made my chest tight. "Something I've never shown anyone else."
The words should have been reassuring. Should have suggested this wasn't the termination procedure I'd imagined. But my mind was too full of Silas's revelations to process new information.
He opened the door, and my thoughts scattered like startled birds.
It was a nursery.
My brain couldn't process what my eyes were seeing. Soft gray walls met white wainscoting in perfect matrimony. A white crib dominated one wall, dressed in silk bedding that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Shelves lined another wall, but instead of the corporate files I'd expected, they held stuffed animals. Not mass-produced toys but carefully chosen ones—a bear with a silk bow, a bunny that looked hand-stitched, a lamb so soft-looking I wanted to touch it.
A rocking chair waited by what should have been a window but was instead an LED panel mimicking natural light. The illusion was almost perfect, casting the room in a gentle glow that made everything look like a dream. A fairy tale. A impossibility hidden two floors below street level in the heart of Manhattan's financial district.
"I had this built years ago," Damian said, his voice rough with something I'd never heard from him before. Vulnerability, maybe. Or confession. "Hoping that one day I'd have someone to share it with."
Years ago. Before Rebecca. Before Melissa. Before the Hartley deal was even a consideration. Before I'd walked into his office clutching my folder like armor against his reputation.
My legs gave out.
