The day had been long but easy—at least for Layla. Her promotion meant she no longer had to shadow Damian's every move, though part of her missed the quiet rhythm of working side by side with him.
It wasn't until after hours, when Damian's black sedan rolled up beside her, that she noticed the tension in his jaw.
"Get in," he said simply.
The air in the car was warm, carrying that faint, expensive cologne she knew too well. They drove in silence for a few minutes before he said, "There's a new secretary working outside my office. Elise."
Layla tilted her head, curious. "And you're telling me this because…?"
His eyes flicked to her for half a second before returning to the road. "I thought you should know. Maya recommended her."
The name made Layla's brows lift. "Maya? As in your business partner's daughter, Maya?"
He gave a slow nod.
Layla smirked faintly. "Then it's a familiar face around the office. Can't hurt, right?"
His grip on the wheel tightened, though his voice stayed even. "She's there for work. Nothing else."
The night was quiet except for the low hum of the car.
Layla sat back in the seat, her eyes fixed on the passing streetlights. She could feel Damian watching her from time to time, though he said nothing.
When they stopped at a red light, his hand moved. Slow. Deliberate.
His hand reached her hair. He scattered it softly "what are you thinking. Naughty girl?"
She glanced at him, her chest tightening. "Damian…"
He didn't answer. His thumb began to draw light circles on her back, just enough to make her skin tingle. The air between them shifted—thicker, warmer.
The light turned green, but he didn't move his hand away.
Instead, his fingers slid a little lower.
Layla's breath caught. She turned toward him, but he kept his eyes on the road. The smallest smile touched his mouth, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
By the time they reached her building, her pulse was racing. She didn't move to open the door. Neither did he.
"Come here," he said quietly.
She leaned in, slow, feeling the pull between them. His hand came up to her face, brushing back a loose strand of hair. His thumb grazed her cheek, then her lower lip.
"You drive me crazy," he said, his voice low, rough.
She didn't know who moved first, but somehow, their mouths were touching. In a hungry kiss that says they've been waiting for the right moment. This very moment. His hand reached her waist. Pulling her closer to himself in the small space of the car. Suddenly , it wasn't enough. They wanted more. He wanted more.
Then he pulled back slightly, his eyes locked on hers.
"Get a few things. I'm taking you to my house."
Her heart skipped. She slipped out of the car, came back minutes later with a small bag. When she settled back in, he didn't start the car right away.
His fingers traced her jaw slowly, as if memorising it.
Then he turned the key, the engine rumbling to life.
They drove off, the city lights sliding across their faces, and neither of them said a word.
The car rolled to a stop in front of a tall, glass-fronted building. The kind of place that spoke for itself—quiet, private, expensive.
Damian stepped out first. He didn't rush to open her door, but when she got out, his hand found hers without thinking. No words. Just that steady grip.
Inside, the lift ride was silent. Layla could hear the faint hum of the cables, her own heartbeat, and the slow rhythm of his breathing. He stood close enough that his shoulder brushed hers, close enough for her to catch the faint scent of his cologne.
When the doors slid open, she followed him down a short hallway until they reached a large, open living room. Dark wood floors. Warm lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the city.
He took her bag and set it down, then turned to her.
"You've never been here before," he said quietly.
She shook her head. "I haven't."
For a moment, neither of them moved. He stepped forward slowly, his eyes locked on hers.
Layla's pulse quickened. Every step he took felt deliberate—like he'd been holding himself back for far too long.
When he stopped in front of her, he didn't touch her immediately. Instead, he stood there, his gaze sweeping over her face like he was memorising every detail.
Then his hand came up, fingertips brushing the side of her neck.
"I want you. Layla" His voice was low. His eyes caught hers. "I don't want to hold back anymore".
Her breath caught.
He leaned in—not fast, not slow, just enough to make her toes curl from the wait. His lips grazed hers, feather-light. A taste, not a kiss.
She exhaled, the sound almost a whisper.
That was all it took for him to close the gap, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that was deep, warm, and hungry. His hand slid into her hair, the other finding her waist and pulling her against him.
She responded without thinking, her fingers gripping his shirt. The city outside disappeared.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing harder.
He searched her face, his thumb brushing her lower lip again.
"You're staying here tonight," he said.
It wasn't a question.
She nodded once.
He took her hand again, leading her deeper into the apartment—toward the part of the night that neither of them was ready to put into words.
The bedroom was big. Not just big—quiet. The kind of quiet that made you too aware of your own breathing.
She sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off her heels, still half in disbelief that she was here. Damian's place. Damian's bedroom.
He had stepped out to take a call a few minutes ago. The sound of his voice, low and even, had faded down the hall until she couldn't hear him anymore.
Her phone buzzed. Zina.
She swiped to answer.
"Girl, you will not believe where I am right now."
"Where?" Zina's tone was already suspicious.
"Damian's house."
