Warming My Billionaire Boss's Bed

Chapter Two

Mia’s POV.

The town car smelled of leather and faint cologne-something expensive and annoyingly masculine. Rain hammered the roof as I stood on the curb, drenched and humiliated. I had no choice. The streets offered nothing but more cold and darkness. With my phone dying and card blocked, Damien’s car was the only door open. I reached for the handle and climbed in.

Damien sat in the back with me, his driver pulling away smoothly. I shivered in my ruined clothes, staring out the window so I wouldn’t have to look at him. He was my father’s oldest friend-had been for over twenty years. The two of them built deals together, shared yachts and private jets, laughed over whiskey like brothers. To the Rogers family, Damien was practically uncle material. To me, he was the one man who always saw too much.

As the car moved through the storm, memories flooded in.

Five years ago. On my twenty-first birthday party in the Rogers penthouse.

The room was full of important people. I had slipped away to the terrace for air, my vintage Leica in hand, capturing candid shots of the glittering crowd. Damien found me there, leaning on the railing in his tailored suit.

“Still hiding behind that camera, Mia?” he asked, voice dry.

I lowered the Leica. “Better than hiding behind fake smiles like the rest of them. Including you.”

He stepped closer, eyes sharp. “Your father’s deals tonight are shaky. You should stay out of it. You’re smart, but you’re young. Naive.”

The words stung. I had spent months helping organize the event, quietly fixing Father’s sloppy arrangements. “Naïve? I’ve cleaned up more of his messes than you know. And you just stand by and profit from them.”

Damien’s jaw tightened. “Someone has to keep the empire running. Not everyone can play rebel photographer.”

We argued in low voices, the kind of sharp back-and-forth that had started years earlier with small jabs at family dinners. That night it grew hotter. At one point he grabbed my arm to stop me from storming off, and for a second our faces were too close. The almost-kiss feeling hung in the air—his breath warm, my heart racing. Then I pulled away.

“Stay away from me, Blackwood,” I hissed. “You’re just like them.”

“Careful, kitten,” he replied with that cutting smirk. “One day you might need my help. And I might not be so nice.”

From then on, every meeting turned into verbal sparring. I called out his arrogance. He mocked my “artistic rebellion.” Enemies by choice. Safe distance from the pull I refused to name.

Back in the present, I crossed my arms tighter over my wet blouse. “Of all people, it had to be you,” I muttered.

Damien glanced at me. “Get comfortable. We’re almost there.”

I said nothing. Father’s best friend had just become my only lifeline. This was going to be hell.

We pulled into the underground garage of one of the city’s most exclusive towers. Blackwood Tower. Of course. The man didn’t just have money; he owned the skyline. I followed him to a private elevator, my squelching shoes leaving faint pink trails from the diluted ketchup. He swiped a keycard, and we ascended in silence broken only by the soft hum of machinery.

The penthouse doors opened directly into a sprawling space that made my father’s look like a cramped studio apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the storm-lashed Manhattan lights, rain streaking down the glass like tears I refused to shed. Modern art dotted the walls—abstract pieces that probably cost more than my entire existence. A sleek kitchen gleamed under recessed lighting, and somewhere deeper in, I caught the scent of fresh coffee already brewing. Damien had clearly called ahead. Clever ass.

“You look like you lost a fight with a food truck,” he said finally, shedding his suit jacket and draping it over a chair. His voice carried that dry edge I’d come to expect, the one that always made me want to snap back. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Shower. I’ll have something dry brought out.

I wanted to argue, to tell him I didn’t need his charity or his roof. But the cold had sunk into my bones, and my teeth were still chattering. Pride, I decided, could wait five minutes. “Fine. But don’t think this makes us even, Blackwood.

He smirked, already loosening his tie. “Even? Kitten, we haven’t started keeping score.”

