The Billionaire’s Forbidden Assistant

Chapter 4 A Warning Wrapped in White Roses

For a second, I forgot how to move.

The bouquet sat between me and the receptionist like some expensive, beautiful threat. White roses, perfectly arranged, tied with a silk ribbon that probably cost more than my lunch budget for the week. The card trembled slightly in my hand, though I couldn’t tell if it was because my fingers were shaking or because the entire room had tilted.

Learn where the line is.

Six words.

That was all.

No name. No explanation. Just a message cold enough to settle under my skin and stay there.

Then the elevator opened.

And Damian Vale stepped out.

He saw the flowers first.

Then the card.

Then me.

His gaze changed immediately.

It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t storm across the lobby or demand answers in some loud, theatrical display that would have turned every head in the building.

It was worse than that.

He got very still.

That kind of stillness people like him had right before they made everyone else miserable.

He crossed the lobby in long, deliberate strides, his expression unreadable. Dark suit. Clean lines. No tie today. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes were fixed on the card in my hand as if he already knew he wasn’t going to like what it said.

“What is that?”

I looked at him. “Good morning to you too.”

His gaze didn’t move. “Nia.”

The way he said my name made my pulse jump, which was honestly beginning to annoy me on a personal level.

I held up the card. “Apparently, someone in this building is trying very hard to ruin flowers for me.”

He took the card from my fingers before I could think better of letting him.

His jaw tightened as he read it.

Not much.

Just enough.

The receptionist, who had been watching this exchange with the wide-eyed tension of someone who knew she was one wrong breath from being questioned by the CEO, suddenly became fascinated by her keyboard.

Damian looked up. “Who signed for this?”

The receptionist blinked. “Sir?”

“The delivery.”

“Oh. I—I didn’t personally receive it. It was already at the front desk when I came in.”

“Who left it there?”

“I’m not sure.”

His voice stayed calm. “Find out.”

That was it.

Two words.

No raised tone. No threat.

And yet the poor woman looked like she wanted to apologize to him for existing.

“Yes, sir.”

I crossed my arms. “It’s a bouquet, not a bomb.”

His eyes snapped to mine.

“No,” he said. “It’s a message.”

The way he said it sent a chill down my spine. Not because of the card. Not even because of the flowers.

Because he sounded like a man who had seen this kind of thing before.

I straightened. “Do you know something I don’t?”

He looked at the card again, then slipped it into his inner jacket pocket.

“Maybe.”

I frowned. “Excuse me? That’s my creepy note.”

“It concerns you. Which now makes it my problem.”

There it was.

That bossy, controlled, infuriating tone that always made me want to do exactly the opposite of whatever he said.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how problems work.”

He ignored that. “Did anyone follow you home last night?”

The question hit me hard enough to steal my sarcasm for a second.

“No.”

“Did you see anyone unusual near your apartment?”

“I don’t know. I was tired.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose, the kind of breath a man took when he was one step away from becoming openly irritated.

“With me?” I asked.

“With the situation.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re acting like this is serious.”

“It is serious.”

People were definitely staring now. A security guard by the revolving doors, two women from accounting pretending not to eavesdrop, the receptionist trying to disappear into the furniture.

I dropped my voice. “Then maybe we shouldn’t be doing this in the middle of the lobby.”

For the first time that morning, something flickered in his eyes that looked dangerously close to approval.

“Come with me.”

No.

Absolutely not.

There was something about the way he said things—like refusal wasn’t built into the world he lived in—that made every stubborn bone in my body wake up.

“I have work.”

“So do I.”

“Then I’m glad we both have hobbies.”

“Nia.”

That low warning note was back in his voice again.

I hated how much I noticed it.

I hated more that I noticed it because it did something embarrassing to my stomach.

“I’m not a child,” I said quietly. “And I’m not going to panic over flowers.”

He took one step closer.

Not enough to touch.

Enough to make it hard to think clearly.

“This has nothing to do with panic,” he said. “You received an anonymous threat on company property after being seen with me. You will stop arguing for thirty seconds and use your judgment.”

That shut me up.

