By her third day at Blackthorn Enterprises, Arabelle had begun to understand the rhythm of the top floor. It wasn't ordinary office life it was survival.
The assistants, executives, analysts… every single person who worked within Damian Blackthorn's orbit moved with a constant, quiet tension, like prey in the shadow of a predator. Their voices stayed low. Their steps stayed sharp. Every document was double-checked three times before landing on his desk.
No one breathed wrong when Damian Blackthorn walked the hall.
Arabelle noticed it first at 8:15 a.m., when Damian emerged from his office to meet with the CFO.
The hallway froze.
Three executives chatting near the break room instantly silenced themselves, their faces stiffening into masks of professionalism. Two junior assistants straightened in their chairs, typing furiously as though their lives depended on it. Even the woman refilling the coffee pot stopped, lowering her gaze to the counter as if afraid to be caught existing.
Damian walked past them all without a word, his presence heavier than iron. Not a glance spared, not a sound made. The air didn't shift until the glass doors of the conference room closed behind him.
Arabelle exhaled slowly. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.
Later that morning, she witnessed his control more directly.
A mid-level manager rushed to her desk, panic flashing in his eyes. "Can you—can you get these reports in front of Mr. Blackthorn immediately? He asked for them yesterday and—"
Arabelle blinked. "Yesterday?"
"Yes, yes, I know, but there was a delay—" His words tumbled over one another. "Please, just—just deliver them now, before he—"
The glass door to Damian's office swung open.
The manager froze, color draining from his face. Damian's eyes cut across the hall and landed on him, sharp as blades.
"Yesterday," Damian said, voice flat but heavy. "You're standing in front of me now, when you should have been standing here then. Explain."
The manager stammered, face pale. "Th—the numbers weren't finalized, sir, I—"
"Excuses," Damian interrupted. He stepped forward slowly, his height and presence dwarfing the man. "Blackthorn Enterprises doesn't run on excuses. It runs on results. Do you understand what happens when a single cog fails?"
The manager swallowed hard. "Y-yes, sir."
"Do you?" Damian pressed, his voice like steel scraping over stone. "Because when one cog breaks, the machine halts. And if the machine halts, people bleed money. Do you enjoy bleeding money?"
The man shook his head quickly, terror etched into every feature.
"Then don't fail again." Damian's words sliced final and cold. "Get out of my sight."
The manager fled, nearly tripping in his haste.
Arabelle sat frozen at her desk, her heart pounding. She had known Damian was harsh he had already humiliated her once but watching him tear into someone else so mercilessly, watching a grown man tremble under his gaze, left her shaken.
And yet…
Her eyes flickered to Damian. He was already striding back into his office, expression unreadable, posture sharp. He hadn't yelled. He hadn't cursed. But somehow his quiet control had been far more terrifying.
It wasn't just power. It was domination.
By midday, Arabelle saw more of the same.
An assistant spilled a cup of coffee in the break room. The liquid spread across the marble, steaming in the silence. The woman froze, panic widening her eyes.
"Get it cleaned," Damian's voice came from behind, cold and unbending. "And pray the stain doesn't last."
The assistant nearly dropped to her knees in her hurry, scrambling for paper towels as if her job depended on it which it probably did.
Another time, two junior analysts whispered at their desks. Damian appeared out of nowhere, his gaze locking on them like a hawk's.
"If you have time for chatter," he said quietly, "then you have time to work harder. Choose wisely."
The color drained from their faces. They bent over their screens, fingers flying across keyboards in frantic rhythm.
Arabelle watched all of it in silence, unease coiling through her chest.
She had never seen a man command so much fear without even raising his voice.
By the end of the day, she was exhausted. Not from her tasks, but from the constant tension that seemed to hang in the air like static. Every second felt like walking a tightrope, waiting for the smallest misstep to bring Damian's wrath crashing down.
She glanced through the glass at his office. Damian sat at his desk, pen in hand, posture rigid. He was beautiful, in a dangerous way like a storm contained in human skin. His sharp profile caught the light from the window, his eyes fixed on the page.
Her stomach twisted.
How could someone inspire so much fear, and yet draw her gaze like gravity?
When she finally gathered the courage to leave at 7:00 p.m., the office was emptying. People rushed for the elevators, their relief almost palpable. Outside, she could hear snippets of hushed conversation.
"Did you see him with Carter today? Nearly destroyed him."
"I swear, the man doesn't sleep. He's not even human."
"Better pray you don't end up on his radar. That's when you're finished."
Arabelle hugged her bag to her chest, walking quietly past. She felt the weight of their words. They weren't exaggerating. Damian Blackthorn was a man no one wanted to cross.
And she—his newest, weakest secretary was directly in his line of sight.
That night, lying in her tiny apartment bed, Arabelle stared at the ceiling.
She could still hear his voice, low and commanding, in her ears. She could still see the terror he sparked in hardened businessmen, the way entire rooms froze when he walked in.
Her chest tightened.
She should be afraid. Terrified.
And she was.
But deep down, beneath the fear, something darker stirred. Something she didn't want to name.
A pull.
A dangerous fascination with the man who ruled his empire like a king in his tower.