Entangled With My Boss

Chapter 2: The Devil’s Routine

Damien's Point Of View

“Another day in the life of a Westwood!” I mumbled

The city roared outside, all glass, metal and human desperation, but in my world, everything was perfectly still. Perfectly controlled.

I stepped out of my lastest Rolls Royce, adjusting the cuffs of my charcoal suit, the fine Italian fabric sliding like a second skin. Not a wrinkle. Not a flaw.

Not like them.

Westwood International loomed above me, a mirror to the sky, sharp enough to cut through the clouds. My Family's empire. My Citadel of dominance.

As I entered the lobby and made to walk past the receptionist Tanya.. But she leaned over the counter, pushing her breasts together with a practiced sigh. Her mouth curved into a sultry smirk instead of offering a proper greeting.

I slowed down.

Mistake number one: she thought last Friday night meant something. That a few moans and thrusts gave her a place in my life.

It didn’t.

Coming to an abrupt stop and pivoting back toward her.

"Miss Rivera," I said, my voice cold, flat.

Her smile widened and she moved her shoulder in rhythm juggling her boobs. "Yes, Mr. Westwood? Any thing I can help you with"

"Yes, You're done here."

The smile snapped off her face like a brittle twig. "What?"

"You’re fired," I said simply, tucking my hands into my pockets. "Collect your things."

Tears welled instantly, mascara already trembling at the edges.

"But… but I was just… " she stammered. "I thought…"

"There’s your second mistake," I cut in, voice sharp enough to make her flinch. "You thought."

I turned on my heel without waiting for the inevitable sobs. I didn’t have the time or the interest.

Rule number one: never get familiar.

Rule number two: never explain.

The elevator doors slid open silently. I stepped inside alone.

As the floors ticked upward, my reflection stared back at me in the polished steel. Impeccable. Unshakeable. Untouchable.

Some men built their empires with charm.

I built mine with cold efficiency.

Love?

Loyalty?

Those were illusions for the weak.

Pleasure was simpler, faster and disposable.

When the elevator dinged onto the executive floor, I stepped out into a familiar hush. The scent of rich leather and expensive cologne. The soft click of keyboards from invisible assistants tucked into glass cubicles.

My eyes narrowed slightly.

Emily’s desk sat empty.

No coffee steaming neatly beside her notepad. No fresh stack of pre-sorted files ready for my review.

Odd.

She was usually as clockwork as the sun. Her 5 AM schedule had pinged my inbox without fail.

I checked my Rolex.

7:37 AM.

Late.

A rare flicker of irritation stirred in my chest, but I smothered it before it could take root. She’s probably here. Somewhere. She wasn’t the type to skip work.

Still... strange.

I walked into my office. Turning on my laptop to be greeted by my predictable calender routine emailed to me by Emily.

Then my door flew open without a knock dragging my eyes to it. Sabrina Vale had materialized in my doorway.

Her blonde hair curled perfectly over one shoulder. A tight red dress clung to her body like a second skin, six inches too short for professionalism and six inches too obvious.

She carried a file in her hand, but her eyes said she wasn’t here for paperwork.

"Morning, Mr Westwood," she purred, stepping inside without permission.

I should have thrown her out. Should have barked an order, reminded her who held the leash here.

Instead, something s****l stirred within me. The week's stress, the weight of meetings, expectations and faceless board members sharpening their knives behind my back... it coiled in my gut like a spring begging to snap. I hadn't gone for my usual clubbing to ease tension. This could be the closest I could get to pleasure this week

Sabrina closed the distance between us with her feminine grace.

The file fluttered from her fingers to the floor.

She bent to pick it up.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Her dress hiked up, exposing smooth thighs and the hint of black lace.

I didn’t think.

Didn’t speak.

I grabbed her hips and shoved her against the desk.

She gasped.. a sharp, delighted sound and braced her hands flat against the wood. I didn't care about her noises. I didn’t care about her at all.

I just needed to c*m fast, brutally and mindlessly.

My belt hit the floor in an instant and I pulled out my d**k in one stroke. I pulled up her dress and slid her panties to the side.

I pushed inside her without preamble, without gentleness.

Sabrina moaned, rocking back against me. She thought she was winning something.

She didn’t realize… no one won with me.

I slammed into her over and over, each thrust a purge of fury, of tension, of everything.

Until…

The door creaked open.

In the corner of my vision, I caught a blur of navy blue.

A gasp.

A stammered apology I didn't care to hear.

It was Emily.

Frozen in the doorway, wide eyes locked on mine for a single heartbeat that stretched into eternity.

My body didn’t stop.

I couldn't stop, not when I was about to c*m.

Before I could c*m inside Sabrina I pulled out with a grunt, not breaking eye contact with the spot where Emily had stood before she vanished.

Sabrina adjusted her dress with smug little tugs, preening like a cat after the kill.

"You really needed that, didn't you?" she said, smoothing her hair, her lipstick smugly smeared.

"Out," I growled.

She blinked at me, laughing lightly. "Oh, come on Damien. Don’t be like that"

"It's Mr Westwood to you… I said OUT," I barked, my voice pure ice.

Her smile froze, sliding off her face in slow horror.

She grabbed the file from the floor and fled, the door slamming behind her.

Finally alone, I sat back against the leather chair, still breathing hard.

The room still smelled like f**k.

But the thing clawing at me wasn’t regret for Sabrina.

It was the look on Emily’s face.

Not disgust.

Not judgment.

Something worse.

Disappointment.

A deep, gutting disappointment that carved through my armor, why do I care? This is my office and I can do whatever I wish with whom ever I please.

I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly.

"Stupid," I muttered to myself.

Emily Hart was nothing more than my pathetic assistant. A girl who panicked at every little s**t, she was just some reliable ghost.

Yet...

The echo of her eyes.. wide, broken, hurt lodged under my skin like a splinter I couldn’t reach.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Damien Westwood… the Devil of Wall Street felt something dangerously close to shame.