Not because he was right.

Mostly because of the part where he had said after being seen with me .

The receptionist suddenly found great purpose in rearranging a stack of envelopes.

I lifted my chin. “Fine.”

A strange kind of satisfaction passed through his expression.

Not victory.

Worse.

Relief.

He turned to the receptionist. “Send yesterday’s lobby footage to my office. Every camera angle.

Between seven a.m. And now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then to the nearest security guard: “No one from outside the company gets past this desk without verification. Effective immediately.”

The guard nodded quickly.

And there it was again.

That swift, cold shift in him. Protective, yes. But not soft. Never soft. He didn’t care in ways that soothed. He cared in ways that reorganized entire systems around the problem.

It should not have affected me as much as it did.

But it did.

He held out a hand.

Not to me.

To the bouquet.

I looked at it. “What?”

“Leave it.”

“It’s still flowers.”

“It’s evidence.”

I stared at him. “You are genuinely impossible.”

“And yet somehow always correct.”

I laughed once, short and disbelieving. “Did someone make you in a lab?”

“No. If they had, they’d have improved your attitude.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but another voice cut through the lobby first.

“Damian.”

Celeste.

Of course.

She emerged from the side entrance like the morning had arranged itself around her arrival.

Cream silk blouse, tailored skirt, heels sharp enough to threaten democracy. Not a strand of hair out of place. Not a single expression wasted.

Her eyes slid over me, then the bouquet, then back to Damian.

Interest sharpened in her face.

“Well,” she said softly. “This is a surprising little scene.”

No one who looked that polished should have been allowed to sound that venomous while smiling.

Damian did not look pleased to see her.

“You’re early.”

“I was in the area.”

Which was a lie. Even I could hear it.

Celeste stepped closer to the desk and looked at the roses. “For me?”

“No,” Damian said.

The single syllable landed like a locked door.

Her smile thinned by half an inch. Barely noticeable. Completely terrifying.

“How awkward,” she murmured.

I should have said nothing.

Should have stood there like a sensible woman and let rich, beautiful people with emotional damage sort themselves out.

Instead, because my survival instincts were apparently decorative, I said, “Extremely.”

Celeste turned her full attention on me.

If beauty could stab, I’d have been on the floor.

“And you are?”

I blinked.

Because there was no chance she had forgotten me from twelve hours ago. She was asking as a power move, and a very expensive one at that.

Before I could answer, Damian did.

“Nia Carter.”

Not Ms. Carter .

Not the junior employee .

Just Nia.

Something in Celeste’s expression hardened.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

I smiled politely. “We’ve met.”

“Yes,” she said. “Briefly.”

Her gaze dropped to my work badge, then climbed slowly back to my face. “You seem to be adapting very quickly.”

There was something so perfectly polished about her tone that anyone standing nearby would have missed the insult.

I didn’t.

Neither did Damian.

“I’m trying,” I said, matching her smile.

Her eyes glittered. “Be careful not to confuse visibility with value.”

There it was.

A slap in a silk glove.

I felt the sting of it before I could hide it.

And I hated, more than I wanted to admit, that Damian saw it happen.

“Celeste,” he said.

Just her name.

Quiet.

Controlled.

Enough to make the receptionist stop typing entirely.

She turned to him. “What?”

“That will be enough.”

Her face changed then.

Not much.

But enough.

Enough for me to realize this wasn’t new. This wasn’t some one-off moment of tension between a fiancée and an employee. There was history in that tone. Sharp, old, dangerous history.

She laughed softly. “You’re correcting me over office small talk?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

That hit harder than if he’d raised his voice.

Celeste’s gaze flicked to me again, and for the first time, the smile disappeared completely.

Which somehow made her prettier.

And much more dangerous.

“I see,” she said.

Damian said nothing.

Neither did I.

The silence stretched long enough to become humiliating.

Then Celeste did something worse than making a scene.

She stepped closer to me.

Not close enough to be improper. Just close enough that only I could hear her when she said, very softly, “Men like him don’t break their habits for girls like you. They break girls like you.”

My stomach dropped.

