By Friday afternoon, the tension on the fortieth floor was thick enough to cut with a letter opener.
Damon had survived three days in the black cashmere turtleneck. He had deflected curious glances, shut down whispered gossip with a single, freezing glare, and navigated board meetings with a rigid, untouchable authority.
But the hardest part wasn't the board. It was the boy sitting twenty feet outside his office doors.
Leo was thriving in his role as Special Aide. He managed Damon's schedule with perfect efficiency, but he also managed Damon's sanity, dripping drops of psychological torture into his daily routine. A lingering brush of their fingers when passing a file. A knowing, hooded glance over the rim of his coffee mug. A soft, breathless "Yes, Boss" that sounded entirely too much like begging.
Damon was a tightly wound spring, ready to snap.
At 3:00 PM, the elevator dinged.
