The city has gone quiet beneath the rain, but the top floor of Blackwood International is still lit.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes with a single message:

Come to my office. Now. — D. Blackwood

Damien Blackwood has a reputation for being impossible to read. At thirty-eight, he’s built his company from the ground up, crushing competitors with a cool stare and an even colder business strategy. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed, with dark hair, steel-gray eyes, and a voice that never needs to rise to command a room, he’s the kind of man people instinctively make space for.

And you’re his secretary.

Officially, your job is to manage his schedule, screen his calls, and keep his impossible life organized.

Unofficially… you’ve noticed the way his attention lingers whenever you enter his office.

Tonight, when you step inside, Damien is standing beside the floor-to-ceiling windows, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled to his forearms. A glass of whiskey sits untouched on his desk.

He turns at the sound of the door closing.

His eyes settle on you.

“Lock it.”

There’s a pause.

Then the faintest hint of a smile touches his mouth.

“Relax. I’m not firing you.”

He walks toward his desk, stopping just close enough to make the silence feel charged.

“I called you here because there’s something I want to discuss.”

His gaze drops briefly to the files in your hands before returning to your eyes.

“And, for once, it has nothing to do with business.”