Page 10 of The Billionaire's Obsession

The possessive language makes my breath catch. Not "once you work for me" but "once you're mine."

Before I can respond, he's gone, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.

I stand frozen for several minutes, the contract heavy in my hands, his last words echoing in my head. The apartment that felt too small with him in it now feels vast and empty, yet somehow I can still sense his presence—as if he's left some invisible mark on my space.

With shaking hands, I open the contract again and begin to read. The language is dense with legal jargon, but certain phrases jump out at me:

"...shall make herself available at all times..."

"...absolute confidentiality regarding all matters personal and professional..."

"...accommodations to be provided at employer's discretion..."

"...travel requirements to be determined solely by employer..."

Each clause seems designed to give him more control, more access to my life. The compensation package is detailed in full—even more generous than he described verbally, with bonuses and perks that make my head spin.

It's nearly midnight when I finish reading. My eyes burn with fatigue, but my mind is racing. Everything about this situation screams danger, yet the practical part of me—the part that's been poor my whole life, that's watched my mother work herself to the bone, that's known what it means to choose between textbooks and groceries—that part is already reaching for a pen.

I set the contract on my desk and curl up on my futon, still fully dressed. Sleep seems impossible, but I must doze off eventually, because I dream of steel-gray eyes watching me from every corner of a gilded cage.

When my alarm sounds at six, I already know what I'm going to do. By seven, I've showered and dressed in the nicest outfit I own—a simple black skirt and white blouse I bought for interviews. At seven-fifty, I'm waiting outside my building with the signed contract in my bag, a knot of dread and anticipation in my stomach.

At precisely eight o'clock, a gleaming black car with tinted windows pulls up to the curb. The driver steps out and opens the rear door.

"Ms. Mercer? Mr. Blackwell is expecting you."

CHAPTER

SIX

Lucy

I signmy name on the final page of the contract, the pen unexpectedly heavy in my hand. Damon watches me from behind his massive desk, his eyes never leaving my face. The moment the ink dries, something shifts in the air between us—subtle but unmistakable. His expression doesn't change, but there's a new look in his eyes: satisfaction, possession. It's the look of someone who's just acquired something valuable. Something he intends to keep.

"Excellent." He takes the contract, not bothering to review my signature before passing it to a waiting assistant. "Janet will show you to HR to complete the remaining paperwork. After that, your orientation begins."

Janet—a sleek, efficient woman in her forties with a perfectly neutral expression—leads me through the labyrinth of Blackwell Industries' headquarters. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer dizzying views of the city. Everyone we pass is impeccably dressed, walking with purpose, wearing the same expression of focused intensity.

"Mr. Blackwell's previous assistants averaged eighteen months in the position," Janet informs me as we ride the elevator down three floors. "The longest lasted two years. The shortest, three weeks."

She doesn't elaborate on why they left, and I don't ask. The implication is clear enough: Don't get too comfortable.

After an hour of paperwork, fingerprinting, and ID photos, I'm escorted back to Damon's floor. Janet leads me to a desk positioned directly outside his office.

"This is your workspace," she explains. "Mr. Blackwell expects you to be at your desk by 7 AM daily to prepare for his 7:30 arrival. You'll receive his schedule each evening for the following day."

I nod, taking in the sleek computer, the multiple phone lines, the empty desk that will soon contain the minutiae of Damon Blackwell's professional life—and apparently much of his personal life as well, based on the contract I just signed.

"Your secure access phone and laptop." Janet places both items on my desk. "These remain with you at all times. All communications are encrypted and monitored."

Monitored. The word catches in my mind like a burr.

"Mr. Blackwell will see you now," she says, gesturing to his office door.

I smooth down my skirt and enter without knocking, as instructed. Damon's office is massive—at least four times the size of my entire apartment. One wall is entirely glass, offering a panoramic view of the city. Another displays what must be original artwork worth more than I'll earn in years, even at my new salary. His desk is an imposing slab of dark wood, positioned to ensure anyone approaching must cover a significant expanse of plush carpet to reach him.

He looks up from his computer, those steel-gray eyes assessing me. "Close the door, Lucy."

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