My Boss My Babydaddy

By lunch, my fingers were stiff from typing, and my chest ached from pretending. The office buzzed with movement, employees bustling past my desk with files, coffee, and small talk. Nobody looked at me funny. Which meant he hadn't said a word about what happened between us. I should've been relieved. Instead, it felt like a blade twisting just a little deeper. The reports in my hands trembled slightly as I stepped into his office. He didn't look up from his screen. Didn't even acknowledge me. Didn't even glance. Just held out a hand like I was any other secretary. Like he hadn't once kissed me like I was air. I placed the file in his palm and turned to leave. My throat got dry. But then his voice cut through the silence. "That'll be all." That was it? No acknowledgment? No... nothing? I froze for a breath, lips parting, a million unsaid things pressing against the inside of my mouth. But I swallowed them down like old coffee. Instead, I nodded once and walked out with my chin up, resisting the urge to slam the door, throw the file across the room, or cry like my heart was breaking. Because it was. And he didn't even care. The bathroom mirror was the only thing that saw me break. I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles white, my breath coming too fast, too shallow. My reflection stared back at me, blurred with unshed tears, lips trembling from words I didn't say, a red flush climbing my cheeks that had nothing to do with makeup. God. I looked like a mess. A pretty one, maybe. But still a mess. Hair in soft, defiant curls. Lip gloss faded. Eyes rimmed with stubborn, unshed heartbreak. I blinked quickly. Once. Twice. Three times. Trying to clear the tears before they spilled. No. Not here. Cry later. Hustle now. My voice was barely above a whisper, but it echoed in the tiled space like a war cry. "Don't give him that power." I stood up straighter, dragging the lip gloss from my bag with fingers that only shook a little. The gloss slid on smoothly, peach shimmer, like nothing in the world was wrong. I dabbed under my eyes, fixed the smudge on my eyeliner from the earlier blink fight, then fluffed my curls like I still gave a damn. The woman in the mirror didn't look broken anymore. She looked ready for war. And that would have to do. I took a breath. Then another. Slipped the gloss back into my bag like armor and walked out like I hadn't just shattered quietly in a corporate restroom. Like I hadn't been stupid enough to fall for a man like Dominic Steele. That too within one night. Damn, I thought bitterly, pushing through the office door with my chin up and my heart down. I can't believe I was fucked into love. An hour later, I was back at my desk. Headphones in. Focused. Well, pretending to be. My fingers moved automatically over the keyboard, typing notes from the board meeting recording like I was listening. Like my thoughts weren't still tangled in everything I'd tried so hard to bury. It was just one night. One goddamn night. But the way he'd touched me like he already knew every inch of me, like he was starved and I was salvation, it had ruined me. And now he couldn't even look me in the eye. My phone buzzed, dragging me out of the spiral. Intercom: Dominic Steele. Of course. I pulled the headphones off, set my hands neatly on the desk, and pressed the button. "Yes, Mr. Steele?" His voice came through, smooth and professional. Like he hadn't kissed me like I was oxygen. Like I hadn't spent the last two days wondering if it was all in my head. "Can you come in here a moment?" I swallowed. "Sure." I stood, smoothed the lines of my pencil skirt with more aggression than necessary, and adjusted my blouse. My heels clicked as I walked, sharp and confident, each step a silent mantra. You're fine. This doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. The door to his office was open. I stepped in like I wasn't on the verge of unraveling. Dominic didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on his laptop screen, brows furrowed, fingers tapping something out. His posture was relaxed. Too relaxed. Like I wasn't even there. "There'll be a gala event in a month and a half," he said, not sparing me a glance. "I need you to call the caterers and make sure the menu's finalized. Check that the wine is from the Bordeaux vineyard. The private reserve." That was it? That's why I was here? A damn menu? "Oh, right," I said without thinking, sarcasm lacing my voice. "Because God forbid the billionaires drink anything that isn't older than my apartment lease." His fingers paused. My stomach dropped. Shit. Did I say that out loud? Yup. I absolutely did. I peeked up, cautiously. His gaze had finally lifted, and one brow was arched in a slow, amused challenge. "Excuse me?" I gave him my sweetest, most innocent smile. "I said I'll call them right away, Mr. Steele." He didn't smile, but something flickered in his eyes. Curiosity. Irritation. Maybe even something a little... impressed? Whatever it was, it only lasted a second before his face settled back into that same unreadable mask. "Good," he said, coolly. "Confirm the florist, too. I want white peonies on every table." "Of course," I said, already turning to go. "And Emily?" I stopped. His voice was lower now. Softer. My back stiffened. "Yes?" "You missed a note in the board meeting transcript. Line twenty-two. The VP didn't say 'budget cut,' she said 'budget shuffle.'" I blinked. Right. Because now we were back to pretending I was incompetent, too? "Thanks for the correction," I said with a sharp edge in my tone. "Wouldn't want the minutes to make the company look more frugal than it is." That made him look up again, eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. For a second, I thought he'd snap. Tell me to watch my tone or remind me who signs my paycheck. