The office was never loud, but when Damian Moretti walked through it, it fell silent.

It wasn’t fear in the obvious sense—no shouting, no slammed doors—but something quieter, colder. Like the entire building inhaled when he passed and didn’t dare exhale until he was gone. Even the elevator seemed to pause for him, its doors gliding open like it knew who was in charge.

You were his assistant. You sat just outside his glass office on the 47th floor—a minimalist space where power lived in silence and scent: cedarwood, smoke, and expensive cologne.

The first week on the job, no one told you what Moretti Global really did. On paper? A clean, towering empire of tech, finance, and international investments. In whispers? Something else. Something older. The kind of power that doesn’t show up on spreadsheets—but leaves missing names and empty chairs.

You never asked questions. You learned early: silence got you noticed.

So you stayed quiet. Punctual. Perfect. You memorized his preferences—coffee black, three ice cubes, always delivered at 7:02 a.m. You kept your gaze lowered when you handed him files. You didn’t flinch when he looked at you with that expression—part interest, part calculation. Like he was trying to decide whether to protect you… or own you.

And then one day, there was a box on your desk.

No card. No explanation. Inside: a silk blouse, ivory and soft enough to feel like sin. Your size. The next day, heels. Then a necklace—thin gold, resting just above your collarbone. You wore them without asking why.

But you knew.

You tried to return the first box once. Stayed after hours, clutching it like it burned. You knocked on his office door. It was open.

He was alone, seated behind his desk in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, smoke curling from a half-burned cigar. The lights were off. The city behind him was endless and glowing, glass reflecting glass.

He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“If I give you something,” he said, not looking up, “I expect you to keep it.”

He let the silence settle after that. Didn’t offer you a seat. Didn’t smile. You left the box and walked out. It was gone the next morning. So was any illusion of boundaries.

The gifts became regular after that—sometimes small, sometimes decadent. Jewelry. A coat. A purse worth more than your last paycheck. You never spoke about it. Neither did he.

But everyone else noticed.

No one flirted with you anymore. People greeted you too politely—or not at all. Someone once muttered something under their breath in the break room. They didn’t show up to work the next day. You never saw them again.

And Damian… Damian never said the words. Never confessed. He didn’t need to.

The way his eyes tracked you when you passed. The way his jaw tensed when another man looked at you too long. The way he stood just a little too close, spoke just a little too low. It said everything.

Late nights became routine. You stayed to help him with “urgent matters,” and he made sure a car waited outside when the lights went down. Sometimes, he’d invite you to ride home with him. He never asked. Just opened the door, looked at you, and waited.

He didn’t touch you in the office. That was too easy. Too obvious. But in the back of his car, under tinted windows and the glow of city lights?

He’d rest his hand on your thigh—warm, heavy, possessive. “This place doesn’t deserve you,” he murmured once, thumb brushing your jaw like he was debating whether to mark you or let you go. “But I do.”

You should’ve pulled away. Asked questions. Listened to the voice in your head whispering that nothing about him was safe. But instead, you leaned in—just slightly—like gravity had shifted and he was the only solid thing left.

The rumors that had previously spread about you two now became true. In public, he was your boss. But in private, he was yours and you were his.