Monday morning.
Layla stepped into Cole Dynamics wearing her best neutral face.
Fresh black pantsuit. Simple white blouse. Hair pulled back in a low bun. No earrings. No lip gloss. Just focus.
Her flight from California landed late last night. She hadn't slept. But she showed up.
No excuses. No drama.
She nodded at the receptionist, walked straight to her desk like she didn't feel everyone's eyes on her.
The office was quiet.
Too quiet.
She placed Damian's coffee on his desk at 7:59 a.m., just like always.
He wasn't in yet.
She returned to her chair and began sorting his calendar, double-checking files like nothing had changed. Like her whole life didn't hang on one cold man's next decision.
He's probably going to fire me.
The thought circled her chest like a rope.
She didn't know what he was thinking. Not after that phone call. Not after all the tension from last week. She hadn't sent him a text. Hadn't called. She didn't even know if she should.
So she waited.
8:05 a.m.
The elevator dinged.
She looked up. He stepped in.
Dark grey suit. No tie. Sharp as usual. But his eyes—darker than normal.
He didn't look her way. Walked into his office. Closed the door.
She waited for the call.
Five minutes. Ten.
Nothing.
Then her phone buzzed.
From: Mr. Days
Come in.
Her palms were sweaty. She stood, took a deep breath, and walked in.
He didn't look up from his laptop.
She opened her mouth. "Sir, I—"
"The meeting in San Diego is canceled," he said, voice calm. Too calm. "That'll be all."
She froze. Just a second. Then nodded. "Understood."
She turned to leave.
Just before the door closed behind her, she exhaled deeply.
Not fired.
She returned to her desk, heart slowly calming.
Damian looked up from his laptop.
Watched her sit down.
And smiled.
A small one.
But real.
The day crawled by.
Emails. Memos. Quiet meetings. No shouting. No last-minute calls. No cold glares.
For once, Layla's workday felt… normal.
Which made it strange.
Damian hadn't spoken to her since that one line in the morning. Not a thank you, not a frown, not a single order barked. It was almost like he wasn't there.
She hated that it made her anxious.
By 5:47 p.m., most of the office had started clearing out. She stayed behind, like always, organizing his files for the next day.
Her desk phone buzzed.
Line 1: Mr. Days
She picked it up. "Yes, sir?"
A pause.
Then—his voice, low and unusually soft.
"Have you eaten?"
Layla blinked. "Sir?"
"I asked if you've eaten."
She sat up straighter. "Um… no. Not yet."
Another pause.
Then: "I ordered something. There's an extra portion. Take it."
She looked at the glass door that separated his office from hers. He wasn't looking her way. Just casually typing on his laptop like he didn't just say the strangest, kindest thing he'd ever said to her.
"Oh," she said, standing slowly. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," he muttered, eyes still glued to the screen.
She stepped into his office, heart thumping.
On the table by the window were two brown takeout bags from a fancy Asian fusion spot she'd never afford on her own. Her name was written on one of them. L.
She picked it up gently. "I appreciate it."
"Just eat before you pass out. You don't look like you sleep much."
She opened her mouth, half-ready to defend herself—but he glanced up.
His eyes weren't cold today. Just… quiet.
She nodded and left.
Back at her desk, she opened the bag. Spicy shrimp noodles, edamame, and a small bottle of juice. All things she liked.
Her chest tightened.
He remembered.
Just before the office lights dimmed, she smiled to herself.
Maybe—just maybe—the ice was cracking.
He didn't look up when she left the room.
Couldn't.
The way her eyes lit up when she saw her name on the bag—he caught it in his peripheral. It messed with him.
Damian leaned back in his chair, rolling his pen between his fingers like it was Layla's voice stuck in his hand. She'd thanked him. Softly. Genuinely. Like he'd just given her something more than overpriced noodles and a drink.
Maybe he had.
He stared at his screen, blank now. He wasn't working. Hadn't been for the last hour.
What was he doing?
The food wasn't random. He'd remembered her order from that one day she'd skipped lunch and Zina had dragged her out. He hadn't meant to overhear. But he did. She liked shrimp. She hated too much sauce. She wasn't a fan of soda.
He ordered what she liked. Then pretended it was "extra."
He sighed and closed his laptop.
What the hell was he doing?
This wasn't part of the plan. She wasn't supposed to matter. She was just a secretary. Just another employee in a long line of people who worked for him, not with him.
But Layla didn't just work. She existed. Loudly. Softly. All at once.
She didn't try to get close, but she was already under his skin.
He ran a hand through his hair and stood. The penthouse lights flickered on as he walked into the living room. Everything was perfectly arranged—clean, untouched, impersonal. Just like his life.
Except when she was in it.
He grabbed a bottle of sparkling water and took a sip, still thinking.
He wasn't sure if this was softness, or weakness.
But it was her.
And now that he'd taken that small step, he knew one thing for sure:
There was no going back.
Layla's Apartment – Late Evening
Layla's POV
Zina sprawled across my couch like she paid rent.
"You're telling me… this man—your boss, Mr. No-Smile-No-Heart—bought you food?" she asked, eyebrows nearly launching off her forehead.
I pulled my blanket tighter and nodded, sipping from my mug. "He said it was 'extra' and dropped the bag like it didn't mean anything."
Zina scoffed. "Girl, billionaires don't do 'extra.' They do intentional. That man watches your every move like he's allergic to you but still can't stop sniffing."
I let out a half-laugh, then sighed. "It confused me. After how he acted before the weekend? That phone call with my mom? I was sure I was gonna get fired today."
Zina sat up, all dramatic. "Let's rewind to that part. Why did your mom even pick the call? And why did he call at all?"
"I don't know. He sounded shocked when she answered. And then she went all 'she needs peace, give her space' like I'm locked in a corporate prison."
"You kinda are though," she said, chewing a biscuit. "But still. He didn't fire you. He didn't even say a word about the call?"
"Nothing. Just… handed me food. Like that fixes everything."
Zina stared, then grinned. "It doesn't fix everything, but baby—it says a lot."
I shook my head. "I don't know what to make of it. He's unpredictable. One moment he's cold. Next, he's lowkey thoughtful."
"Girl, if Damian Days is buying lunch, that's him screaming he doesn't hate you. Maybe he even—"
"Don't. Don't say it," I warned.
"Fine. But you're blushing."
"I'm not—"
I paused. I was. And I hated it.
But a small part of me?
It hoped this meant something was changing.
Even if I had no idea what.