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Something on your mind, Miss Hart?" I bit the inside of my cheek. "Not at all." "Because your tone suggests otherwise." "Funny," I said. "So does yours." We stared at each other for a beat. God, why did he have to look so good even when he was being a cold-hearted ass? Rolled up sleeves, sharp jaw, that ridiculous watch on his wrist like he wasn't made of time himself. "You done?" he asked finally. "Completely," I said, with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. I turned on my heel before he could say anything else and walked out, resisting the urge to slam the door or strut or cry or scream. Instead, I let myself have one moment of satisfaction, swaying my hips just a little more than usual, knowing full well he was still watching. I bit my bottom lip, trying not to laugh. Small victories. Back at my desk, I let the smirk fade slowly. It was exhausting, pretending nothing had happened. That I hadn't spent the night tangled in his sheets, his hands, his mouth. He hadn't mentioned it. Not once. And I wasn't sure what was worse, that he was pretending it hadn't happened... or that maybe it hadn't meant anything to him in the first place. But it meant something to me, a voice whispered inside. This time, a calendar notification from the company server. And at the very top, in bold: [CEO: Mr. Dominic Steele Executive Assistant: Ms. Emily Hart] I blinked. I wasn't just organizing it. I was going to it with him. I closed the notification, opened my email, and started typing. If Dominic Steele wanted peonies, I'd give him a goddamn garden. Packed my tote bag with mechanical precision. Phone, planner, lipstick, charger, gum, and the little courage I had left. I was zipping the top shut and rising to my feet just as his office door creaked open. My chest squeezed involuntarily. Dominic stood there, backlit by the soft glow of his desk lamp. His blazer was gone. His tie loosened. His shirt sleeves rolled up. And I hated, hated, that my first thought was how unfairly attractive he looked. Like a damn Calvin Klein daydream. My heartbeat did a stupid, traitorous skip. "Miss Hart," he said coolly. I straightened, swallowing down whatever flinched inside my chest. "Yes, Mr. Steele?" He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time all day. His gaze skimmed over my face, lingering at my mouth for a breath too long before darting away as it burned him. Like maybe he saw the tired sadness beneath my mascara and couldn't stomach it. Like maybe he recognized it because he felt it, too. Or maybe that was just me being delusional. Again. "Tomorrow. 8 A.M. sharp. We have an executive review to prep." I nodded once, my voice steady. "I'll be here." He gave a single nod in return. "Good." And just like that, he turned and disappeared back into his office. That was it. No apology. No explanation. Not even a damn acknowledgment that we'd slept tangled together just forty-eight hours ago. That we'd kissed like the world was ending. That he'd whispered my name like it was a prayer and a sin in the same breath. Nothing. Just cold. Just professional. I stared at the closed door for a moment, chest burning with things I wasn't allowed to feel. Then I turned on my heel and headed for the elevators. Every step felt like a fight not to unravel. My jaw clenched so tight I could've cracked a tooth. My shoulders straightened like armor. I bit the inside of my cheek just to stop myself from crying. Or screaming. Or marching back in there and demanding that he stop pretending. That he stop acting as if nothing happened. That we hadn't fallen asleep in each other's arms just a few hours ago, his hand on my waist, his breath on my neck, my heart stupidly, helplessly full. But I didn't. Because it was over. Because he'd made it clear. I walked out of that building with my heart tucked tightly behind my ribs and my head held high. The city air hit my face like a wake-up call, cool, sharp, indifferent. Neon lights reflected in puddles from the afternoon rain. Car horns blared in the distance. A couple argued by the corner hotdog stand. Life carried on like it hadn't just sucker-punched me in the gut. If Dominic Steele wanted cold? I'd give him Arctic. If he wanted boundaries? I'd build walls so high he couldn't climb them. So thick he wouldn't even hear me on the other side. He didn't have to want me. He didn't have to look at me like I was some kind of mistake he regretted. Because I wasn't a mistake. And the real mistake? Was he letting me go?