Page 13 of Bossh*le Daddy
I opened the door and forgot every word in the English language.
Damian Stone in a tuxedo was a weapon of mass destruction. The jacket fit him like liquid shadow, emphasizing those broad shoulders that filled doorways and dominated rooms. The bow tie sat perfectly against his throat, though something about the angle suggested he'd been tugging at it. His hair was styled but not severely, like he'd run his fingers through it once in the car.
But it was his eyes that stopped my heart. Gray storm clouds that swept over me in one comprehensive assessment, startingat my pinned hair and traveling down, down, down to the heels that put me still a foot shorter than him. The journey was slow. Deliberate. Possessive.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. A muscle jumped near his temple. For a moment, we just stood there—him filling my doorway like a GQ fever dream, me frozen in champagne silk and terror.
"You'll do," he said finally, but his voice had dropped half an octave. The casual dismissal was betrayed by the way his gaze lingered on my bare shoulders, the exposed length of leg, the way the dress turned me into someone who might actually belong on his arm.
I wanted to make a joke, to deflect, to somehow ease the electric tension crackling between us. But my throat had gone desert-dry, and all I managed was a nod that made the ribbon flutter against my neck. His eyes tracked the movement, darkening further.
"Get your things." The order came out rougher than his usual commands. "The car's waiting."
I grabbed my clutch—borrowed from my neighbor who'd squealed over my "hot date"—and the wrap that had come with the dress. When I turned back, he'd moved into my apartment, those gray eyes cataloging every detail of my cramped studio. The murphy bed I'd carefully made. The stack of overdue bills I'd tried to hide under a magazine. The cheerful yellow curtains that couldn't quite disguise the water stains on the wall.
I waited for the dismissive comment, the curl of his lip at my poverty. Instead, his gaze landed on my bookshelf—the one luxury I allowed myself, cramped with worn paperbacks and library discards.
"You read," he said, not quite a question.
"When I can." The admission felt dangerous somehow. Too personal. Too real for whatever game we were playing tonight.
He moved closer, and I caught his scent—that cologne that probably cost more than my bookshelf, mixed with his musk. His fingers ghosted over the spines, stopping at my battered copy of Jane Eyre.
"'I am no bird,'" he quoted softly, "'and no net ensnares me.'"
My breath caught. Damian Stone quoting Brontë in my shabby apartment while I stood wrapped in silk he'd bought felt like stepping into an alternate universe.
"You've read it?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
His smile was sharp and knowing. "I read as much as I can, little one. Knowledge is power, and power is everything." His eyes found mine again, held them. "Remember that tonight. You're not there to be ensnared. You're there to help me ensnare others."
The words should have been reassuring. A reminder that this was business, performance, transaction. But the way he said them, low and intense, made them feel like something else entirely.
"We should go," I managed, needing distance from this strange intimacy, from the way he looked too right in my space.
He nodded but took his time moving to the door, his presence lingering like smoke. In the narrow hallway, descending stairs that creaked with every step, I was hyperaware of him behind me. The warmth of his body. The way his hand hovered near my elbow, not quite touching but ready to catch me if I stumbled.
The car waited outside—black town car with a driver who didn't look at us as we slid into leather seats that smelled like money. The space felt smaller with him beside me, his thigh inches from mine, the fabric of his tux brushing my bare arm when he adjusted his cufflink.
"Ground rules," he said as the car pulled into traffic. The Manhattan twilight painted everything in gold and shadow,beautiful and treacherous. "You don't leave my side. You don't accept drinks from anyone but me. You smile, but not too much. Laugh at my jokes, but nothing excessive. If someone asks how we met, we keep it simple—you work for me, proximity led to attraction. Natural progression."
Natural.
As if anything about this was natural. As if administrative assistants regularly ended up fake-engaged to their terrifying billionaire bosses.
"What about your ex?" The question tumbled out before I could stop it. "If she's there—"
"She won't be." His voice could have cut glass. "Veronica is in Mykonos with her senator's son, posting Instagram stories designed to prove just how unbothered she is." Something flickered across his face—not pain exactly, but maybe its cousin. "But her friends will be there. And my competitors. All of them waiting for signs of weakness."
"And I'm your armor." The words tasted bitter and thrilling in equal measure.
"You're my weapon," he corrected, and his hand moved to rest on the seat between us, pinky finger just barely touching the silk of my dress. "Don't forget that, little one. Tonight, you're mine to wield."
The possession in those words sent heat spiraling through me. I pressed my thighs together, grateful for the dimness that hid my flush, and tried to remember this was pretend.
Just business.
Just a performance worth a bonus I desperately needed.
