Chapter 2: The Man Behind the Billboard
1819 Words
Gwen’s POV
Olivia’s voice snaps me out of whatever trance Damon Belmont just threw me into.
“Miss Peters, my office. Now.”
I practically jump.
“Yes ma’am!”
God.
Could this day get any more humiliating than it already is?
First, my boss insults my very pretty skirt by the way. Then the billionaire CEO I’ve fantasized about for years casually announces he’d sleep with me…Crazy stuff.
Then he calls me little one in that sinful rich baritone voice that should honestly be illegal.
And now I have to function like a normal human being and I act like I didn't wet my pants listening to him talk.
Fantastic.
I smooth down my obviously short skirt, clear my throat, and walk toward the witch's office while trying not to think about Damon’s addictive eyes practically devouring me moments ago.
The woman doesn’t even look up at me when I enter.
“Sit.”
I sit immediately.
Olivia types into the MacBook neon.
“Dont be nervous”
Goes straight to the point.
“I am.”
“You should be,miss Peters.”
Well damn.
She closes the laptop softly.
“Belmont Fashion House isn’t some little boutique across your street where mediocrity survives because people are “nice”. This is one of the biggest fashion companies in the world currently. People get their ass fired every day here. Designers cry in bathrooms. Assistants get replaced in hours. If you want to survive, grow thicker skin quickly.”
I swallow hard.
“Yes ma’am.”
“And another thing.” She leans back into her throne. “Stir clear of Mr Belmont”
My heart skips.
Okay…not the direction I expected.
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
She stands and walks to the glass wall overlooking the beautiful busy building.
“Women come here every year thinking they’ll be the one man enough to tame Damon. They flirt with him, chase him, throw themselves at him.” She turns to me sharply. “And every damn time it ends very, very badly.”
I clear my throat.
“I’m not…”
“Save it” Her tone slices through mine. “You’re pretty. Young. Exactly his type.”
Wait.
I’m his type?
My traitorous brain immediately replays his voice.
“I would, actually”.
Fuck.
Olivia sighs like she would rather be anywhere else than here.
“You’re here to work. Not spread your legs for a billionaire with commitment issues.”
My cheeks burn instantly.
“I didn’t—”
“Good. Then prove it.”
As we sit in awful silence.
Finally, she walks back to her throne and hands me a stack of files.
“These are employee profiles and schedules. Learn everybody’s names. Belmont likes efficiency and hates repeating himself.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll also organize executive appointments and assist during the Montreal Winter Showcase preparations.”
My eyes widen.
“The showcase?”
“Yes. Try not to pass out.”
Holy s**t.
The Belmont Winter Showcase is legendary. Top designers from all over the world attend. Fashion influencers, celebrities, investors—
And now I get to work behind the scenes?
I grip the files tighter.
“Thank you ma’am, for having me here.”
For the first time, Olivia’s expression lightens just a little.
“You graduated top of your class, Miss Peters. Your professors spoke highly of your creativity.” She pauses. “Don’t disappoint me.”
“I will not ma'am.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
The moment I leave her office, I exhale loudly.
Damn.
That woman could take the devil to therapy.
I walk toward my office clutching the pile of papers against my chest when someone suddenly falls into step beside me.
“You survived.”
I nearly scream.
A ginger haired woman grins at me while trying to hold up coffee cups in both hands.
“You looked scared as hell going in there.”
“I was.”
She laughs warmly.
“I’m Zara.”
“Gwen.”
“I know. Everybody already knows.”
Of course they do.
“Olivia doesn’t usually hire people personally.”
“Oh.”
“And Damon definitely doesn’t flirt with new employees in public.”
I nearly choke on air.
“Mr Belmont wasn't flirting.”
Zara gives me a look.
“Honey bun, if D. Belmont says he’d f**k you, that’s certainly flirting.”
My cheeks redden.
“Can we not shout it to the roof top?”
She laughs again.
“I like you already.”
We reach my office and she hands me one of the coffees.
“Peace offering. First-day survival gift.”
“You’re such an angel.”
“I know.”
I glance around my office again now that my brain is functioning properly.
It’s small but beautiful.
Cream walls.
Gold accents.
A sleek desk.
Beautiful sketches hang on the wall.
Quite the rich smell.
Like vanilla, paper, and ambition.
“This place is insane,” I whisper.
“Wait till you see the executive floor.”
I sip the coffee carefully.
“So…” Zara leans against the desk. “You and Damon?”
I nearly spit it out.
“There is no me and Damon!”
“Yet.”
“Zara!”
“What? The man looked ready to ruin your life respectfully.”
I laugh despite myself.
“You’re terrible.”
“And correct.”
Before I can reply, the office suddenly shifts.
