Page 7 of Bossh*le Daddy
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.
I'd sent it? When? How? My fingers must have hit send instead of save, must have—
He began to read, each word precise and damning. The quarterly projections, the Berlin timeline, all fine until—
"'As for the Morrison contract delay, our legal department continues to demonstrate why billable hours are inversely proportional to actual productivity. Useless fucking lawyer thinks billable hours mean sitting on his ass contemplating his navel.'"
The blood drained from my face. I'd left it in. His muttered aside, his vicious comment, typed directly into the official memo and sent to every employee in the company.
Including Morrison.
Including Legal.
Including everyone now staring at me with a mixture of pity and second-hand embarrassment.
But he wasn’t done.
"Mr. Morrison, as you can imagine, was thrilled to receive this assessment of his work ethic. He called me personally to express his... appreciation."
A few executives shifted in their seats. Someone cleared their throat. No one looked at me directly, but I could feel their peripheral attention like needles in my skin.
He set the memo down with deliberate precision, smoothing it against the table's surface. The gesture was almost gentle, which made it worse somehow. When he looked up, those gray eyes swept the room before landing on me with the weight of an avalanche.
"Of course, what can we expect?" His tone shifted, becoming conversational, almost philosophical. "When we hire assistants who can't distinguish between personal commentary and professional communication. Who lack the basic intelligence to differentiate between what should be captured and what should be filtered."
My face burned so hot I was surprised my hair didn't ignite.
I couldn't move, couldn't run, couldn't do anything but stand there and take it while fourteen of Stone Enterprises' most senior executives witnessed my destruction.
"My assistant," he said, and something twisted in my chest at the possessive pronoun, "contrary to what her performance up to now might indicate, is as incompetent as the rest of you."
Wait. Was that almost a complement?
His gaze swept the room again, taking in his senior team with the same cold assessment. "At least she's new, still learning. Unlike those responsible for the Q3 projections I'm seeing from your departments."
The focus shifted slightly, executives straightening as they realized they weren't entirely safe. But the damage to me was done, thorough and public and irreversible.
"The memo will need to be retracted," Damian continued, addressing the room but no longer looking at me. I'd ceased to exist except as an object lesson. "Legal will draft an appropriate clarification. Though I suspect the damage to Mr. Morrison's apparently fragile ego is already done."
Nervous laughter rippled through the room—the kind that came from people grateful they weren't the target. The blonde woman from Marketing actually smiled, though she tried to hide it behind her hand.
"Now," he said, returning to the agenda as if he hadn't just ended my career in front of everyone who mattered, "let's discuss the Berlin timeline. Hopefully with a little competence."
He waved his hand then—a casual, dismissive gesture that somehow hurt more than all the words. Get out. You're not worth any more of my time. The message was clear, and I took it, backing toward the door on legs that felt like water.
The last thing I saw before escaping was Pearson's expression—a mixture of pity and satisfaction that said she'd already written me off. They all had. Another assistant who couldn't hack it.
The hallway stretched endlessly before me, plush carpet muffling my footsteps but not the sound of my ragged breathing. My hands shook as I navigated back to my desk, muscle memory guiding me because my vision had gone blurry with unshed tears.
I sank into my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. The computer screen swam before me, inbox already filling with replies to the memo. Subject lines like "Clarification Needed" and "Regarding Your Recent Communication" and one simply titled "???" that was probably from Morrison himself.
My face still burned. Would probably burn forever, branded with the memory of standing there while Damian Stone methodically destroyed me in front of people whose names I'd carefully memorized, whose coffee orders I'd learned, whose schedules I'd managed with increasing competence until this spectacular failure.
*
By two o'clock, the humiliation had calcified into something I couldn't carry anymore. Every email notification made me flinch. Every footstep in the hallway sent my shoulders up around my ears. When Henderson walked past my desk with that same satisfied smirk, something inside me finally cracked.
I made it to the executive bathroom on autopilot, muscle memory navigating while my vision blurred dangerously. The ladies' room was mercifully empty—the other executive assistants were probably at lunch, discussing my spectacular failure over overpriced salads. I stumbled into the farthest stall and locked it with shaking fingers.
