Page 36 of Bossh*le Daddy
The ring caught the artificial light and threw it back in scattered rainbows. A cushion-cut diamond surrounded by smaller stones, set in platinum that gleamed like moonlight. Not trendy or flashy, not the kind of ring you'd see splashed across Instagram. This was classic, elegant. Like something chosen for forever rather than show.
"Sunday," I repeated numbly. "That was—"
"The day after I fed you dinner. After I gave you the pacifier. After I knew with absolute certainty that I couldn't let you go." His laugh was humorless, self-deprecating. "I spent all day Sunday planning how to do this right. Thought you needed time to adjust, to understand what we are. I was going to wait until after Hartley. Court you properly. Prove I wasn't just another domineering asshole looking for a convenient submissive."
He shifted from kneeling to one knee, still holding my hands like I might disappear if he let go. The classic proposal position made this real in a way that stole my breath. This was happening. In a coffee shop booth with tear tracks on mycheeks and Silas's business card still mocking me from the table, Damian Stone was proposing.
"But Silas forced my hand," he continued, and anger flashed through his eyes again. "He wants to destroy what we have before you can see it's real. Before I can prove that you're not Rebecca or Melissa or any other woman who's passed through my life without leaving a mark."
The ring trembled between us, catching light like captured stars. I couldn't look away from it, from him, from this moment that felt too big for my body to contain.
"Isla James." My name on his lips sounded like a vow. "You are not convenient. You are not temporary. You are the missing piece I built that room for. The little one I've been searching for without knowing it. You're mine, and I'm yours, and I want the world to know it."
A sob escaped me, ugly and raw. Because I wanted to believe him. God, how I wanted to believe that I could be more than a useful arrangement, more than a prop for a business deal. But Silas's words still echoed—professional courtesy, two weeks maximum, enjoy it while it lasts.
"This isn't about Hartley," Damian said, reading my doubt with that uncanny perception. "Fuck the deal. I’ll call it off. I’ll bury the whole fucking company if it means I can have you. This is about the fact that I can't imagine going back to a life where you don't call me Daddy. Where I don't make you dinner. Where you don't exist in every space I inhabit."
His voice dropped to that register that rewrote my DNA, but now it carried something beyond command. This was plea and promise and prayer all wrapped in rumbling bass.
"Marry me. Not for show. For real. Forever. Be my wife, my little one, my everything. Let me prove that what we have is the only real thing in my otherwise transactional life."
The words hung between us like suspended stars, waiting for me to either wish on them or watch them fall. The ring caught the light again, winking like it knew secrets about our future I hadn't learned yet.
"I'm scared," I admitted, the words scraping my throat raw. "What if I'm not enough? What if you realize I'm just a mess who needs her Daddy and her stuffies and—"
"Then you'll be my mess," he interrupted fiercely. "My perfect, beautiful mess who trusts me enough to be little, who lets me care for her, who calls me Daddy like it's the sweetest word ever created." His eyes blazed with conviction. "Don't you understand? Every single thing Silas tried to use against us is exactly why I love you."
I breathed. I had to trust him.
Ididtrust him.
"Yes."
The word escaped before I could overthink it, surprising us both. But once it was out, I couldn't take it back. Didn't want to.
"Yes?" He searched my face like he was memorizing it, this moment, the exact shape of my surrender.
"Yes, Daddy," I whispered, and watched his control finally snap. "I'll marry you."
Chapter 8
Three Months Later
Silksheetswhisperedagainstmy skin as consciousness crept in. My body knew this luxury now—had learned the particular weight of Italian linens, the specific coolness of climate-controlled air, the exact dimensions of a California king that had replaced my sagging twin. But knowing and believing were different things, and most mornings I still woke expecting to find myself back in that fifth-floor walk-up, surrounded by water stains and regret.
I stretched, feeling the delicious pull of well-rested muscles, the kind of rest that came from safety rather than exhaustion. The space beside me held residual warmth, the pillow still dented from where Damian's head had been. 5:47 glowed from the bedside clock—he'd be in his home gym now, pushing through whatever punishing routine he'd designed to maintain that body that could still make me forget my own name.
Morning light poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting Central Park in shades of gold and shadow sixty floorsbelow. The view alone was worth more than I'd make in a lifetime at my old salary, but it wasn't the height that stole my breath anymore. It was the permanence of it. The knowledge that I belonged here, not as a temporary arrangement but as the future Mrs. Stone.
The penthouse, of course, was at the top of the Stone Enterprises building. The office was a few floors down. And at the bottom of the building, my nursery . . .
My left hand emerged from the sheets, and I did what I'd done every morning for three months—held it up to catch the light. The ring threw rainbows across the ceiling, cushion-cut center stone surrounded by smaller diamonds that Damian had selected himself. "Classic," he'd said when he'd finally slipped it on my finger properly, after my tears had dried and his knees had probably gone numb from kneeling. "Timeless. Like what we have."
We'd set the wedding for next spring, wanting to do it right. No rushed courthouse ceremony to satisfy investors. No strategic timing for business deals. Just us, choosing each other properly, publicly, permanently. The Hartley acquisition had closed successfully two weeks after our engagement, but by then everyone knew our relationship was real. The way Damian looked at me, touched me, claimed me in a thousand small ways had silenced even the most persistent gossips.
I rolled onto his side of the bed, breathing in the scent of him that clung to the sheets—that expensive cologne mixed with his natural, masculine aroma. The soreness between my thighs reminded me of last night, how he'd taken me against the shower wall after dinner, water streaming over us as he'd growled ownership into my neck. Even after months together, the intensity hadn't faded. If anything, it had deepened, evolved into something that encompassed every part of our lives.
The ensuite bathroom door stood open, revealing marble and gold that belonged in a palace rather than a Manhattan penthouse. I padded across heated floors, toes sinking into plush carpet, then meeting cool stone. The mirror above the double vanity reflected someone I was still learning to recognize.