Before I could answer, Damian moved.

Fast.

He stepped between us, not touching either of us, but cutting the angle of her body off from mine completely.

A wall in a black suit.

“Go upstairs, Nia.”

I stared at the back of his shoulder.

It took me a second to remember I had words.

“I—”

“Now.”

No room for debate.

No softness.

And yet the way he placed himself between us had done something terrible to my ability to remain normal.

I hated how that made me feel.

I hated more that Celeste noticed.

So I straightened my spine, looked past Damian’s shoulder, and gave her my calmest face.

“Have a lovely morning.”

Then I turned and headed for the elevators before either of them could stop me.

My reflection in the mirrored doors looked far calmer than I felt.

Inside, I was vibrating.

Not just from the note.

Not just from Celeste.

But from the image of Damian stepping in front of me like it was instinct.

Like he hadn’t even thought about it.

Like some part of him had already decided.

The elevator doors slid shut.

I made it to the twenty-second floor and somehow all the way to my desk before Tasha appeared out of nowhere, holding an iced coffee and the expression of a woman who could smell fresh chaos from three departments away.

“What happened?”

I set my bag down. “Why does everyone keep asking me that like I’m a natural disaster?”

She shoved the coffee into my hand. “Because you’ve had the CEO’s attention for less than a week and somehow there’s already lobby drama before nine a.m. Speak.”

I looked around.

The floor was buzzing the way it always did in the morning, but no one seemed openly interested in me yet. Which meant I had maybe sixty seconds before the gossip reached full speed.

I lowered my voice. “Someone sent me flowers.”

Tasha blinked. “That’s not terrible.”

I handed her the second card the receptionist had quietly slipped into my bag when I left the lobby.

Her eyes widened as she read it.

“There was a second card?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“Because I only just looked at it.”

The card was smaller than the first one. Plain. Unmarked.

Only four words this time.

Stay away from him.

Tasha looked up. “Okay. That’s unhinged.”

“No kidding.”

She glanced toward Damian’s glass-walled office at the far end of the floor. “Does he know?”

“He knows about the first one.”

“The first one?”

I rubbed my forehead. “Please don’t make me hear how insane this sounds.”

“Oh, babe, that ship sailed when mysterious flower terrorism entered the chat.”

I almost smiled.

Almost.

Then movement caught my eye.

Someone was standing in Damian’s office.

Celeste.

Even from this distance, I could tell they were arguing.

He stood behind his desk, one hand braced against the polished wood, expression like sharpened steel. Celeste stood across from him, posture flawless, face cool, but her hands were moving now—small, clipped gestures that screamed anger even through glass.

Tasha followed my gaze.

“Oh,” she said softly. “That’s bad.”

“Do they always fight like that?”

“I have never seen her in his office this early.”

I looked down at the second card again.

Stay away from him.

A hot, prickly feeling crept up the back of my neck.

“This is insane,” I muttered. “I don’t even know what’s happening.”

Tasha was still staring toward the office. “I think you do.”

I turned to her.

She lowered her voice. “He’s not supposed to react to you like this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Damian Vale notices everything.” Her eyes cut back to mine. “And he’s acting like someone touched something that belongs to him.”

The words hit so hard I almost dropped my coffee.

“That is not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

But the denial sounded weak.

Weak even to me.

Tasha leaned in closer. “Then why did Celeste look like she wanted to set you on fire?”

I had no answer for that.

Or maybe I did.

I just didn’t want to say it out loud.

My computer chimed.

A new email.

From Damian.

Subject line: Come to my office. Now.

I looked at Tasha.

She looked at me.

Then she whispered, “If you survive, blink twice.”

I stood, smoothing my skirt with fingers that refused to be steady.

My walk to his office felt different this time.

Last night, I had been nervous.

This morning, I was angry.

Angry at the flowers. Angry at the notes. Angry at Celeste for speaking to me like I was disposable. Angry at Damian for stepping in like I needed saving and then somehow making that worse by being right.

I knocked once.

“Come in.”

I entered.

He was alone now.

