Vanessa Steele.
Daughter of Richard Steele, the oil tycoon who owns half of Texas, and the socialite fiancée of Damien Blackwood. She's held the title for six months now, though no one seems to know how she earned it.
The media can't decide on their narrative—one article claims they've been secretly dating for years, another insists it's a cold-blooded business arrangement, and a particularly dramatic tabloid swears they despise each other but are contractually obligated to pretend otherwise.
Whatever the truth, one thing is certain: they are not the power couple the world thinks they are.
And right now, I'm standing in Damien's office, trapped in the crossfire between them, silently cursing my boss for summoning me as a human shield.
Vanessa's glare could melt steel. She's perched on the edge of Damien's desk like she owns it—and by extension, him—her sculpted legs crossed, her designer dress hugging every curve.
The supermodel lives up to her reputation: golden blonde hair cascading in perfect waves, grey eyes sharp and big, and bronze skin that glows even under the sterile office lighting.
I keep my expression carefully neutral, refusing to meet her eyes.
"Do you need anything, sir?" I ask Damien, my voice polished to professional perfection.
"Let me know about the schedule," he says, not looking up from his laptop.
My mouth twitches. I literally just told you ten minutes ago.
This isn't about the schedule. This is about avoiding conversation with Vanessa.
Three days ago, he'd called me on a Sunday night for advice on how to repel her. And yet, here she is, clinging to him like a particularly glamorous barnacle.
I recite his schedule again, my tone robotic. "Ten AM, meeting with the Tokyo investors. Twelve-thirty, lunch with the board. Three PM—"
Vanessa cuts me off, leaning into Damien's space, her manicured hand sliding up his chest. "Darling, do we really have to do this now?"
Damien catches her wrist before her fingers can reach his collar. "Behave."
Her face twists.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Vanessa whips her head toward me, her scowl deepening. "What are you still doing here? Leave."
Thank God. I'm more than happy to escape this disaster.
But Damien's voice stops me before I can take a step. "Jennifer is my secretary. No one dismisses her but me."
Vanessa's perfect face transforms from porcelain doll to thunderstorm in half a second. A blotchy red flush creeps up her neck, clashing horribly with her carefully applied peach blush.
"What the hell, Damien?" Her manicured nails dig into the armrest of the chair. "I flew back early from Paris for this, and you're—you're defending this thing?" She flicks a dismissive hand in my direction, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the light.
I keep my expression carefully blank, but my fingers tighten around my tablet. Five years in this job have taught me exactly how to stand motionless while being insulted to my face.
But the air in the room turns to ice.
Damien's voice drops, low and dangerous. "She is not a thing."
I blink.
Is he defending me to piss her off? If so, it's working. Vanessa looks like she's about to combust.
Damien turns to me, his expression unreadable. "You can go. Inform Tiffany in Finance that I need the Q3 projections by end of day."
I don't need to be told twice. I'm out the door before Vanessa can unleash whatever venom is brewing on her tongue.
The second I'm back at my desk, I exhale like I've been holding my breath for hours.
Gloria leans over her cubicle wall, her eyes sparkling. "What happened in there?"
"Nothing," I say, straightening a stack of files. "Just discussing the Tokyo merger."
She pouts. As a self-proclaimed Vanessa Steele superfan—she's watched every runway show, owns every magazine cover—she'd been vibrating with excitement when the woman swept into the office earlier.
But I can't focus on Gloria's gossip. My mind keeps replaying the scene in Damien's office.
I have worked for five years for Damien Blackwood, and I still can't predict him. One day he's sending me across town in a hailstorm for his dry cleaning, the next he's defending me like I'm... what? Important?
The Laurent incident flashes in my memory—his hand around my wrist, dragging me away from that humiliating scene. The way his grip lingered a second too long in the afterward.
Before I can spiral further, the executive suite doors slam open. Vanessa storms out, her Valentino heels striking the marble like gunshots. She throws me one last scowl, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "pathetic little cockroach" before vanishing into the elevator.
The scent of her thousand-dollar perfume—something floral and expensive—lingers as she passes.
Gloria's jaw drops. "Oh my God. What was that about?"
"I'm heading to the CFO's office," I interrupt, gathering the financial reports. "Call me if something comes up."
She gulps and nods.
~
The CFO's office is a warzone of paperwork.
I knock twice before entering, only to nearly trip over a tower of files blocking the doorway. Inside, Marcus Langford—Blackwood Industries' long-suffering CFO—is buried under what appears to be every financial document the company has ever produced.
"Hello?" I wave a hand. "I brought the revised projections."
Marcus lifts his head, his usually crisp suit rumpled, his tie loose. Dark circles bruise his eyes. He gives me a weary smile. "Ah. My one-woman salvation."
I place the folder on the only clear spot on his desk—a space roughly the size of a postage stamp. "Is this… normal?"
He pauses, then gestures to the apocalyptic mess around him. "What do you think?"
I wince sympathetically.
"Tell your demon of a boss to start preparing my funeral," Marcus mutters, dragging a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I'm nearing my death toll."
I chuckle. "Not happening. You're too stubborn to die."
He gives me a deadpan look. "That's not the compliment you think it is."
I grin. "At least you're getting overtime pay."
"Ah yes, the privilege of working ninety-hour weeks for a man who probably doesn't sleep." He sighs dramatically, then perks up. "Speaking of privileges—any luck on that plus-one situation?"
My stomach drops.
A month ago, Marcus—in a rare moment of vulnerability—had confessed his parents were forcing him to attend a cousin's wedding, and he desperately needed a date to avoid their relentless matchmaking. He'd asked me first, but Damien had somehow caught wind of it and immediately vetoed the idea, drowning Marcus in extra work instead.
