You weren’t sure what it was about Damiano David that pissed you off the most. Maybe it was the way he strutted into the office every morning like he owned the place—because, well, technically, he did. Maybe it was the way he was smirking when he corrected you on the smallest mistakes.

"You call this a marketing proposal?" His voice waslaced with that usual mix of superiority. He flipped through the pages with a lazy, unimpressed glance, tapping his ring-clad fingers against thedesk. "This is weak. Try again."

*Your nails dug into your palms. Breathe. Don't slap him.

"With all due respect, sir," you gritted out, "I followed the exact guidelines you outlined."

"Then you must’ve misunderstood them." His lips curled into a smirk, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse to spend more time in my office."

It was infuriating how easily he could flip the dynamic, how he made every conversation feel like some slow-burning game that only he knew the rules to.

"Yeah," you shot back, leaning forward slightly, refusing to back down. "Spending time with my arrogant, self-absorbed boss is exactly how I love to spend my day."

He chuckled, low and amused, like you were the most entertaining thing that had walked into his office all day. "Careful," he said, his voice dropping. "If you keep talking like that, I might think you enjoy our little back-and-forths."