Red Heat, Cold Steel

Chapter Two

The first thing I felt when I woke was the cold.

Not from the sheets—God, no. These weren't the scratchy polyester ones at home; these were silk, the kind that probably cost more than my rent for a single pillowcase. The cold came from the space beside me, the stark emptiness where he had been.

"s**t! Oh God, no," I lamented when I glanced at the grand clock.

I pushed myself up, blinking against the sunlight spilling through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The view alone could make you forget your own name—glass towers and glittering streets stretching as far as I could see, like the city itself had been laid out at our feet.

And then the smell hit me—cedar and spice. His scent, faint but lingering, as if to remind me that last night wasn't some tequila-fueled hallucination.

I looked around the penthouse. Minimalist. Sleek. Screamed luxury, money and power that I had never embraced. Black marble counters, chrome accents, furniture that looked custom-made and untouched by actual human life. The kind of place owned by someone who didn't have to check price tags.

Who the f**k did I just sleep with? I thought to myself, feeling the headache spread across.

For a second, my chest tightened—stupidly, ridiculously—before I laughed under my breath. Of course he was gone. Men like him didn't wake up to make coffee and small talk. They didn't ask for numbers. They didn't even bother with a note.

And women like me? We didn't expect them to.

I slid out of bed, pulling on my dress from where it hung over the back of a leather chair. My heels were by the door, my clutch wedged beneath his discarded jacket on the couch. I hesitated, just for a beat, my fingers brushing the lapel of that perfectly tailored coat, before I shook it off.

This was a one-night mistake. That was all.

I left without looking back.

⸻

By the time I got home, showered, and downed two Tylenol pills, the haze of last night had started to dissolve. Reality was a slap to the face:

First day at Blackwood Enterprises.

I couldn't afford to mess this up. This job wasn't just a paycheck; it was survival. The salary was enough to cover the bills piling up for my sister's treatments, to keep a roof over our heads, maybe even to stop the panic attacks that had become a nightly routine.

I straightened my blouse, smoothed my slacks, and pulled my hair into something sleek and professional. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn't see the girl from last night—the one who let a stranger's voice unravel her. I saw someone who could do this.

I hurried to the tiny open space kitchen where Diane had already brewed some coffee. I was grateful for moments like this.

"Hey Jojo," She called out weakly. "You definitely had a night, huh?"

"I forgot I had a job now and I'm late," I replied with a sigh as I picked up the mug and took a sip. "Oh yes, thank you so much for this."

She smiled, turning to a new page of the novel she was reading. "Don't get used to it, I could be gone any day now."

I stared at her, worried. My sister had always avoided making innuendos that related to her health especially because she thought I couldn't handle her absence. And she was right.

"Are you okay Di? What's the matter?"

She looked up and laughed. It was weak but didn't feel forced and I felt relief wash over me. "Relax, I just wanted to see your face."

I rolled my eyes but went to hold her. "Don't do anything Di, seriously. Don't die on me." I put my forehead on hers as she held me back. "I promise you, nothing's gonna happen to you as long as I'm here. Look, I got a job now and it's a really good pay with all the perks. I got you Diane."

"I know but it just feels too much sometimes."

"I'm not complaining, I got you for real." I wiped my tears before she raised her head. "You got me tearing up and ruining my makeup, and now I'm even later. Damn it Di. Look, I'll be back before you blink okay?"

She gave me a hug. "Have a good day Jo, I love you."

"And I love you even more Di." I quickly grabbed my bag and headed to the door.

"Hey Jo, could you get some groceries on your way back? We're literally hanging by the strings right now."

Right, the bills keep piling up, I winced as I headed into the busy streets of New York.

⸻

Blackwood Enterprises didn't just look powerful—it felt it.

The lobby was a cavern of glass and polished steel, with high ceilings and fresh orchids lining the marble reception desk. The air even smelled expensive, like subtle citrus and something floral. The kind of place that could make you forget who you were and convince you to fall in line.

I tightened my grip on the orientation folder they'd emailed me and repeated my mantra: New life. New Jordan. No distractions.