The lobby card sat on his desk beside a laptop and several printed stills from the security footage. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie nowhere in sight. He looked less polished than usual.

More dangerous.

He didn’t ask me to sit.

“Did you receive another note?”

I froze.

Then narrowed my eyes. “How do you know that?”

His jaw tightened. “Answer the question.”

“Did you have someone follow me?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because whoever sent the first message is escalating. And because you have exactly the kind of face you make when you’re deciding whether not telling me would count as independence or stupidity.”

I hated that I almost laughed.

Almost.

I reached into my bag and handed him the second card.

He took it, read it once, and went completely expressionless.

Which, with him, was somehow the clearest sign of anger yet.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was in my bag when I got upstairs.”

His gaze snapped to mine. “Your bag?”

“Yes.”

He hit the intercom without breaking eye contact. “Get security in here. Now.”

The response came instantly. “Yes, sir.”

My pulse started climbing again. “Damian—”

“You left your bag unattended?”

“No. I mean, for like ten seconds at the front desk—”

“That’s all it takes.”

The sharpness in his tone made me go still.

Not because I was scared of him.

Because he sounded scared for me.

And that was somehow more destabilizing.

I crossed my arms. “You don’t get to be mad at me because some psycho with a florist budget is acting weird.”

“I can be mad at whatever I like.”

“That’s not a personality trait. That’s a dictatorship.”

His eyes flashed.

And for one reckless second, the corner of his mouth nearly moved.

Then the office door opened and two security staff entered.

Damian turned all business. He handed over the card. “She received this on the twenty-second floor. Someone accessed her bag after the first delivery. Pull internal cameras, lobby desk, elevator banks, floor access, everything. I want names.”

One of the guards nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And until I say otherwise,” he added, “Ms. Carter does not move through this building alone.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

The guards wisely kept their faces neutral.

I did not.

The moment the door shut behind them, I turned on him. “Absolutely not.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“You deciding things about my life like I work for you.”

A beat.

Then, dryly, “You do work for me.”

“That is not the point.”

He came around the desk.

Slowly.

Every step he took changed the air in the room.

“This person got close enough to touch your things,” he said. “So right now, whether you enjoy it or not, my only concern is making sure it doesn’t happen again.”

I lifted my chin. “Why?”

The word slipped out before I could stop it.

Simple.

Sharp.

Too honest.

He stopped in front of me.

Not too close.

Close enough.

His gaze held mine for a long second, unreadable as ever, but there was something underneath it now. Something heavier. More dangerous.

“You know why.”

I did.

That was the problem.

My throat went dry.

“No,” I said, though it came out softer than I wanted.

His eyes dropped to my mouth, just for a second. “Liar.”

The word sent a shiver all the way down my spine.

I should have stepped back.

Should have thrown a smart remark at him.

Should have reminded both of us that this was insane and impossible and exactly the kind of thing women regretted when men like him got bored.

Instead, I stood there in the center of his office, heart beating too hard, and let the silence stretch until it almost broke me.

A knock landed sharply at the door.

We both stepped back.

The interruption felt physical.

His expression closed instantly.

“Come in.”

One of the security guards returned holding a tablet.

“Sir, we found the delivery footage.”

Damian held out his hand.

The guard gave him the tablet.

I moved before I could think better of it, coming to stand beside him as he played the video.

The lobby camera angle was grainy, but clear enough.

At 7:42 a.m., a woman in a dark coat and sunglasses entered through the side doors carrying the bouquet. She moved quickly, head down, and placed it on the front desk before turning away.

“Can you zoom in?”

The guard did.

The image sharpened just enough to make my breath catch.

I knew that coat.

And not because it was expensive.

Because I had seen it less than ten minutes ago.

Cream lining. Gold buttons at the cuff. A tiny tear near the sleeve seam.

I turned my head slowly toward Damian.

He was already looking at me.

Neither of us said the name out loud.

Neither of us had to.

The guard frowned. “Do you recognize her?”

The office went very quiet.

Then Damian set the tablet down with terrifying care.

“Yes,” he said.

And the way he said it made one thing brutally clear.

By the time this was over, someone was going to bleed.