The office was nearly deserted by the time Arabelle realized she had overstayed.
Her screen still glowed, spreadsheets open, Damian's schedule for the next week lined up in neat blocks she had re-checked three times. Most of the floor lights were off now, leaving only a few desk lamps glowing like islands in a sea of shadows.
It was almost 10:00 p.m.
Arabelle blinked at the clock, startled. She hadn't meant to stay this late, but the pile of tasks Damian had left for her had felt endless. Booking flights. Cross-checking reports. Calling vendors. Drafting notes she wasn't sure he would even read. She had thrown herself into the work, afraid of making another mistake, afraid of failing again.
Now, her eyes burned, her back ached, and the subway would be nearly empty when she left.
She shut down her computer and gathered her things, moving quietly in the hush of the top floor. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. The silence was eerie, broken only by the distant hum of the city through the glass windows.
Or so she thought.
Because when she walked past Damian's office, a faint light glowed inside.
Her steps slowed.
He was still here.
The glass doors were half-open. She could see him through the gap, sitting at his desk. A lamp threw golden light over him, sharp against the shadows that clung to the corners of the room.
Damian Blackthorn looked carved out of midnight. His suit jacket was gone, tossed over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms as he bent over a stack of documents. His tie hung loosened, the only concession to exhaustion.
But his expression cold, focused, merciless hadn't softened.
He wrote in quick, precise strokes, flipping page after page, as though time itself bent to his command.
Arabelle froze in the doorway, caught between awe and unease. She hadn't meant to spy, but the sight of him alone, intense, unyielding even this late pulled at something deep in her.
He didn't look like a man. He looked like a force.
"You're still here."
The words cracked through the silence like thunder.
Arabelle startled. Damian hadn't even looked up, but his voice carried across the room, cold and certain.
"I—I was just finishing, sir," she stammered, clutching her bag tighter. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
"Disturb me?" Finally, he raised his eyes. Grey. Piercing. They pinned her in place, stripping away her excuses. "You've been standing there for nearly a full minute."
Her cheeks burned. "I… I was surprised you were still working."
His gaze sharpened, as if her observation had been a mistake. "Do you imagine billion-dollar empires build themselves between nine and five?"
"N-no, sir," she whispered.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her with that same unnerving intensity that always made her feel exposed. "Most people run from here at six. They cling to their evenings, their weekends, their comfort. Do you know why I don't?"
Arabelle shook her head, her breath uneven.
"Because comfort breeds weakness," he said softly. "And weakness destroys everything."
Her stomach knotted. She thought of her mother's illness, the bills stacking like walls around her, her own trembling hands that never seemed steady enough. Weakness. She knew the word too well.
Damian's eyes lingered on her face, as if he'd read her thoughts. "That's why you're still here, isn't it? Not loyalty. Not ambition. Desperation."
Her lips parted. "I… I just want to do my job well."
"No," he said. The corner of his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You want to survive."
Her throat closed, but she couldn't deny it.
He stood suddenly, his movements fluid, controlled. The lamplight caught on the lines of his face, sharp as a blade.
He walked around the desk slowly, each step deliberate. Arabelle's pulse jumped as he approached, towering over her.
"Tell me, Miss Vey," he said quietly. "Do you fear me?"
Her breath caught. Her heart thudded against her ribs.
"Yes," she whispered before she could stop herself.
His eyes darkened, satisfaction flickering like shadow across them. "Good."
The word sank into her bones like ice.
"Fear keeps you sharp," he continued. "Fear keeps you alive. Never forget that."
He turned then, walking back toward his desk. Arabelle released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Go home," Damian said, not looking at her. "This place will devour you if you let it."
Arabelle hesitated, her fingers tightening on her bag. She wanted to leave, to run but her feet felt rooted.
"Sir," she asked softly, her voice trembling, "do you ever stop?"
He stilled. Slowly, he looked back at her, his gaze heavy with something she couldn't name.
"No," he said at last. "Because the moment you stop, someone stronger takes everything from you."
Her chest tightened, her throat dry.
She turned quickly, hurrying out before he could see the way her hands shook.
Outside, in the empty elevator, she pressed her palm against her racing heart.
She should hate him. His cruelty. His arrogance. His coldness.
And yet…
All she could feel was the echo of his voice, low and commanding, in the shadows of her mind.
Damian Blackthorn wasn't just her boss.
He was danger.
And she was already caught in his orbit.