Chapter Six – The Long Night
By the time I reached my desk, my head was already spinning.
Nine months.
He wanted an entire nine-month corporate schedule on his desk — tomorrow morning.
Who even does that?
I flipped open the folder HR had given me earlier, praying it would contain at least a hint of what I needed. It didn't. Just a few random phone numbers, half-filled call logs, and a weekly planner from three months ago.
"Great," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Just great."
I took a deep breath and started working anyway — checking the internal server, cross-referencing old records, sending polite emails to department heads. The office slowly emptied, one voice after another fading into silence.
By 9 p.m., I was the only one left on the 42nd floor.
The glow from my computer screen was the only light around me. My heels were off, my blazer was draped over the chair, and I'd long since given up trying to keep my bun neat.
When my phone buzzed, I jumped.
James.
I quickly answered. "Hey, kiddo."
"Hey, sis. You're not home yet?"
I sighed, stretching my stiff shoulders. "No. I have a lot to do. Don't wait up for me, okay? Eat dinner. Lock up."
"Did he give you trouble already?" he asked, voice laced with worry.
I gave a tired laugh. "Something like that. I'll be fine."
"Don't overwork yourself, Ava."
"I'll try," I said, though we both knew that was a lie.
After hanging up, I walked to the small kitchenette near the break room. The silence felt heavy. I brewed myself a cup of tea, the steam fogging my glasses.
The first sip burned my tongue — perfect. Maybe pain would help me stay awake.
By midnight, my desk looked like a war zone — files spread everywhere, sticky notes covering my screen. My eyes burned from staring too long, and my fingers ached from typing.
Still, I kept going.
Every time I wanted to give up, I remembered that look on his face. That smug, infuriating smirk — like he already expected me to fail.
I wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.
When I woke up, it wasn't to the sound of my alarm.
It was to the deep, unmistakable voice of a man.
"Sleeping on the job already?"
My head snapped up so fast I nearly fell off my chair.
He was there — Damian Stonewell. In a black suit that fit like sin itself, crisp white shirt open just enough to reveal a hint of skin, sleeves rolled to his forearms. No tie this time. Just devastating perfection.
He stood beside my desk, hands in his pockets, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes—cold, piercing gray—drifted over the mess of papers and sticky notes, then to me.
Oh, no.
My reflection in the monitor confirmed it: smudged mascara, sleep creases on my cheek, hair that looked like it had declared independence during the night. I must've looked like a train wreck.
And he looked like a damn magazine cover.
Great. Perfect. Just perfect.
"I—I wasn't sleeping," I blurted, rubbing my eyes. "I was just—uh—resting my thoughts."
He arched a brow. "Resting your thoughts?"
"I mean, resting my… mind. Briefly."
His smirk deepened just enough to make my pulse trip.
He reached over, picked up one of the papers from the desk, and scanned it silently. His scent hit me then—something expensive and dark, a mix of cedar and danger—and my stomach fluttered in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
Why did he have to be that good-looking? Why couldn't he have been bald and ugly like every terrifying boss stereotype out there?
He set the paper down. "You actually stayed all night?"
"Yes," I said, trying to sound professional, not like my brain was short-circuiting at the sight of him.
He glanced around at the files again, then at me. His gaze lingered on my face for a moment longer than necessary. "You're persistent. I'll give you that."
I swallowed hard. "I just did what was required."
"Hmm." He leaned closer slightly, his voice lowering. "Next time, try not to drool on the company property."
I froze, eyes widening. "W-What?"
He nodded toward my desk—right where my cheek had been. A faint damp patch on one of the papers.
Oh. My. God.
Kill me now.
"I—uh—must've…" I couldn't even finish the sentence.
He chuckled. Actually chuckled. The sound was low, warm, and entirely too sexy for someone supposedly heartless.
"Relax, Miss Carter. I've seen worse," he said, straightening again.
Then, just as I was starting to think maybe—maybe—he wasn't that bad, he added coldly, "But don't read too much into our… previous encounter."
My stomach dropped. "Excuse me?"
He didn't look up from his laptop. "Yesterday. The restaurant. It was nothing. A coincidence. Don't let it cloud your professionalism."
I stared at him, stunned.
"I never said it meant anything," I said quietly.
"Good." His tone was flat, final. "Because it didn't."
And just like that, he went back to typing—like his words hadn't just slapped me across the face.
I forced a smile, though my chest felt heavy. "Understood, sir."
He didn't even look up as he said, "Have the full nine-month schedule on my desk tomorrow. No excuses."
I nodded stiffly and turned to leave, but not before stealing one last glance at him.
Because even though I hated him in that moment, I couldn't deny one thing—
God help me, he was the most dangerously beautiful man I'd ever met.
To be continued...