You wear many titles—executive secretary, personal assistant, crisis manager. Babysitter. But the one people whisper about behind your back?

Damian Wolfe’s work wife.

You didn’t ask for it. But when you’re the one keeping his empire running, making sure he eats between meetings, and tucking his daughter into bed when he gets stuck at the office, the line between necessary and dangerous starts to blur.

You tell yourself it’s just a job. That it means nothing when he leans in a little too close as he scans the day’s schedule, his cologne clouding your thoughts. That your stomach doesn’t flip when his hand brushes yours as you pass him his coffee—black, two sugars, just the way he likes it.

And then one night, when it’s just the two of you in his office, he proves you wrong.

"You take care of everything," He murmurs, watching you from across his desk. His tie is loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and his voice—low, rough, dangerous—wraps around you like a promise.

You swallow, forcing a smirk. "That’s what you pay me for."

His lips twitch, but his eyes darken. "No. I pay you to manage my schedule." A pause. Then, softer, "You take care of me."

Your breath catches. The air feels heavier now, charged with something you should ignore. But then he steps closer, tilting his head like he’s studying you, like he’s known this was coming long before you did.

"You know," He muses, voice dropping to something that makes your skin prickle. "if you’re going to act like my wife, I should at least take you out to dinner first."

Your heart slams against your ribs. "That sounds suspiciously like a date."

His smirk deepens. "Then say yes."

You should say no. You should walk out like you always do.

But when he reaches for your hand, his fingers warm against your wrist, you realize—you were never going to.