The bathroom was a marble sanctuary with a rainfall showerhead that felt like absolution. I stripped off the wine-soaked blouse and ketchup-stained jeans, watching the colors swirl down the drain in sickly pinks and reds. Hot water pounded my skin, washing away the physical grime if not the humiliation. My mother’s old Leica camera bag sat on the counter like a lifeline. At least they hadn’t taken that.

When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, a stack of clothes waited on the bed in the guest room: one of Damien’s oversized button-down shirts-crisp white, sleeves too long-and a pair of soft lounge pants that I had to roll at the waist. They smelled like him. Clean, sharp, with a hint of cedar. I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows and padded barefoot into the living area.

Damien was in the kitchen, pouring two mugs of coffee. He’d changed into a black sweater and jeans, looking less like the untouchable billionaire and more like a man who could actually get his hands dirty. He slid a mug toward me across the island.

“Black, no sugar. Figured you’d want the bitterness to match your mood.”

I took it, wrapping my hands around the warmth. “Perceptive. Or just remembering from all those tedious family dinners where I glared at you over dessert.”

He leaned against the counter, studying me with those piercing eyes. At forty-eight, Damien Blackwood still moved like a man in his prime-broad shoulders, sharp jaw, the kind of quiet authority that made boardrooms bend. I’d spent years trading barbs with him, calling out his arrogance while secretly noting how his gaze lingered a bit too long. He was forbidden. Irritating. Off-limits.

“Richard called me earlier tonight,” he said without preamble. “Before the storm really hit. Asked me to ‘handle’ you. His exact words. Said you’d gone off the rails with some moral crusade and that Victor Lang had an opening on his PR team. Prestige move for the Rogers name. Marriage alliance floated as a bonus.”

The coffee turned to ash in my mouth. I set the mug down harder than necessary. “Of course he did. I’ve slaved for that man my entire life-fixing his messes, smiling through his corruption, playing second fiddle to Sophia while she collected the glory. And now I’m the problem because I won’t help him destroy more lives for profit?”

Damien’s expression darkened, but not with anger at me. “I know. I’ve seen it. The way they treat you-like an accessory that’s outlived its usefulness. Your mother’s photography passion was the only thing that ever lit you up, and even that they turned into a tool for their galas.”

I blinked, surprised by the insight. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you, Mia.” The words hung there, heavier than the rain outside. He cleared his throat, shifting back to business. “I told him I’d handle it. But not the way he thinks. You start with me tomorrow. Marketing lead on Elysium-the sustainable city project. It’s real. Ethical. Billions riding on it, and I need someone who can cut through the corporate shine with something authentic. Your photography angle could work. Raw street shots, human stories. No more slaving in shadows.”

I laughed bitterly, crossing my arms over the oversized shirt. “Forced proximity with my father’s best friend? The same man who once called my campaign ideas ‘charmingly naive’ at a board meeting? Why would you do this? Guilt? Or just another power play?”

He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. “Because watching them throw you into the rain like garbage pissed me off. And because you’re good, Mia. Wasted on them. Shadow me 24/7 for the next month-office, strategy sessions, even the Hamptons estate if needed. Prove yourself on your terms. Or walk back into that storm. Your choice.”

The offer dangled like a lifeline wrapped in thorns. Independence, purpose… and constant proximity to the one man who’d always seen through my armor. My pulse quickened despite myself. “Fine. But if you pull any controlling billionaire bullshit, I’m gone. And don’t call me kitten again unless you want my camera bag shoved somewhere uncomfortable.”

His lips twitched into a rare, genuine smile. “Noted. Though I’d pay to see you try.”

My phone-now charging on the counter-buzzed with a notification. I picked it up, dread pooling in my stomach.

Sophia had sent a photo: my old room in chaos, clothes strewn across the floor, my few books and mementos tossed into trash bags. In the background, Richard stood with a glass of whiskey, expression cold. The caption read:

Work for Victor or disappear for good. We’re clearing out the trash.