I am screwed.
The familiar opening chords of Highway to Hell blare from my phone again, the screen flashing Asshole Boss in bold, mocking letters.
It had rung once already and I'd let it go to voicemail. Now, as the second call comes through, my thumb hovers over the decline button, my pulse hammering so hard I can feel it in my temples.
Let it go to voicemail again, I think, even as my professional instincts scream at me to pick up.
But what would I even say?
"Hello sir, just wanted to let you know I still don't regret telling you to shove your Greece trip up your ass."
Yeah, no.
The call dies, and for half a second, I exhale in relief—until my phone buzzes again. Voicemail notification.
My stomach twists. Damien never leaves voicemails.
With trembling fingers, I press play and hold the phone to my ear.
"Jennifer Cole." His voice is deceptively smooth, but no less deadly. "If you don't return to the office within the hour, I will call the police and file a report for corporate espionage, citing your sudden disappearance with confidential files."
I nearly drop the phone.
This bastard.
A loud, frustrated yell tears from my throat, startling a nearby pigeon and earning me several alarmed looks from park-goers. I don't care. Corporate espionage? That's a felony. With Damien's connections, he could have me in cuffs before I could blink.
I grab my bag and storm toward the nearest subway entrance, my mind racing.
By about twenty three minutes, I reach Blackwood Tower.
The elevator doors slide open on the executive floor, and I step out—only to nearly collide with Francis Kinley, the COO, who's sprinting toward me like the building's on fire.
"Oh my God, Ms. Cole!" He skids to a stop, panting, his usually pristine suit rumpled and his tie loosened. Sweat beads at his temples. "Where the hell have you been? And what in the name of all that's holy did you do to the Devil?"
I blink. "What?"
Francis runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Blackwood's gone mad. He's been in that boardroom since forever. The entire finance team looks like they're about to stage a mutiny. The new VP of Operations just quit. Quit, Ms. Cole. Walked out mid-meeting. And if I have to hear him eviscerate one more person over spreadsheet formatting, I might just join her." He grips my shoulders, wild-eyed. "What happened?"
I—"
"Never mind, no time!" Francis drags me toward the conference hall. "He's in the Sapphire Room with Legal, reaming them over the Veridian Tech merger. They've been in there for two hours. Jenkins came out looking like he'd seen the apocalypse."
I dig in my heels. "Why do I need to—"
"Because you're the only one who can stop this!" Francis hisses. "You're his human mute button! His off switch! The only person he doesn't immediately finish off!"
I scoff. Clearly, Francis hasn't witnessed the five years of my life.
But before I can protest further, a bloodcurdling shout echoes from down the hall
"Do I need to draft this MYSELF?"
Francis pales. "Go. Before he starts firing people just to blow off steam."
With a resigned sigh, I straighten my blazer and march toward the Sapphire Room—where, through the glass walls, I can see Damien standing at the head of the table, his posture rigid with fury. The entire legal team looks like they're one wrong word away from fainting.
I push the door open.
Every head swivels toward me. The air conditioning hums too loudly in the sudden silence, raising goosebumps along my arms that have nothing to do with the temperature. Damien's icy blue eyes lock onto mine from across the polished table, his gaze so intense I can practically feel frost forming along my spine.
Oh God. Please let the floor open up and swallow me whole.
Without breaking eye contact, he spits out a single word."Out."
I mumble an automatic "Okay" and take a step back, my heels catching on the plush carpet—
"Not you." His correction cracks like a whip.
The legal team doesn't need to be told twice. They scramble to their feet in a flurry of rustling papers and squeaking chair legs, their relieved exhales audible as they practically sprint for the door. One junior associate even mouths "Thank you" in my direction as he passes, as if I'd intentionally thrown myself on this grenade for their sake.
The door clicks shut with finality.
Damien doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just stands there, a six-foot-three monument of tailored fury, his knuckles pressed white against the tabletop.
"Close the door."
My throat constricts. Is he going to shove me out of it? The irrational thought flashes through my mind—visions of my body tumbling fifty-three floors to the Manhattan pavement. Lily would be devastated. She needs me. I can't—
"Sit. Down." Each syllable is precisely articulated, colder than liquid nitrogen.
I obey on autopilot, my knees buckling into the nearest chair. My fingers curl into fists on my lap, nails biting crescent moons into my palms. The conference room smells like lemon polish and impending doom.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It doesn't help. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
"Jennifer."
I flinch at the sound of my name, my gaze snapping up to meet his. Damien's face is all sharp angles and barely leashed fury—the slight flare of his nostrils, the muscle jumping in his jaw, the way his crossed arms strain the seams of his custom dress shirt. He leans forward slightly, the table groaning under his weight.
"How," he begins, his voice dangerously quiet, "dare you ignore my calls?"
A nervous laugh bubbles up my throat—a traitorous, hysterical sound. I must be out of my mind. "I didn't ignore them. My phone was on silent, so I—"
"Three reasons." He cuts me off like I haven't spoken. "Give me three viable explanations for why you can't attend the Greece trip."
My brain short-circuits. What is happening right now? I literally just quit sixty seconds ago. Why does he suddenly care about my excuses? And why three? Is this some kind of corporate hazing ritual?
But the words "I quit" shrivel up in my throat under the weight of his glare. Instead, my traitorous mouth starts weaving plausible lies.
"First," I say, forcing steadiness into my voice, "my mother's health has been unstable. She needs me here." A half-truth.
"Second," I continue, "I'm severely allergic to shellfish. And Greece is—"
"Surrounded by seafood," Damien finishes flatly, unimpressed.
"Right." I swallow. "It's... a liability."
"Third," I blurt, scrambling, "I—I have a chronic condition that flares up with long flights." A complete fabrication. But I can't tell him the truth—that I can't leave Lily and be ocean away from her.
Damien stares at me, his gaze so intense it makes my stomach flip—not with attraction, but with pure, gut-churning dread. He pushes off the table and takes a step toward me. Then another. Until he's standing mere inches away, his presence overwhelming.
My eyes stay locked on him, even though every instinct screams to look away. Dangerous. Challenging him is dangerous.
He leans in, his icy blue eyes boring into mine, and hisses, "Bullshit."
I flinch.
"If you're going to lie," he murmurs, voice sharp, "do better."
I gulp, my palms clammy, my mind racing for an escape. But there is none.
He pulls back slightly, giving me a bored look, his brows furrowed in irritation.
I exhale shakily. "Why does it even matter now? I already said I'm quitting."
"I don't agree with it," he snaps. "And I want the real reason."
Frustration burns through me. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "Those are the reasons. That's all." My voice wavers, but I press on. "And if you're hesitating because you need to find another secretary last-minute, I'll help you screen candidates. I'll even train them."
Damien's expression darkens. "There's no need."
Then he closes the distance between us again—too close, his body nearly brushing mine. My breath hitches, my thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm.
"Are you that eager to walk away?" he murmurs, voice low, dangerous.
My mouth opens. Closes. I have no answer.
He continues, his words deliberate, "Because if you think I'm letting you go that easily, you've severely underestimated me."
I stiffen. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He steps back, his face unreadable. "You have until the gala," he says coolly. "Solid reasons. No bullshit. Or you are going to Greece."
No backing out.
The urge to scream in his face is overwhelming. But before I can argue, he grabs his blazer from the chair and strides out of the room, leaving me standing there—furious, trembling, and utterly trapped.
Damn him.
Damn him and his games.