I scramble after him, snatching my bag from my desk in one fluid motion. My heels click rapidly against the marble as I take two steps at a time to catch up with his long, purposeful strides.
The private elevator—reserved solely for the CEO—awaits at the end of the hall. Its polished steel doors gleam under the fluorescent lights, a silent testament to Blackwood's exclusivity. I'm not special, not by any means.
The only reason I'm permitted in this sacred space is because I'm his shadow, his ever-present secretary, the one who has to trail behind him like some glorified clipboard carrier. If Damien had his way, I'd probably be strapped to the roof of the car like a hunting trophy.
The elevator ride is suffocating in its silence. Damien stands with his hands clasped behind his back, staring straight ahead as if I don't exist. The air between us is thick with unspoken tension. I resist the urge to fidget, keeping my spine straight, my expression neutral.
Ding.
The doors slide open, revealing the sprawling underground parking lot of Blackwood Industries—a sea of luxury vehicles lined up like obedient soldiers. Damien fishes his keys from his pocket and presses a button.
Somewhere in the distance, a sleek, gunmetal-gray Aston Martin Vantage purrs to life, its headlights flickering like a predator's eyes in the dim light.
Of course.
Damien Blackwood doesn't just own a car. He owns a fleet. And he drives a different one every day because, apparently, billionaires get bored easily.
I slide into the passenger seat, my stomach already twisting in protest. Damien doesn't believe in chauffeurs. No, he prefers to drive himself—like some control freak who can't stand the idea of someone else holding the wheel. And God, does he drive like a maniac.
The engine roars to life, vibrating through the leather seats. My fingers curl around the door handle as he peels out of the parking spot, tires screeching against concrete.
Here we go.
The city blurs past us as we weave through traffic, Damien's driving as precise as it is reckless. We swerve through traffic like we're in Fast & Furious: Corporate Espionage Edition.
At one point, we take a corner so sharp my soul briefly leaves my body. I press my knees together, willing my stomach to settle. The last time I nearly lost my lunch in his car, he'd threatened to fire me if I so much as thought about vomiting on his Italian leather.
I focus on my tablet instead, scrolling through the Lexington Partners' dossier. "Mr. Lexington arrived with his team. His daughter is with him—Shallom Lexington. Head of their European division."
Damien scoffs, his grip tightening on the wheel. "He thought sending a woman would earn him sympathy points."
I say nothing. Just highlight the key negotiation points, my jaw clenched against the nausea.
Twelve minutes later—twelve agonizing minutes—we screech to a halt outside The Laurent, one of Manhattan's most exclusive restaurants.
I'm out of the car before Damien can kill the engine, my legs shaky as I hurry to open his door. He steps out, straightening his blazer with a flick of his wrist, his gaze locked onto the building ahead like a hawk sighting prey.
"What's your bet?" he asks, a sneer curling his lips.
I don't hesitate. "Twenty-five minutes."
He smirks. "Let's see."
It's a game he plays—one I've learned the hard way. The first time he'd asked me how long a meeting would last, I'd been baffled. But now I know. Damien doesn't just attend meetings. He ends them. On his terms. In his time.
And he enjoys making me guess just how quickly he'll dismantle the opposition.
The host—a prim man in a tailored suit—greets us with a deferential bow. "Mr. Blackwood. Your table is ready."
I step forward. "The rooftop, please."
As we're led inside, Damien's voice is a low murmur only I can hear. "Twenty-five minutes, Cole? You're getting generous."
I plaster on my most professional smile. "How could I be generous, sir? I'm your secretary—optimism isn't in my job description."
Damien gives me a look that could freeze lava before striding ahead, his tailored suit cutting through the rooftop ambiance.
And what an ambiance it is.
The Laurent's rooftop is the kind of place where the air smells like money and regret—crisp linen tablecloths, crystal glasses that probably cost more than my monthly rent, and a view of Manhattan so pristine it looks photoshopped.
Five seats ahead, Tim Lexington—a man whose smile is as genuine as a three-dollar bill—rises from his chair, already extending a hand. Beside him, his daughter, Shallom Lexington, sits poised like she's about to star in a corporate espionage thriller.
And damn, she's stunning.
Porcelain Asian skin, sleek black hair cascading over one shoulder, and a confidence so effortless it's almost offensive. If Damien had a type (which he doesn't, because he's emotionally constipated), she'd be it.
I lean in slightly, murmuring to Damien, "That's Tim Lexington and his daughter, Shallom. Last time, they sent their COO and legal team."