People straighten.
Voices lower.
Energy changes.
And somehow I already know why before I even turn around.
Damon Belmont walks through the floor like he owns oxygen itself.
Black suit.
Silver watch.
Sharp jaw.
Controlled confidence.
The man is irresistibly good looking
The employees welcome him but he hardly takes notice.
Then his eyes land on me
Directly.
My tummy flips.
God.
He starts walking toward us.
No.
No no no.
Zara immediately whispers, “Oh my God he’s coming here.”
I KNOW HE’S COMING HERE.
Damon stops directly in front of me.
Up close he smells incredible.
Something dark and expensive.
His eyes trail slowly over me before settling on my face again.
“Settling in alright, little one?”
Little one.
That nickname should not do things to me this quickly.
“Yes, sir.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“Sir?”
My brain malfunctions.
“I—Mr Belmont—I mean—”
“You can call me Damon.”
Zara looks seconds away from passing out beside me.
“I don’t think Olivia would like that,” I say carefully.
“Surprised you think she likes things.”
I giggle.
Damon’s eyes grow dark, he heard me.
Dangerous.
That’s what this man is.
Pure danger wrapped in a tailored suit.
His attention shifts to the files in my arms.
“Already working?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He steps closer. “I hate laziness.”
I nod slowly, hyperaware of how close he is now.
“Meet me in conference room three in twenty minutes.”
My eyes widen.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” His eyes drift briefly to my lips before straightening upward. “Try to look less frightened, little one.”
Then he walks away.
Just like that.
Taking my sanity with him.
The second he disappears around the corner, Zara grabs my arm violently.
“Bitch.”
“I KNOW.”
“What the hell was that?”
“NO IDEA.”
She fans herself dramatically.
“That man looked at you like dessert.”
I slump into my chair.
“This cannot be happening.”
“Oh it’s happening.”
I bury my palms in my face.
“I’m getting fired on my first day.”
“Or married.”
“ZARA.”
She cackles loudly before leaving my office.
“Conference room three!” she calls out. “Don’t embarrass us!”
I throw a pen at the door after her.
Unfortunately, she dodges it.
Traitor.
Twenty minutes later, I stand outside conference room three trying not to throw up.
You can do this.
You are a professional woman.
A mature adult.
Not some horny 16yr old with a billionaire fantasy.
I inhale and push the door open.
The room is massive.
The floor to ceiling windows reflected quite the view of the beautiful city.
Executives sit around the long ass glass table.
And at the head of it sits Damon Belmont.
Every inch of him screams power.
His eyes lift immediately when I walk in.
“There she is.”
Why does that sound so intimate?
One older man glances between us curiously.
Damon gestures toward the empty seat beside him.
“Sit.”
I obey quickly.
A man with glasses—probably the same assistant from earlier—hands Damon several documents.
“We’re reviewing concepts for the Winter Showcase,” Damon says calmly. “Miss Peters will assist moving forward.”
Several executives look surprised.
One woman raises a brow.
“She’s new.”
“And?” Damon replies smoothly.
The woman goes quiet immediately.
Oh.
That's how it works.
Damon taps on the table.
“Show me the Milan concepts.”
Design boards are spread across the table.
Sketches.
Fabric palettes.
Jewelry concepts.
Runway layouts.
My eyes practically sparkle.
This is heaven.
Pure heaven.
Without thinking, I lean closer to one of the sketches.
“The structure is wrong.”
Silence.
Oh s**t.
I slowly look up.
Everybody’s staring at me.
Including Damon.
The assistant looks quite terrified.
I clear my throat in an awkward tone.
“Sorry. I just meant…” I point carefully at the design. “The stitching placement ruins the silhouette. It’ll pull awkwardly under runway lighting.”
One executive scoffs softly.
“She’s an assistant.”
Heat embraces my neck.
Damon leans back in his mighty chair.
“Continue.”
I blink.
“What?”
“You said the silhouette was wrong.” His eyes hold mine steadily. “Explain.”
My nervousness slowly fades as I look back at the sketch.
Because this?
This is fashion.
This is the one thing I know.
“The waistline should curve softer here,” I explain carefully. “And the fabric layering is too heavy for movement. If the model walks fast, it’ll look stiff instead of elegant.”
The room goes quiet again.
Then Damon asks calmly, “What fabric would you use instead?”
“Silk organza.”
His assistant suddenly looks impressed.
One executive mutters, “Interesting.”
Damon never breaks eye contact with me.
A slow smile appears on his face.
And somehow that feels far more dangerous than flirting.
“Well,” he says softly. “Looks like Olivia hired herself a little genius.”
My heart nearly stops.
Because the way he says it?
Wasn't quite professional,at all.
- Writer