There was a pause, then a high-pitched squeal. "No! Shut up. Like… his house-house?"
"Yes." Layla bit her lip, smiling to herself.
"So…" Zina dragged out the word. "You guys finally…?"
"What? No!" Layla laughed. "Nothing happened. He's been… I don't know… gentle? Careful? Whatever you want to call it."
"Gentle? That man looks like he doesn't know the meaning of gentle," Zina teased. "So what's the holdup?"
"He leaned in, alright," Layla admitted, lowering her voice like Damian could hear her through walls. "It was getting there. My heart was doing mad gymnastics. Then his phone rang and—"
"Let me guess—Mr. Work-First?"
"Exactly." She flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "And now I'm just sitting here, in his room, wondering how the universe could be this disrespectful."
"Please, you're acting like being in his bed isn't already a win," Zina said, laughing. "If it were me, I'd already be buried under the covers."
Layla rolled onto her side, smiling despite herself. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm ridiculous? You're the one in your billionaire boss's bedroom talking about 'gentle' like you're not seconds away from melting in his hands."
"Goodnight, Zina," Layla said, trying to end the call before her cheeks caught fire.
But after they hung up, the silence returned. She curled onto her side, pulling the blanket halfway over herself. The city lights filtered faintly through the curtains, and her mind replayed every almost-touch, every look.
She didn't even remember when her eyes closed.
By the time Damian returned, she was asleep—phone on the pillow beside her, lips curved in the faintest smile.
The elevator doors slid open and Layla stepped into the quiet hum of the morning. Sometimes that was harder—pretending nothing was going on between her and Damian when her mind was still replaying the night before.
She rounded the corner toward the executive wing and slowed.
Elise was already there.
The new secretary was perched casually against Damian's desk, one hip tilted, flipping her hair like she was in a perfume ad. Her dress—tight enough to be a second skin—left little to imagination.
Damian was seated, signing documents. He hadn't looked up once.
"Elise," Layla greeted with a polite nod.
"Layla," Elise replied, her tone sugar-coated but her eyes sharp. "Early as usual. I guess old habits die hard."
Layla smiled faintly. "Some habits are called professionalism."
Elise's lips twitched. "Right. I'm just… making sure Mr. Days starts his day on the right note." She angled herself closer to Damian, leaning over the desk just a little too much.
"Mr. Days," she purred, "I was thinking—maybe I could bring you coffee every morning? The good kind. I know a place that makes it just how I like it."
Damian didn't look up. "I don't drink coffee."
Layla almost laughed at how flat his tone was.
"Oh," Elise said, blinking. "Tea, then?"
"No," Damian replied, flipping to the next page.
The awkward silence that followed was delicious—at least for Layla—until Elise's gaze flicked back to her.
"Well," Elise said lightly, "I suppose I'll have to find some other way to… make myself useful."
Layla kept her expression neutral, though her chest tightened. Elise wasn't just bold—she was testing the waters, seeing if she could make Layla flinch.
Damian finally looked up. "Elise, bring the quarterly reports from finance. Layla, you needed to see me?."
Layla walked past Elise, feeling the heat of those assessing eyes on her back. She didn't need anyone to tell her—Elise wasn't just here to do her job. She was here for Damian. And she wasn't afraid to show it.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Damian was already moving to the side of his desk, jacket perfectly in place, eyes as unreadable as ever. "Sit."
Layla folded her arms. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
He raised a brow. "Enjoying what?"
She tilted her head toward the door. "Miss 'Coffee and Tight Dress.'"
A corner of his mouth threatened to lift. "Elise?"
"Oh, so you do know her name," Layla said, narrowing her eyes. "That's nice. Maybe you should let her bring you coffee. Or tea. Or whatever—"
"Layla." His voice was low, that smooth, steady tone that always cut through her irritation.
She huffed, leaning back in the chair. "She was practically crawling onto your desk, Damian. I'm surprised you didn't offer her a seat on your lap."
He gave her a long, patient look, the kind that said he was two seconds away from smirking. "You're jealous."
"I am not," she shot back, even though her voice was a little too quick, a little too high-pitched.
"You are," he said, with quiet amusement. "And it's… interesting."
Layla's cheeks warmed. "You're impossible."
He leaned forward, resting one hand on the desk, eyes locked on hers. "I don't see her, Layla. I only see you."
Something in her chest screamed , but she tried to hide it with a scoff. "Smooth. Did you rehearse that?"
"No," he replied, a faint smirk now fully there. "But maybe I should, if it makes you stop pouting."
Her jaw dropped slightly. "I'm not pouting!"
"You are," he said again, this time like he was trying not to laugh. "And it's… cute."
Layla crossed her arms tighter, muttering under her breath. "You're annoying."
Damian straightened, still looking far too pleased with himself. "And you're mine. Now, let's get to work before you decide to accuse me of flirting with the mailman."
She bit back a smile, failing completely.