Clara’s POV

I was sure the report was well organized so clear and meticulous that even a child could understand it. Every data point aligned, every graph shaded perfectly, every line justified with obsessive care. I didn’t want to give him another reason to touch me like that… or not touch me at all.

Because with Damien Holt, you never knew what was reward and what was punishment.

Damien Holt.

Thirty-five. Self-made billionaire. A man who built an empire with ice in his veins and an unflinching stare that made grown men stammer. Women either adored him or feared him or both. But me? I was tangled. Trapped somewhere between the thrill of his darkness and the ache of wanting light.

He didn’t believe in love. He believed in leverage. In control. In keeping people at arm’s length because nothing ruins a man faster than softness. That was what I’d learned. That was what he lived by. But when he looked at me…

God help me I wanted to be his ruin.

When I walked into his office that morning, the scent of leather, cedarwood, and him wrapped around me. The memory of the night before clung to my skin like sweat that wouldn’t dry.

I was nervous, but I wore confidence like a shield. My heels tapped across the marble floor with composure, my back straight, the manila folder in my hand trembling just slightly.

He didn’t look up at first. Just sat behind that sleek glass desk like a king surveying his battlefield. His Rolex glinted under the sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The same hand that had been inside me just hours ago now adjusted his cuff like it had never happened.

"Good morning, Mr. Damien," I said, gentle dropped the mania on the desk.

He gave a short nod and finally looked up. His gaze cut through me—cold and unreadable.

“Nice work, girl,” he said, eyes skimming the pages quickly. Then he looked back at me, a slow smirk spreading across his lips.

“You don’t wanna serve another punishment,” he added.

I froze.

That word again.

Punishment.

It was supposed to sting. To scare. But the way he said it, smooth and deep with that voice that always made my knees weak… it sounded like seduction.

I wanted to hate him.

But I couldn’t.

Because in that moment, all I could think about was his hands on me. His breath in my ear. The way he never begged, never explained—just took.

I was lost in the sharp line of his jaw and the Bright gleam in his eyes. He looked so controlled, so dangerous in his charcoal suit and tailored perfection. His hair was brushed back cleanly, not a single strand out of place.

He exuded power.

And I? I was barely holding myself together.

I should’ve said something. Thanked him. Asked for clarification. But instead I just stood there, watching him. Wanting him.

He waved a hand. “You can go.”

My heart sank, but I nodded and turned to leave, heels clicking toward the door. Halfway there

“Clara.”

I stopped instantly. My name on his lips felt like a command.

“You’ll be in charge of next week’s investor meeting,” he said casually, like he wasn’t handing me something three levels above my pay grade.

I blinked, slowly turning around. “But sir—”

“No ‘but’, Clara,” he cut in, voice sharp. “I’ll be on an international trip. You’re handling it. HR will record your performance.”

His tone left no room for argument.

He picked up his phone, already dismissing me.

I turned again and left his office, my mind spinning.

Was this… another punishment? Or a twisted form of reward? I couldn’t tell. With Damien, lines blurred. Nothing was what it seemed.

Back at my desk, I pressed a hand to my chest. My lips still tingled with words I couldn’t say. I was angry at him, at myself, at the way I still wanted to be beneath him even after he dismissed me like I was just another employee.

But I wasn’t.

And we both knew it.

—

That night, long after the office had emptied, I stayed behind. My desk was a chaos of color-coded files, sticky notes, and digital drafts of the presentation I would give in six days. Each hour added new wrinkles to my forehead, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

At exactly 8:34 PM, a message appeared on my screen:

Damien Holt: Still working?

I stared at the message. He rarely texted. Especially not something that… casual.

Me: Yes. Preparing for the meeting.

A pause.

Then:

Damien Holt: Come to my office.

No explanation.

Just a summons.

My pulse raced. I gathered my things, brushed a hand down my skirt, and went.

His office was dim, city lights flickering through the giant windows behind him. He stood there, silhouetted against the skyline, a sculpture of control and cold intent.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked, steadying my voice.

He turned slowly. “You stayed late.”

“I had to.”

His gaze held mine for too long. “You know I could have given that meeting to anyone.”

I nodded.

“But I didn’t,” he said, stepping closer. “Do you know why?”

I swallowed. “Because I’m capable?”

He smirked. “Because I wanted to see what you’d do with it. Pressure either makes diamonds… or breaks things”

Then he reached out, brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch sent fire through my bloodstream.

“Don’t disappoint me, Clara.”

Not a threat. A prophecy.

He stepped back. “Come. I’ll drive you home.”

“What? No—it’s fine, I’ll call—”

“I said I’ll drive you.”

There was no arguing.

Minutes later, we were in his car, the air thick with silence. His hands gripped the steering wheel, but I could feel the weight of his gaze even when he wasn’t looking at me.

He stopped in front of my apartment. I reached for the door handle.

“You’re forgetting something,” he said lowly.

I turned, brows raised.

His hand caught my wrist and pulled me across the console into his lap.

Before I could breathe, his lips were on mine hot, claiming, fierce. His kiss wasn't soft. It was possession. His hand curled into my hair, his other gripping my thigh as if he had every right to touch me.

Clothes rustled. Mouths collided. The cold leather seat beneath me was no match for the heat we created.

I gasped as his hand slid under my blouse, fingers teasing, controlling, daring.

“Damien…” I whispered, trying and failing to steady my voice.

“Shh,” he breathed against my ear. “You don’t need to think tonight.”

The car rocked with our movements. His fingers moved inside me again, slow and merciless, while his mouth tasted every inch of my skin like he’d starved for it.

I clenched the fabric of his shirt, nails digging in.

When release came, it was blinding his name tumbling from my lips in a cry I couldn’t take back.

Still breathless, still trembling, I leaned into his chest.

He kissed my forehead once.

Then whispered, “Be smart next week.”

His words were simple, but I knew what they carried.

Not just pressure.

Expectation.

Faith.

A warning.

I dressed slowly, my body still shaking, and opened the car door.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He never did.

But that night, as I climbed the stairs to my apartment and collapsed onto my bed, I knew one thing

I had to win.

Because I wanted him to look at me not as a punishment.

But as his equal.

And maybe one day as his weakness.