Page 37 of Bossh*le Daddy
Gone was the girl with purple shadows under her eyes, the one who'd rationed shampoo and skipped meals. My skin glowed now—from proper nutrition, from eight hours of sleep, from a skincare routine that included more steps than I'd known existed. My hair fell in healthy waves past my shoulders, shiny from regular salon treatments that Damian insisted on. "You're mine to care for," he'd said when I'd protested the expense. "Let me."
But the real change was in my eyes. The haunted look had faded, replaced by something I'd never thought I'd see there—confidence. Security. The knowledge that I was loved, valued, wanted for exactly who I was. The scared girl who'd clung to her stuffed bunny in the dark was still there, but she was safe now.
Protected.
Free to exist without apology.
My phone buzzed on the counter, the custom tone I'd set for my therapist. Dr. Maxwell had been Damian's idea—insistence, really. "You need to process it all properly," he'd said after I'd woken from another nightmare about my mother. "With someone who understands family trauma." The best money could buy, of course, with a specialty in childhood emotional neglect. Wednesday's session would focus on boundaries, on learning that love didn't require constant sacrifice.
I typed a quick confirmation, then noticed what waited beside my phone. A small wrapped box, robin's egg blue—his daily gift. He'd started the tradition our first morning together in the penthouse. Never anything huge or overwhelming. Sometimesjewelry, sometimes books, sometimes just notes that made me cry. Tangible reminders that I was thought of, treasured, seen.
Today's box contained a delicate hair clip, rose gold with tiny pearls. Beautiful but functional, like all his gifts. The note beneath it was written in his precise handwriting:
"Conference call at 8. Be a good girl and eat breakfast. Daddy will check. P.S. - wear the blue dress today. I have plans for you."
Heat pooled low in my belly at the implications. The blue dress hung in our closet—the one that hugged every curve, professional enough for the office but designed to drive him to distraction. His plans usually involved his private office, the door locked, my cries muffled against expensive leather.
"Good girl," I whispered to my reflection, watching pink bloom across my cheeks. Some things hadn't changed. Those two words from him could still rewrite my DNA, still make me want to sink to my knees and prove just how good I could be.
The shower called, but I lingered at the mirror another moment, taking in the whole picture. From the outside, I probably looked like another Manhattan trophy wife-to-be. Young, pretty, plucked from obscurity by a powerful man. What they couldn't see were the nights he held me while I cried through therapy revelations. The patience as I learned to navigate his world. The way he'd kept every promise, from daily meals to proving I was irreplaceable.
My old apartment was a memory now, packed up in a single afternoon while I'd been at work. I'd come home to find my entire life relocated, my precious books given their own section in his library, my grandmother's quilt spread across the guest room bed for when I needed its comfort. Even my cracked mirror had made the move, carefully wrapped and stored because Damian understood some things were about memory rather than value.
This was my life now. Our life. Built on trust and tenderness and the kind of love that transformed rather than consumed. I wasn't the desperate girl who'd stumbled through an interview anymore. I was Isla James, future Mrs. Stone, learning to own my worth just as surely as he owned my submission.
*
My desk hadn't moved, but everything else about my position had transformed. The nameplate read "Isla James, Special Projects Director"—a title Damian had created specifically for me when I'd insisted on keeping my job. "I won't be the trophy fiancée who lunches," I'd told him that first week after moving in, chin raised despite my trembling hands. He'd smiled, that particular curve of lips that meant I'd pleased him with my spine, and by Monday the new nameplate had appeared.
My computer hummed to life, displaying the morning's agenda. No more fetching coffee or filing reports—my responsibilities had shifted to managing Damian's personal affairs, overseeing the Stone Foundation's literacy initiatives, and what he called "special projects." Those projects ranged from vetting charity galas to researching new investment opportunities, real work that used my brain instead of just my ability to remember coffee orders.
The foundation work was my favorite. We'd launched the literacy program last month, targeting underserved schools in the boroughs. It felt wonderful to give the gift of reading to children who might otherwise never discover the magic of books.
"Good morning, Isla." Margaret's voice carried careful warmth as she passed my desk. The HR director had undergone her own transformation in how she treated me—gone was the dismissive superiority, replaced by cautious respect. She'd learned, like everyone else on this floor, that I might share Damian's bed but I'd earned my place through merit.
"Morning, Margaret. The benefits review is on your desk—I flagged three areas where we could expand family support services." I kept my tone professional but friendly. I held no grudges about her earlier treatment; I understood the corporate hierarchy that had demanded it.
"Excellent. I'll review it before the afternoon meeting." She paused, designer handbag clutched like armor. "You look lovely today. The blue suits you."
The compliment was genuine, if careful. Everyone walked that line now—treating me with respect while navigating the complex dynamics of my dual role. I was Damian's fiancée, yes, but I was also a colleague who controlled significant foundation funds and had my future husband's ear on matters both personal and professional.
The morning flowed with familiar rhythm. Emails sorted and answered, foundation proposals reviewed, a conference call with the literacy program coordinators who updated me on the first month's progress. I'd found my groove here, carved out a space that was uniquely mine. The skills I'd developed from years of managing chaos on a shoestring budget translated beautifully to managing million-dollar charitable initiatives.
I was deep in a budget analysis when Henderson's shadow fell across my desk. The CFO stood too close, that particular brand of masculine presumption that assumed all space belonged to him.
"I need to see Mr. Stone." Not a request. A demand, delivered with the kind of authority he'd never dare use if he understood how things had truly changed.
I finished typing my sentence before looking up, a small power play that made his jaw tighten. The old Isla would have scrambled to accommodate, would have apologized for the delay. This Isla had learned her worth extended beyond her relationship status.
"He's in a meeting," I replied calmly, voice carrying the same professional detachment I'd heard Damian use to devastating effect. My fingers never paused on the keyboard, each click a small rebellion against his presumed importance.
"I'll wait." Henderson moved to claim one of the leather chairs reserved for scheduled appointments, his body language screaming entitlement.
"No," I said simply, finally meeting his gaze with steady eyes, "you'll make an appointment."
The word 'no' hung between us like a challenge. Henderson's face began its predictable shift toward purple, the color of men who'd never been denied by women they deemed beneath them. His mouth opened—to argue, to bluster, to try pulling rank—but I continued before he could speak.
"He'll be unavailable until four." I pulled up Damian's calendar with practiced ease, though I knew his schedule by heart. "I can slot you in at 4:15 for twenty minutes, or Thursday morning at nine."
