Under His Rule

Damien

I arrive at the office earlier than usual.

Not because I’m eager to meet her, God, no, but because I need the space, the calm, and the silence before the chaos Andrea Mikaelson inevitably brings.

I’ve reviewed her file three times. Not because I don’t remember what’s in it, but because every line irritates me.

Andrea Mikaelson, 26. No major work experience. Two half-completed programs. Public relations? Dropped. Business management? Dropped.

Fashion marketing? Dropped dramatically, apparently mid-semester.

A pattern.

A lack of follow-through.

She is everything I don’t tolerate in my orbit.

Yet her father, one of the most powerful men in the city, insisted that she work under me specifically, and he delivered it as a favor, wrapped in a threat, tied with a smile.

“Break her in. Teach her discipline. Teach her responsibility. She listens to no one. Make her listen to you.”

As if I’m running a behavioral correction facility.

I take a long breath and straighten the cuffs of my shirt. “She won’t last a week,” I tell myself.

My office is quiet, sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows, cutting lines of gold across my desk. For a moment, I enjoy the stillness.

Then I hear the elevator.

Laughing.

Talking.

Too bright. Too loud. Too… her.

She’s arrived.

I don’t move. I simply wait.

There’s a soft knock, then my door swings open without waiting for a response.

Interesting.

I look up, and just like yesterday, when she marched into my penthouse office fuming, she’s beautiful in a way that’s annoyingly hard to ignore.

A perfectly controlled kind of chaos.

Hair pinned up but a few strands rebelliously loose. A crisp white blouse with one button open too many.

Wide-leg trousers that somehow make her look like she’s floating rather than walking, and of course, the heels. The expensive ones. The ones that announce her arrival before she speaks.

She steps inside like she owns the building.

I don’t stand. I simply stare.

Her chin lifts. “Good morning… boss.”

The way she says it is pure provocation, sweetness dipped in sarcasm.

I arch a brow. “You’re late.”

“It’s 8:59,” she fires back. “I was told to be here by nine.”

“And I said eight-thirty when your father called to confirm.”

She blinks.

A crack in the confidence. Small. Quick. But there.

Good.

She recovers instantly. “Well, you should have told me, not my father.”

“Noted. I’ll add ‘communicates directly with adult employees’ to my list.”

Her eyes narrow. “Is this how you plan to talk to me all year?”

I lean back in my chair slowly, deliberately. “That depends. Is this how you plan to show up?”

Her arms fold across her chest. “How am I showing up, Damien?”

“Unprepared. Defensive, and dressed for brunch rather than work.”

Her mouth falls slightly open in indignation. “Excuse me?”

I gesture lazily to her outfit. “This isn’t a social event.”

She looks down at herself as if seeing her clothes for the first time. Then her gaze snaps up again, fire blazing in her eyes.

“It’s called business casual.”

“It’s called distracting.”

The words leave my mouth before my brain approves them.

She freezes.

I curse internally.

I don’t get flustered. I don’t slip. I don’t comment on women’s clothing, but Andrea Mikaelson has a way of knocking people off their axis, and apparently I’m not an exception.

For the first time since she walked in, she goes quiet. The air shifts. Thickens.

Her voice, when it comes, is soft but sharp. “Should I take that as a compliment or workplace harassment?”

“A warning,” I answer coolly. “That when you’re here, your focus is expected to be on work.”

“Mine or yours?” she mutters.

I ignore that.

“You’re starting with the PR crisis accounts. All notes are in your email. Read them. Don’t skim them. Don’t delegate them. Don’t panic and call your father.”

“I don’t panic,” she snaps.

“You will,” I say evenly, “if you don’t take this seriously.”

She takes a step closer, closing the distance between us, palms flat on my desk.

Her perfume hits me, something floral, warm, and expensive, not loud but lingering.

I hate that I notice it.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she says, voice low and steady. “I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t beg for this job. I’m here because my father…”

“...believes you won’t survive in the real world without structure, and I agree.”

Her jaw clenches. Good. Let her get angry. Anger can be productive.

“What exactly do you expect from me?” she asks.

“Everything,” I answer. “Full commitment. Precision. Accountability. Discipline.”

She laughs, one short, disbelieving sound. “Because you think you can whip me into shape?”

“I don’t need to whip anything. Either you’ll rise to the standard or you’ll quit.”

She straightens, eyes hardening with a determination that catches me off guard.

“You want discipline?” she says. “Fine. I’ll show you discipline. I’ll show you work ethic. I’ll show you whatever the hell you think I’m missing.”

“Good.”

“But don’t you dare underestimate me again.”

She turns, hair swinging over her shoulder, and walks out of my office with the kind of confidence people usually have to earn.

I watch her go.

I don’t want to, but I do.

When the door shuts behind her, I should feel relieved.

Instead, I feel something else. Something I haven’t felt in years.

Interest. Curiosity. Spark, and irritation at myself for all of it.

I exhale slowly.

She won’t last a week. I repeat the thought deliberately, firmly, but for the first t

ime since this nightmare partnership began… I’m not entirely sure I believe it.