We reach the table. Tim Lexington pumps Damien's hand like he's trying to start a lawnmower. "Mr. Blackwood! So glad you could—"
Damien cuts him off. "Why the change in personnel?"
Knew it.
Tim's laugh is the nervous staccato of a man who just realized he's locked in a room with a tiger. "Ah, well, we thought a more… personal approach might be better!"
Damien's stare could curdle milk. "Personal? Or unprepared?"
Shallom steps in smoothly. "What my father means is that we wanted to show you how seriously we take this partnership. No middlemen. Just direct collaboration."
Damien doesn't blink. "How efficient."
I stifle a sigh. When was the last time this man had a civil conversation with a woman? Probably never. Damien Blackwood once declared—in a board meeting, no less—that "Dating is a distraction for mediocre men." (The CFO had choked on his coffee.)
I have my theories about his love life:
1. Virgin. (Plausible. His only romance is with profit margins.)
2. Closet romantic. (Doubtful. His heart is probably a block of ice.)
3. Fiancée is a business transaction. (Bingo.)
Shallom, to her credit, doesn't flinch under Damien's arctic demeanor. She just smiles, unruffled, and launches into the revised deal terms.
Damien listens—or at least, he pretends to—before turning to me. "The Singapore projections."
I pull them up on my tablet, rattling off numbers with the enthusiasm of a GPS voice. The Lexingtons nod along like bobbleheads.
They drone on about market shares and deliverables, but Damien's already mentally checked out. I can tell by the way his fingers tap the table—once every exactly 2.7 seconds. His "I'm bored, wrap this up" tell.
Shallom, sharp as a tack, notices too. She leans forward, her dark eyes locking onto Damien's. "Of course, we're open to adjusting terms. Within reason."
Damien's lips curve. Not a smile. A predator's grin. "Good. Then we'll scrap clause 7B entirely."
Tim Lexington chokes on his mineral water, his face turning an impressive shade of puce as Damien coolly dismantles the last of their negotiation points. The Lexingtons don't argue—they can't. This deal is their lifeline, and Damien knows it.
Eight minutes later, it's over.
Tim, ever the desperate host, forces a smile. "Let's order. I hear the food here is deli—"
"Unnecessary," Damien cuts in, already rising. "You and your daughter can enjoy. We have somewhere else to be."
Tim's mouth opens, then shuts like a fish out of water.
I scramble to stand—but in my haste, my knee slams into the table. The crystal water glass teeters, then tips, spilling straight onto Shallom's designer dress.
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
"What the hell?!" Shallom shrieks, leaping up as ice water soaks into the silk.
I grab a fistful of napkins, my face burning. "I'm so sorry—it was an accident, let me—"
"Are you high?" She snatches the napkins from me, dabbing furiously at the stain. "Do you even look where you're—"
"Enough."
Damien's voice slices through the air—deep, velvet-wrapped steel.
Shallom freezes.
"My secretary already apologized," he says. "End of story." A pause. "If the dress is that much of a concern, I'll have a new one delivered to you by tonight."
My mouth falls open.
Before anyone can react, Damien turns on his heel, grabs my wrist, and drags me out of the restaurant.
"Wha—hey!" I yelp, stumbling after him, my pulse roaring in my ears. He doesn't stop until we're outside, the crisp Manhattan air hitting my flushed face like a slap.
Then—he lets go.
I stagger back, putting distance between us, my wrist tingling where his fingers had been. "I-uh-"
Damien doesn't speak. Doesn't even look at me. Just strides to the car, his expression unreadable.
I swallow hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. It's just the adrenaline. The running. The shock. That's all.
The engine purrs to life as I slide into the passenger seat, my mind spinning.
He stood up for me.
But so what?
I steal a glance at him. Damien's grip on the steering wheel is taut, his icy blue eyes fixed ahead, jaw set like stone. The same man who, just last week, made me redo an entire presentation because he didn't like the font.
This changes nothing.
Instances like this had happened before. Tiny moments where he'd almost seemed… human.
- The time he'd ordered soup for the office when I was sick (then yelled at me for sniffling too loud).
- The day he'd paid for Amanda's broken laptop (after berating her for being "careless").
- The night he'd called a car for me during a storm (then deducted the fare from my bonus).
Asshole with occasional glitches of decency. That's all this was.
I turn to the window, watching the city blur past.
Don't overthink it, Jen.
But the warmth in my chest won't fade.