The Billionaire’s Forbidden Assistant

Chapter 5 She Smiled Like a Threat

For one long second, no one in the room moved.

The tablet sat on Damian’s desk between us, frozen on the grainy image of a woman in a dark coat and sunglasses. But I didn’t need better resolution. I didn’t need a second look.

I knew that coat.

I had seen the cream lining when Celeste stepped out of the side entrance that morning, cool and polished and pretending surprise.

And Damian knew it too.

You could feel it in the room.

In the sudden drop in temperature.

In the way his face went still—not blank, exactly, but controlled so tightly it looked dangerous.

The security guard glanced between us. “Sir?”

Damian didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Leave it with me.”

The guard hesitated. “Should we—”

“I said leave it.”

The man nodded once, thought better of asking anything else, and slipped out of the office with his partner.

The door shut.

Silence rushed in after them.

I folded my arms across my chest, mostly to keep my hands from shaking. “So.”

Damian looked at me.

That was all. Just looked.

And somehow it irritated me more than if he’d started barking orders.

“So?” I repeated.

His jaw flexed. “You should go back to your desk.”

I stared at him. “Absolutely not.”

“This is no longer your concern.”

I laughed.

A short, disbelieving sound.

“That’s funny, considering someone just threatened me twice before nine a.m.”

His expression hardened. “Nia.”

“No.” I took a step closer to the desk, pointing at the paused video. “Don’t do that thing where you decide what I can handle and lock me out because it’s easier for you.”

A flash of something crossed his face.

Not anger.

Recognition.

Like he had expected fear and got resistance instead.

“It is not easier for me,” he said quietly.

I shouldn’t have noticed how rough his voice sounded.

I did anyway.

“Then tell me the truth.”

He said nothing.

That was answer enough.

I exhaled slowly and looked away before I did something stupid, like let the concern in his eyes affect me.

Too late, honestly.

It already had.

“You think she sent them,” I said.

“I think someone wanted you frightened.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

His silence sharpened.

I looked back at him. “Do you think Celeste sent the flowers?”

He leaned one hand on the desk, broad shoulders tight beneath his shirt. “I think the woman in that footage was wearing her coat.”

“Then why are we talking around it?”

“Because accusation and proof are not the same thing.”

I hated that he was right.

Mostly because being right sounded very good on him.

Before I could stop myself, I asked, “How long have you been engaged to her?”

His gaze snapped to mine.

I could have kicked myself.

There were a hundred smarter questions in the room, and somehow that was the one my mouth picked.

Maybe because I already knew this had stopped being just about flowers.

Maybe because I wanted to understand what kind of woman sent warnings wrapped in roses.

Or maybe because some uglier part of me needed to know whether this was still fixable for them.

For him.

“For a while,” he said at last.

I narrowed my eyes. “That sounds evasive.”

“It is.”

I should have dropped it.

Didn’t.

“Do you love her?”

The question landed between us like broken glass.

His face changed in some small, dangerous way I couldn’t name.

Then came a knock at the door.

Of course.

Because apparently every time the air between us got too honest, the universe itself stepped in.

Damian didn’t look away from me when he said, “Come in.”

The door opened.

Celeste entered with a smile.

Not a bright one.

Not a warm one.

The kind of smile people wore when they were carrying a knife beneath their coat and wanted you to thank them for being charming.

She took in the room in a single sweep—me standing too close to the desk, the paused security footage, Damian’s face, my expression—and somehow looked even prettier for understanding exactly what kind of scene she had walked into.

“Well,” she said softly. “This feels intimate.”

I straightened.

Damian’s voice went flat. “We’re busy.”

Celeste’s gaze slid to the tablet. “So I see.”

She walked farther into the office without waiting to be invited.

Every step was elegant. Measured. She moved like she had never once doubted she belonged in every room she entered.

I suddenly understood why women like her were more frightening than loud ones.

Loud women told you when the war had started.

Women like Celeste smiled first.

“Should I come back?” She asked.

Her tone suggested the opposite.

“No,” Damian said. “Stay.”

I looked at him.

He didn’t look at me.

Which annoyed me for reasons I refused to inspect.

Celeste clasped her hands lightly in front of her. “How lovely. Honesty.”

There was no point pretending.

Damian touched the screen once, bringing up the still image again and angling the tablet toward her.

“Where were you at 7:42 this morning?”

Her eyes dropped to the image.

Not for long.

Just enough.

Then she looked back up, calm as ever.

“Having breakfast.”

“With whom?”

She smiled. “Are we doing this as lovers or prosecutors?”

I felt the air shift.

Damian’s expression did not.

“Answer the question.”

Celeste tilted her head. “No.”

My eyebrows rose before I could stop them.

She noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Everything about her suggested a woman who survived by noticing first.

Her attention moved to me with gentle precision.

“Does this concern you, Nia?”

The way she said my name made it feel borrowed. Temporary. Something she could take away if she chose.

“It does when someone’s leaving threats in the lobby.”

Her smile deepened by half an inch.

“And you think that was me?”

I held her gaze. “I think you knew exactly what coat you wore this morning.”

That got a reaction.

Tiny.

But real.

One slow blink. One slight change around her mouth.

Victory flickered hot in my chest.

Then she laughed, soft and unbelieving, as though I had just accused her of stealing office pens.

“You poor thing.”

I went cold.

Damian’s voice cut in before I could respond. “Enough.”

Celeste ignored him and took a step toward me.

“Nia, do you have any idea how many women throw themselves at Damian in a year?

Receptionists, investors’ daughters, journalists, assistants—”

“I’m not throwing myself at anyone.”

“No?” Her eyes drifted deliberately over my face, then my body, then back again. “From where I’m standing, you seem very eager to be noticed.”

That one landed.

Not because it was true.

Because it hit the part of me already embarrassed by how much I noticed him back.

Damian moved then.

Fast enough that even Celeste paused.

He stepped between us, not touching me, not touching her, but forcing the room to rearrange itself around the hard line of his body.

“Speak to her like that again,” he said, voice low and lethal, “and this conversation will end very differently.”

Celeste looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And for the first time since she’d walked in, her face cracked.

Not with fear.

With disbelief.

Like she genuinely had not expected him to draw the line there. Not over me.

The realization landed in the room with terrifying clarity.

She saw it.

I saw it.

Worst of all, I think he saw it too.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then Celeste smiled again.

Too smooth. Too quick.

Like she’d stitched the crack shut before anyone could study it.

“My mistake,” she said lightly. “I didn’t realize your staff came with emotional protections.”

I should have stayed quiet.

Should have let Damian handle it.

Instead I stepped around him enough to meet her eyes and said, “Maybe you’re just not used to hearing ‘no.’”

Celeste’s gaze sharpened.

And then—unexpectedly—she laughed.

A real laugh this time.

Low, almost appreciative.

“There you are,” she murmured.

The words made no sense.

I felt Damian go still beside me.

Celeste looked between us, something cool and ugly moving behind her eyes. “This is worse than I thought.”

Damian’s voice dropped another degree. “You need to leave.”

She ignored him.

“Do you know what his family does to women they can’t use?” She asked me.

My stomach tightened.

“Nobody asked for story time, Celeste,” I said.

She smiled without warmth. “I’m trying to help you.”

“By threatening me?”

Her gaze flicked toward the bouquet on the credenza near the door. “Threatening you would look very different.”

The words hung there.

Deliberate.

Impossible to mistake.

Every nerve in my body lit up.

Damian stepped forward, and this time there was no mistaking the anger in him.

“Get out.”

Celeste looked at him for a long moment.

Then she did something that sent a strange chill through me.

She softened.

Her shoulders lowered. Her mouth relaxed. Her eyes turned sad in a way so convincing it would have fooled anyone who hadn’t watched her two seconds earlier.

“This is about your mother again, isn’t it?” She said gently.

Damian went white with fury.

Not pale.

White.

I had never seen a human face shut down that fast.

Whatever was in that sentence had hit bone.

Celeste saw it and knew she had.

For the first time, I felt like I was standing on the edge of something much deeper than jealousy.

Older. Worse.

I looked from one to the other. “What does that mean?”

Neither of them answered.

That scared me more than anything else had.

Celeste gave me one last look. Not triumphant. Not mocking.

Pitying.

I hated that the most.

Then she turned and walked to the door, pausing only once to say, over her shoulder, “You should check your desk drawer.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

The room went dead quiet.

I looked at Damian.

He was staring at the door like he could still see through it.

“Check my desk drawer?” I repeated.

He dragged a hand over his jaw, then turned to me with a face I barely recognized.

There was rage there.

And something else.

Fear, maybe.

It didn’t suit him. It made him look less untouchable and far more dangerous.

“You’re not going back there alone.”

I almost laughed from the sheer exhaustion of fighting him. “I’m starting to think you have that engraved somewhere.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

I brushed past him before he could stop me.

“Nia.”

I kept walking.

The man had spent half the morning answering my questions with silence and control. He did not now get to order me around while my life turned into a thriller with floral arrangements.

The office floor looked the same as always when I stepped out—people moving, phones ringing, keyboards clacking, coffee cups everywhere.

That was the weirdest part.

That everything could still look normal while your pulse was trying to climb out of your throat.

Tasha saw me first.

She stood so fast her chair nearly rolled backward. “What happened?”

“I don’t know yet.”

