Chapter 9: Cracks In Control

Damian stared out the office window long after everyone had gone home, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored slacks, his reflection staring back at him like a stranger.

He'd yelled at her.

Over coffee.

And worse, he'd done it on purpose.

She'd stood there, holding the cup with both hands like she was offering him something delicate. Her lips had parted to speak, and then—he'd snapped. Cold. Sharp. Cruel.

Because he'd needed to create distance.

Because the way she looked that morning had nearly shattered the control he'd spent years building.

The pale blouse had clung just slightly to her waist, hinting at the graceful curve of her hips. The skirt had fit perfectly, elegant and modest, but he couldn't stop his eyes from tracing the way it hugged her. Her hazel eyes were brighter than he remembered, framed by soft waves of brown hair that shimmered in the morning light.

She looked poised. Intelligent. Unintentionally devastating.

And when she smiled—when she smiled at the receptionist, or at his assistant, or at anyone who wasn't him—it twisted something inside him.

She didn't know who he was to her.

Didn't know what he'd done.

Didn't know how he'd watched her life unfold from a distance for two long years, always telling himself he wouldn't interfere.

But he had. He already had.

Hiring her wasn't just reckless — it was dangerous.

You should've walked away before this started, he told himself, jaw tightening.

He paced back to his desk and sat down, fingers steepled in front of him. Her resume was still on the corner — a single sheet of paper that didn't begin to capture what she was capable of.

She had no idea she'd already impressed half the staff.

No idea that he'd intercepted a complaint from the operations manager about another candidate because he knew she had to be chosen. No idea that the entire posting was crafted around her qualifications — deliberately under-advertised, placed in an old classifieds column only someone desperate would read.

She didn't get lucky.

He'd led her here.

And now, having her so close was undoing everything.

Her scent still lingered in the room. Warm, like vanilla and rain.

Every time she entered, he noticed the tiny details — the way her fingers moved over the keyboard, how she bit her lip when concentrating, how her foot tapped lightly when she read emails.

And she didn't know he noticed.

Didn't know he remembered what that same foot looked like in worn sneakers walking down 12th Street at 10 p.m., exhaustion in her shoulders after a late shift.

You should've left her alone.

He told himself that every day.

But something had changed the night he found out she lost her job.

He'd seen her walking home, shoulders hunched under the weight of another defeat, and he knew—he knew—she wouldn't ask for help. Not from anyone.

And definitely not from a man like him.

So, he created a position. One that required discretion. One that sounded too fast-paced for anyone who wanted comfort and too challenging for those looking for ease.

And she had come.

Bright-eyed. Anxious. Beautiful.

And now he had no idea how long he could hold himself back.

Earlier today, when she'd set the coffee on his desk and smiled—that smile so full of hope and nerves—he'd almost said something kind.

Almost.

But kindness was intimacy.

And intimacy was a risk.

So he buried it beneath a raised voice and a sharp rebuke. Watched her flinch. Watched her nod and retreat like a soldier taking orders.

It felt like punishing himself more than her.

But the most dangerous moment hadn't been the yelling.

It had come later.

When he looked up from his screen and saw her typing across from him, her brow furrowed in focus, her lips slightly parted in concentration. He'd watched her as if she were a painting he wasn't allowed to touch.

He'd felt the stirrings of something he'd buried years ago.

Longing.

Not just desire, but need. To speak to her. To hear her laugh. To know the sound of her voice when she wasn't scared of saying the wrong thing.

He clenched his fists and stood again, pacing like a caged animal.

He couldn't afford to want her. Couldn't afford to let her find out what he knew — what he'd done.

Emily Johnson wasn't just another woman.

She was the last thread of something pure in a world that had taught him to destroy.

And still… she was here now.

Within reach.

He went to the bar in the corner of the office, poured himself a drink, but didn't sip it. Just stared into the amber liquid like it could drown the part of him that kept whispering her name.

Emily.

Tomorrow, she'd walk through that door again, smile despite herself, and sit across from him like she didn't make the air in the room harder to breathe.

And he would pretend to be cold.

Pretend not to care.

Pretend he hadn't already crossed every line.