The elevator ride to the executive floor was a slow climb, each ding of a passing floor making my stomach twist tighter. When the doors finally slid open, I stepped out into a corridor so sleek and quiet it felt like a different world entirely.

And then I froze.

Because there he was.

The mystery guy from last night. Oh no.

Leaning slightly as he spoke to a man in a navy suit, his posture was sharp, his voice low and commanding even from a distance. He looked different in the daylight—sharper, colder, untouchable. The charcoal-gray suit he wore fit like it had been sculpted for him, his tie precise, his cufflinks glinting with understated wealth.

Last night's man—the one whose hands had burned paths across my skin, who had whispered my name against my throat—was gone.

This was someone else. Someone dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the fact that I needed this job, and he... he could end it with a single word.

The man in the navy suit glanced up and gestured toward me. "Mr. Blackwood, your new assistant is here."

Mr. Blackwood.

My stomach bottomed out. It made sense now, why he had looked so familiar, why people at the club had stared and parted for us. It wasn't just because he commanded power, he was power. Damien Blackwood and the Blackwood name commanded legacy and power.

He turned, his eyes landing on me like a spotlight, cool and unreadable. For a split second, I thought I saw something flicker there—recognition, maybe even annoyance—but it was gone before I could be sure. His expression was carved from stone.

"Jordan," he said. My name, but not the way he'd said it last night. There was no warmth, no rough edge of desire. Just... cold.

"Mr. Blackwood," I managed, my throat dry.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

He studied me for a moment, his gaze sweeping over my neatly pressed blouse, the soft curls at the nape of my neck, the tremor in my hands I hoped he couldn't see. When his eyes finally met mine again, they were like steel.

He glanced at the gold watch glinting on his wrist. "You are 15 minutes late." He glared at me and for a moment, I expected him to say that I was fired but instead he flicked it off with a finger snap. "Follow me," he said, turning without another word.

I did. What else could I do?

His office was massive, framed by two walls of glass overlooking the city, the kind of view that made you feel like you were standing above the world rather than in it. The furniture was all dark wood and chrome, minimal but intimidating.

He gestured toward the sleek chair opposite his desk, not looking at me as he set a folder down. "Sit."

I obeyed, clutching my bag in my lap like a lifeline.

"This job is demanding," he said, flipping open the folder without glancing up. "The hours are long. The expectations are high. And I don't tolerate mistakes."

His tone was even, measured, but every word landed like a weight. Last night, his voice had wrapped around me like smoke. This morning, it was a blade.

"I understand," I said, though my voice came out softer than I'd intended. "And I am fully capable of the task."

Finally, his eyes lifted to mine. And just like that, the room shrank.

There it was again—that heat, buried beneath the ice. The faintest trace of the man who had kissed me like the world might end. But now, it was laced with something else. Disdain. Restraint. A warning.

"We'll see," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "I don't mix business with... distractions."

My cheeks burned. "Last night was a mistake," I blurted before I could stop myself.

His lips twitched, the faintest shadow of something like a smirk. "Was it?" His gaze dipped—briefly, deliberately—to my mouth, and then back to my eyes. "Good. Then it won't happen again."

The air between us felt charged, like a wire pulled taut and waiting to snap.

I should've felt relief. Instead, something inside me tightened.

"Your first task," he said briskly, snapping the folder shut, "is to prove you belong here. Don't expect leniency because of... anything. You'll report to me directly. Understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Blackwood."

His jaw flexed, as if he didn't like the way I said his name, but he didn't correct me. "You can start by organizing the Colter account files on the shared drive. And Jordan?"

I looked up.

His eyes held mine, cool but sharp enough to cut. "I don't expect an employee of mine to be out on weekdays, cavorting the clubs and showing up late. I don't tolerate mistakes. Or... attachments."

I swallowed hard. "Understood."

He nodded once, dismissing me with a flick of his gaze back to his computer.

I left his office, my hands trembling, my pulse still erratic. I told myself it was just nerves. Just the shock of realizing my one-night stranger was now my boss.

But deep down, I knew better.

Because no matter how cold Damien Blackwood acted, I'd felt the heat under his skin last night.

And judging by the way his eyes lingered—just for a fraction too long—I wasn't the only one fighting it.