That was the truth.

I reached my desk and froze.

My top drawer was slightly open.

Just barely.

I knew I hadn’t left it that way.

Behind me, Damian’s voice landed sharp and close. “Don’t touch it.”

Everyone looked up.

Well. Great.

Nothing says office professionalism like your terrifying CEO stalking after you with murder in his face.

I looked over my shoulder. “You know that’s not calming.”

He came to stand beside me, close enough that the side of his arm almost brushed mine.

His attention was fixed on the drawer.

Tasha stared between us like she had just been handed premium gossip and a front-row seat.

“What is going on?” She whispered.

“Excellent question,” I muttered.

Damian pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—because of course he carried one, because apparently he had been born in a storm wearing cuff links—and used it to slide the drawer open.

Inside was a single photograph.

No envelope. No note. Just one glossy print placed dead center.

I reached for the edge of the desk to steady myself.

The photo showed me.

Leaving my apartment building the night before.

Hair up. Head down. Bag over one shoulder.

It had been taken from across the street.

My mouth went dry.

“Oh my God.”

Tasha made a strangled sound beside me.

Damian picked up the photo carefully, studied it once, and then his whole body went rigid.

“What?” I whispered.

He turned the photo over.

There was writing on the back.

He didn’t let me take it at first. His fingers tightened for one irrational second, as if even the paper itself offended him.

Then he handed it to me.

I read the message in black ink.

You should have listened.

The world seemed to narrow around that sentence.

My desk.

The office.

The people pretending not to stare.

All of it blurred.

I became aware of Damian at my side in fragments—the controlled way he breathed, the tension in his shoulders, the heat of his body close to mine.

“Tasha,” he said without taking his eyes off the photo, “call security.”

She didn’t even question him. Just grabbed her phone with shaking fingers.

I swallowed hard. “Someone followed me home.”

The words sounded unreal in my own voice.

Damian looked down at me.

And whatever was on my face must have stripped something in him bare, because his expression changed instantly.

Softened.

Just for a second.

His hand came to the small of my back before I think he even realized he was doing it.

Warm. Steady. Possessive.

“I know,” he said.

The gentleness in his voice nearly undid me.

That, more than the photo, more than Celeste, more than the notes, was what made my chest tighten.

Because Damian Vale did not sound like a boss in that moment.

He sounded like a man already too far in.

Security arrived within minutes. So did half the floor’s fake attempts at minding their own business.

The photo was bagged. My desk area was checked. Questions were asked. A perimeter of concern formed around me whether I wanted it or not.

And through all of it, Damian did not leave.

Not once.

He stayed close, answering what needed answering, cutting off what didn’t, standing there in that expensive shirt looking like he was one sentence away from destroying somebody’s life.

When security finally moved away to review the photo and camera access logs, I turned to him.

“Was it her?”

His gaze met mine.

The real answer was there for half a second before the mask came back down.

“I don’t know.”

I almost snapped at him.

Almost.

But then I thought about the way Celeste had smiled. The way she had said his mother. The way she had looked at me with something like warning under all that poison.

And suddenly I wasn’t sure this was simple anymore.

Maybe she had sent the flowers.

Maybe she hadn’t.

Maybe somebody wanted me to think she had.

That realization made my skin crawl.

Damian must have seen it happen on my face because he leaned closer and said quietly, “You’re coming with me tonight.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You’re not going home alone.”

The outrage arrived right on schedule. “You cannot just—”

“Yes,” he said, voice low. “I can.”

I stared at him.

He stared right back.

God, he was infuriating.

And impossible.

And far too close.

“I’m not moving into your penthouse because someone left me creepy stationery.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “That’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you saying?”

His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before lifting again.

“I’m saying,” he said, “that until I know who is doing this, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

And there it was.

The line.

Not boss to employee.

Not concern dressed as policy.

Something rawer.

More dangerous.

Something that made the entire office seem to disappear around us for the second time that day.

My pulse kicked hard.

Tasha, somewhere behind me, made a tiny squeaking sound that I was absolutely going to murder her for later.

I swallowed. “That sounds insane.”

“Probably.”

“And controlling.”

“Yes.”

“And completely inappropriate.”

His eyes held mine. “Also yes.”

That should have made it easier to refuse.

It didn’t.

Because there was no apology in him. No pretense either.

Just fierce, reckless honesty standing in front of me in a dark shirt and expensive watch.

I opened my mouth.

The intercom on Tasha’s desk rang.

She jumped.

A second later she looked up, face drained of color.

“It’s from reception,” she whispered. “They said there’s… there’s a woman downstairs asking for Nia.”

My stomach dropped.

Damian went still. “Who?”

Tasha looked at the blinking line, then back at us.

“She says she’s your mother.”