Page 11 of The Billionaire's Obsession

I do as instructed, feeling the soft click of the latch like a cell door closing.

"Your contract is being processed. By end of day, you'll have access to your company accounts, credit cards, and the rest of your onboarding package." He stands, circling his desk with predatory grace. "But first, we need to address your presentation."

I glance down at my outfit, suddenly self-conscious. "Is something wrong with?—"

"Everything," he interrupts, now standing close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle. "As my personal assistant, you're an extension of me. Your appearance reflects directly on Blackwell Industries." His eyes sweep over me, clinical yet somehow intimate. "Your wardrobe will be replaced."

"I can shop for professional clothing with my first paycheck," I offer, trying to maintain some control.

His smile is indulgent, as if I've said something charmingly naive. "That won't be necessary. I've arranged for a stylist to meet us at Bergdorf's this afternoon. Your measurements were approximated from your driver's license data, but she'll need to see you in person to finalize selections."

My measurements. From my driver's license. The casual invasion of privacy steals my breath.

"I appreciate the offer, but I prefer to choose my own clothes." I keep my tone respectful but firm.

Damon steps closer, his tall frame looming over mine. "It wasn't an offer, Lucy. Page sixteen, paragraph four of your contract: 'Employee agrees to maintain appearance standards as set forth by employer.' I'm setting forth those standards."

I remember the clause—buried among dozens of others, seeming innocuous at the time. Too late, I realize how manysuch clauses I've agreed to without fully understanding their implications.

"Now," he continues, moving toward a door I hadn't noticed before, "let me show you your office."

I follow him through the door, expecting a smaller, secondary workspace. Instead, I find myself in what appears to be a luxury apartment—a sitting room with elegant furniture, a dining area, and doors leading to what I assume are other rooms.

"This is the executive suite," Damon explains. "For late nights or early mornings when going home isn't practical. You'll have access to the adjacent suite."

He opens another door, revealing a slightly smaller but equally luxurious space. A living area, a compact kitchen, a glimpse of a bedroom beyond.

"I don't understand," I say, though a sinking feeling tells me I'm beginning to.

"Your housing allowance," he says simply. "Rather than waste time commuting from that...apartment of yours, you'll stay here during the week. Your things are being packed and moved as we speak."

The floor seems to tilt beneath me. "My things are what? You can't just decide where I live!"

His expression doesn't change, but the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. "Page twenty-three, paragraph eight: 'Employer may, at his discretion, provide housing accommodations to facilitate employee's duties.' Your contract, your signature."

Panic rises in my chest. "That doesn't mean you can move me without my consent!"

"You gave your consent when you signed." His voice remains calm, reasonable. "Besides, nothing is being discarded. You'rewelcome to maintain your apartment for weekends, though I don't see why you would."

I struggle to find words, to process the magnitude of this boundary violation. "This isn't right. This goes beyond a normal employer-employee relationship."

"Nothing about this relationship is normal, Lucy." He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "I don't want a normal assistant. I want you. Completely dedicated to your role in my life."

There's something in his tone that makes me shiver—not entirely from fear. His intensity has a gravitational pull that's difficult to resist, even as my rational mind screams warnings.

"I need to use the restroom," I say, desperate for a moment alone to think.

He gestures to another door. "Through there. Take your time. We have a meeting at eleven."

The bathroom is larger than my bedroom at home, all marble and gleaming fixtures. I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the oversized mirror. What have I gotten myself into? Is a cleared student debt worth...this?

But it's not just the debt, is it? It's the salary, the career opportunity, the chance to learn from one of the most successful businessmen in the country. And something else—something I'm reluctant to acknowledge even to myself: a fascination with the man himself, with his power and his interest in me.

When I emerge, Damon is at his desk, reviewing documents as if nothing unusual has occurred. As if he hasn't just commandeered my entire life in the span of twenty minutes.

"Better?" he asks without looking up.

"No," I admit. "This is moving too fast. I need time to adjust."

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