His gaze drifted down to her submitted documents. Her transcript. Cover letter. Even her scanned barista schedule. He hadn’t noticed that before.
Intern Schedule:
Week 1: Full-Time Orientation
Starting Week 2: M/W/F (Office Hours – 9 AM to 5 PM)
Evenings: M/W/F – Eastborough, 7:30-9:00 PM (Business Administration – Full academic scholarship)
T/Th/Sat/Sun: Barista (External Employer – registered)
Background:
Primary guardian to one dependent (Jamie Thompson, age 15)
Low-income housing district listed on file
No emergency contact on record
Damien’s throat constricted, just slightly.
She was barely keeping it together. The intern everyone whispered about was burning the candle at both ends, and no one even realized it.
Except now… he knew.
And he hated that it made him feel something.
At the bottom of the screen, a system flag showed:
Unauthorized rooftop access – 12:27 PM
Exit time- 12:49 PM
He should’ve closed the window.
He didn’t.
Instead, he stared at her photo.
Big, soft eyes. Not naive, but unguarded. Curious. Honest.
Innocent.
Too innocent.
Damien muttered a curse under his breath and reached for his phone.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the headache away.
This was about control. About the environment he had built.
His rules had worked for years-no distractions, no attachments. Keep things clean. Efficient. Safe.
And yet, here she was.
Throwing him off balance with nothing but silence and soft-spoken defiance. No flirting. No games. She didn’t want his attention.
She didn’t even want Paul’s.
Damien straightened and snapped his laptop shut. Something twisted in his chest-sharp, unwelcome. It wasn’t guilt. And it wasn’t quite anger. It was something worse. Something he didn’t have a name for.
Something worse.
Possessiveness.
He hated it.
He was used to owning companies. Negotiating billion-dollar deals. Not… wondering if a woman had eaten lunch. Not hearing her name and feeling something.
He pressed a button on his phone.
James answered instantly. “Yes, sir?”
“The usual. Monarch Hotel. Penthouse. Tonight.”
“Confirmed. Preferences?”
“Something different. New. NDA signed.”
“Understood.”
He ended the call without another word.
Maya Thompson was a distraction.
And he was going to fuck her out of his system.
Hours Later – Monarch Hotel, Penthouse Suite
The woman waiting in his penthouse was stunning. Objectively, that is.
Tall. Curvy. Lethally sexy. She wore lingerie under an open silk robe and heels that belonged on a stripper pole. Her lips were blood red, her eyes dark with heavy makeup, and her perfume choked the air before she even moved.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she purred with a smirk, rising slowly as he entered. “I hope you’re ready to be… handled.”
He didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, dropped onto the nearest couch with deliberate calm, and met her gaze with icy precision.
“Strip,” he said. “Now.”
She raised a brow, amused. “Straight to it, huh?”
“I didn’t come here to talk,” he said flatly, already rolling up his sleeves. “And I have no interest in your voice.”
Her smile widened. “Knew you’d be rough.”
She dropped the robe without hesitation, striking a pose like a centerfold-legs slightly parted, chest pushed forward, her expression dripping with confidence.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even look her in the eye.
He wasn’t here for that.
No kissing. Never.
Kissing was personal.
This was anything but.
With precise detachment, he unbuckled his belt, pulled out a condom from his wallet, and rolled it
No ceremony. No seduction.
Just control.
“Bend over,” he ordered, his voice low and razor-sharp.
She obeyed instantly, palms against the wall, arching for him.
He didn’t warn her.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.