3
The next morning, I was up at 5:30 a.m., already hating capitalism, billionaires, and my own life decisions. My feet were sore, my pride was bruised, and my bank account was still gasping for air.
But Damien Blackwood wanted coffee at 8:00 sharp?
Oh, he was getting coffee. Hot, black, and strong enough to melt the soul. Just like him.
I walked into Blackwood Enterprises with two cups — one for him and one for me. Mine had a motivational quote scribbled on the side:
"Don't slap your boss. It's only Day 2."
I was five minutes early.
He wasn't even in yet.
Typical.
I sat at my desk, sipped my coffee, and tried not to fantasize about drop-kicking him through a window.
At 8:12, he finally walked in, jacket draped over his shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled up, jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
He glanced at the cup waiting on his desk.
"What's this?"
"What you asked for," I said. "Black coffee. Hot. On your desk. Eight a.m. sharp."
He looked at his watch. "It's 8:12."
"It was eight when I placed it there. You're late."
He smirked. "I like punctuality in my staff. Not sarcasm."
"Well, you got both. BOGO deal."
He took a sip, then paused. "It's peppermint?"
I shrugged. "Just a hint. It opens the sinuses. You're welcome."
He stared at me. Like really stared. "You're not afraid of me."
I raised an eyebrow. "Should I be?"
"Most people are."
"Well, I'm not most people, Mr. Blackwood. I'm broke, under-caffeinated, and two bad days away from a villain origin story. Fear doesn't fit into my schedule."
That smug smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth again. "You're dangerous."
"And you're used to obedience. This must be really uncomfortable for you."
For a moment, we just stared at each other across the battlefield that was his desk. His eyes were ice. Mine were fire. Somewhere in between was the sound of my sanity slowly unraveling.
Then, he turned his back and said, "I need you to sit in on a meeting today. Take notes."
"Notes. Got it. Anything specific?"
"Yes," he said, without looking back. "Don't speak."
"Rude," I muttered.
"I heard that."
"Good."
---
Later That Day: The Meeting From Hell
The boardroom was packed with men in suits who looked like they'd sell their own mothers for a higher stock price. Damien walked in like he owned oxygen. I followed, clipboard in hand, every step screaming I do not belong here.
He didn't introduce me. Didn't look at me. Just sat down and started talking numbers, profits, projections. It was all very impressive and very...boring.
Then one of the men — mid-50s, Rolex, ego the size of Texas — glanced at me.
"And who's this?"
I opened my mouth to speak, but Damien beat me to it.
"My assistant. She's not here to be addressed."
Oh. Hell. No.
"I am here to take notes," I said sweetly, "but I'm also literate, fully capable of speaking, and not a potted plant, so if you have a question for me, I'm happy to answer."
The room went silent.
Damien turned his head, slowly, like he couldn't believe I just said that.
I smiled at him, daring him to fire me.
He didn't.
Instead, his jaw twitched, and he said, "Gentlemen, this is Ariella Monroe. She's new. And clearly… a work in progress."
"Work in progress?" I whispered, leaning toward him. "You're lucky I haven't thrown this clipboard at your head yet."
"I'd like to see you try."
"Don't tempt me, Damien."
That was the first time I called him by his first name.
He noticed.
---
Post-Meeting Damage Control
Back in his office, he slammed the door shut and turned to face me.
"What the hell was that?"
"You mean the part where I refused to let some wrinkly CEO dinosaur treat me like an accessory? That was called having a spine."
"You embarrassed me."
"Correction: you embarrassed yourself when you treated me like a mute receptionist from the 1950s. I'm not a mannequin, Damien."
He stepped closer. Too close.
"I'm the CEO, Ariella. I don't have time for theatrics."
"And I'm a human being. I don't have time for your ego."
We stood there, breathing heavily. The air between us buzzed. Not anger — not exactly. It was… tension. Electricity. A dare waiting to happen.
His eyes dropped to my lips. Just for a second.
And that? That pissed me off more than anything else.
Because it meant he saw me. Not just as an assistant. Not just as a mouthy employee.
As a woman.
And if I wasn't careful… I'd start seeing him too.
So I stepped back.
"Anything else, sir?"
His jaw flexed. "No. You're dismissed."
I left before my knees could betray me.
---
That Night: Emotional Damage
Back home, I sat on the couch with a bowl of dry cereal and a pile of bills that looked like they were breeding. My little sister curled beside me, doing math homework, while Mama slept in the room with her oxygen machine humming like background sorrow.
I should've quit today.
I should've walked out and found a job that didn't involve caffeine-fueled tension and billionaires with emotional constipation.
But instead?
I replayed every second in that boardroom. Every look. Every word.
Especially the moment he looked at my mouth.
Because I wasn't supposed to like that.
And yet.
I did.
God help me.