Dark obsession

The morning after

7:28AM. Vance Tower. Damien’s Office. 80th Floor.

I was early.

Still wearing his jacket.

Still smelling like him.

The coffee was already on his desk. Black. 1 sugar. Exactly how he said.

Two cups.

He wasn’t here yet.

I sat at my desk outside his office. Tried to work. Couldn’t.

My lips still tingled. My neck still felt his hand.

My phone buzzed.

_Damien: 7:30. On time. Good._

_Damien: Come in when you hear me._

7:30 sharp. The elevator dinged.

His footsteps. Slow. Controlled.

The door opened.

Damien Vance.

Full suit. Tie perfect. Hair perfect. CEO mask back on.

Cold. Untouchable. Like last night never happened.

Except his eyes.

His eyes dropped to the jacket. Then to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.

And for half a second the mask cracked.

“Morning, Ms. Vance.” His voice was professional. Distant.

“Morning, sir.”

He walked past me. Into his office.

“Close the door.”

I did. My heart was pounding.

He was standing at the window. Hands in pockets. Back to me.

“About last night—”

“Sir, I’m so sorry if I—”

“Don’t apologize.” He turned. Fast. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

The room went silent.

He walked to his desk. Sat. Didn’t look at me. Opened his laptop.

“The London deal is finalized. Board meeting at 9. You’re coming.”

“Yes sir.”

“Agenda. Financials. Q3 projections. I need them by 8:30.”

“Yes sir.”

A pause. The longest 10 seconds of my life.

Then: “Coffee.”

I handed it to him. Our fingers brushed.

He didn’t flinch. But his jaw tightened.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, sir.”

He finally looked up at me. Really looked.

At the jacket. At me.

“Take it off.”

My breath caught. “Sir?”

“The jacket. Take it off, Ms. Vance.”

Oh.

I stood. Slid it off my shoulders.

Underneath was just my thin blouse. From yesterday. Wrinkled.

His eyes tracked every movement. Dark. Hungry. And furious.

Not at me. At himself.

He stood. Came around the desk.

Took the jacket from my hands.

Held it for a second. Brought it to his face.

Inhaled.

Then he put it on. Over his own suit.

My jacket. On him.

“Meeting in 90 minutes.” His voice was rough. “We leave in 60.”

“Yes sir.”

He walked to the door. Paused. Hand on the frame.

Without turning around:

“Last night doesn’t happen again. In the office.”

My chest hurt. “Yes sir.”

“But if you’re tired...”

He stopped.

“If you’re tired, Ms. Vance.”

His knuckles went white on the door frame.

“You come to me. Not the couch. Me.”

Then he left.

And I stood there, shaking.

In his office.

In the aftermath of his kiss.

Wearing nothing but the memory of his hands on me.

And I had no idea which version of Damien I was going to get today.

The boss. Or the man who kissed me at 2AM.

---

_END OF CHAPTER 8_