I'd promised to find someone.
And then promptly forgot.
Shit.
"Actually," I lie smoothly, "my friend Mia agreed to go. She runs a side business with me—handmade jewelry. And she's, uh, great at small talk."
Marcus's entire face lights up. "Seriously? You're a lifesaver."
"I'll send you her contact tonight," I say, already mentally drafting an apology text to Mia.
"Perfect." He grins, looking more alive than he has in weeks. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with these spreadsheets. And by date, I mean slow, painful death."
I make my escape before he can ask any more questions.
One crisis averted.
Now I just have to explain to Mia why she's suddenly attending a stranger's wedding.
The thought weighs heavy on my mind as I navigate the sleek corporate hallways, already mentally drafting the text I'll send her later—something along the lines of "Remember how you said you wanted to meet new people?" followed by several pleading emojis.
I'm so lost in thought that I don't see the person rounding the corner until it's too late.
Thud.
Papers go flying. A tablet clatters to the floor.
"Sorry—" I start automatically, bending to help gather the scattered documents.
"It's my fault, I wasn't looking—"
Our voices overlap as we both straighten, and I find myself face-to-face with Theresa, the marketing manager's assistant. Her round glasses sit slightly askew on her freckled nose, and her ginger hair—usually pinned into a neat bun—has half-escaped its confines, wild strands framing her flushed face.
I smile, handing her the stack of files I've collected. "Guess we both weren't paying attention."
Theresa adjusts her glasses with one hand while balancing the files with the other. "I'm in a bit of a rush," she admits, her breath coming in short bursts. "Need to get these back to Mr. Grey, then review the new campaign drafts before the three o'clock meeting, and—"
"Whoa." I hold up a hand, cutting off her spiraling to-do list. "Take a breath before you pass out. Trust me, the more stressed you are, the messier things get."
Theresa gives me a weary smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I should take notes from you. You always seem so... put together."
I bark out a laugh at that. "Appearances are deceiving."
Her eyes dart toward the direction of Damien's office, then back to me. "Seriously though, how do you handle him?"
The question lingers between us, loaded with the unspoken understanding of everyone who's ever worked under Damien Blackwood's reign.
I shrug, my smile turning wry. "Lots of deep breathing. Strong coffee. High Paycheck. And the occasional fantasy about pushing him down an elevator shaft."
Theresa's eyes widen before she dissolves into giggles. "God, I needed that laugh." She checks her watch and grimaces. "I should run. Mr. Grey wants these before his lunch break."
We exchange quick goodbyes, and I continue my trek back to the bullpen, my momentary amusement fading as reality sets back in.
My desk looks exactly as I left it—organized chaos, with sticky notes in my color-coded system and a half-empty coffee cup that's probably gone cold. I've barely settled into my chair when the intercom buzzes, the red light blinking ominously.
I stab the button with more force than necessary. "Yes, sir?"
"Come to my office."
No greeting. No explanation. Just another royal summons.
Grabbing my tablet, I make the familiar journey down the hall, counting my steps to keep my temper in check. At this point, they should just move my desk into his office—it would save everyone time.
Damien's office is its usual imposing self when I enter—all sleek lines, dark wood, and that ridiculous floor-to-ceiling window that makes me feel like I'm standing on the edge of a skyscraper. He sits behind his massive desk, his expression as readable as a brick wall.
"You received a call from Frederick Sterling," he says without preamble.
I blink. "I—"
"He's hosting the annual Sterling Foundation Gala next week. He claims he tried reaching you multiple times." Damien's voice is deceptively calm, which is never a good sign. "When no one answered, he called me directly."
My stomach plummets. When had Sterling called? I wrack my brain, mentally reviewing the past few days. Had I missed it?
"I apologize, sir," I say carefully. "I'll review our call logs immediately to—"
"A mistake can cost someone their job." His icy gaze pins me in place. "Sometimes permanently."
The unspoken threat hangs between us, sharp as a guillotine. I nod, my throat tight.
Damien leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "You'll be attending the gala with me as my partner."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "I—what?"
His eyebrow arches. "Is there a problem?"
I scramble for professionalism. "No, sir. I just assumed... wouldn't Ms. Steele be more appropriate? As your fiancée?"
Damien's expression doesn't flicker. "It's my decision who I take. Since this is primarily a business function, it's logical to bring someone familiar with my work."
Logical. Right. Because nothing about this feels calculated or strange at all.
"When is the event?" I ask, already searching for an escape route.
"The twenty-fifth."
That's in eleven days. Plenty of time to manufacture an excuse. "Unfortunately, I may have a prior commitment that requires my presence."
"Do you?"
"I meant a personal—"
"Cancel it." His tone brokers no argument. "You're required to attend. There will be a bonus for your time."
My ears perk up at that. A bonus could mean an extra month's worth of Lily's kindergarten admission. Or that new winter coat she's been eyeing.
"I'll be ready," I say, my traitorous priorities already realigning.
Something that might be amusement flickers across Damien's face. "Good. That's all."
I'm halfway to the door when he adds, "And get my usual lunch from Le Bernardin. Personally."
I freeze.
Two months ago, he'd declared he was "done with lunch" and I'd celebrated not having to make the daily trek to the upscale restaurant fifteen blocks away—the one that doesn't deliver because Damien thinks "delivery personnel are inherently unhygienic."
"Sir, I thought you were 'done with lunch'."
"I changed my mind."
Of course he did.
"Yes, sir," I grit out, exiting before I say something that will get me fired.
The second the door closes behind me, I resist the urge to scream into my hands. This man. This impossible, infuriating, incomprehensible man.