Serena’s POV

The morning sunlight spilled through the tall glass windows of my penthouse like it had something to prove. I hated mornings—especially ones that began with my phone vibrating non-stop on the nightstand.

I reached for it, half-asleep, only to see ten missed calls from my assistant, Nora. My eyes darted to the clock: 7:48 a.m. I was supposed to be at the office by eight. “Damn it,” I muttered, throwing the covers aside and heading straight to the bathroom.

By the time I got downstairs, Damien was already outside, leaning casually against the sleek black car, scrolling through his phone like he had nowhere else to be.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said with that infuriatingly calm tone as he opened the back door for me.

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. You’re late.” I brushed past him and slid into the car.

He gave a small chuckle. “Actually, I’ve been here since seven-thirty. You’re the one who—”

I shot him a glare through the rearview mirror. “Finish that sentence, and I’ll make sure you’re driving a cab in traffic tomorrow.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t say another word. Good. I needed silence.

The car moved smoothly through the city streets. My mind was a mess of deadlines, investor meetings, and an annoying board member who thought “female CEO” meant “easy target.” I stared out the window, trying to focus on my to-do list, but Damien’s quiet humming broke through the silence.

Was he… humming?

I looked up, eyes narrowing. “Is that you making that noise?”

He smiled faintly. “Just keeping myself awake, ma’am. The roads are quiet, and your playlist is… well, nonexistent.”

“Next time, bring your own car and drive yourself if you want a concert,” I said sharply.

He chuckled again, low and amused, like my irritation was some kind of entertainment. I hated that sound. It was too confident, too knowing.

A few minutes later, my phone rang again — my mother. I groaned inwardly. “Yes, Mom?”

“Serena! You didn’t call last night. I told you—”

“Mom, I’m driving,” I interrupted quickly.

“You’re always driving! You work too much. When was the last time you smiled? Or met a man who—”

“Goodbye, Mom,” I said and ended the call before she could finish that sentence.

From the mirror, I caught Damien trying to suppress a grin.

“What?” I snapped.

“Nothing, ma’am,” he said smoothly, though the corners of his lips betrayed him.

I turned my gaze back to the window. Who does he think he is? I thought. He’s just a driver. A smart-mouthed, annoying driver who apparently thinks he’s funny.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice how easily he carried himself. His voice was steady, his posture relaxed. It was irritatingly… confident. Not the kind of demeanor you expect from someone hired to drive you around.

We reached the office, and the usual chaos awaited — photographers outside the gate, flashing lights, security trying to clear a path. Damien parked neatly and got out to open my door.

“Stay close,” I ordered as I stepped out. “If one of those reporters gets in my way again, you’ll be dealing with it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, following right behind.

The crowd erupted the moment I appeared. Questions flew like bullets:

“Miss Serena! Is it true you’re merging with T-Dynatech?”

“Miss Serena, sources say you fired your entire PR team last week—”

“Miss Serena! Are the rumors about your ex—”

I stopped short. “Excuse me?” I turned toward the last reporter, who immediately stepped back. “You want to finish that question?”

The man stammered something incoherent. I almost smirked. Nothing pleased me more than watching people squirm when they tried to cross a line.

Then, without a word, Damien stepped forward. His expression turned serious, and in a surprisingly firm voice, he said, “Alright, folks. That’s enough. You’ve got your pictures; now move along.”

The tone caught everyone off guard. Even me.

The reporters hesitated, then backed off. Damien shot me a quick glance — not submissive, not apologetic — just… steady.

I blinked. “You seem to enjoy giving orders that aren’t yours,” I said once we were inside the building.

He gave a faint shrug. “You looked like you could use the help.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Didn’t need to.”

I wanted to fire him right then. The nerve. But for some reason, the thought of replacing him annoyed me more than his arrogance.

Inside the elevator, silence settled between us again. My reflection in the steel doors looked perfectly put together — every strand of hair in place, face unreadable. Yet, beneath that calm exterior, I could feel something shifting.

Why does he talk to me like that? Why doesn’t he flinch?

The elevator stopped on my floor, and I stepped out briskly. Damien followed until we reached my office door. I paused and turned to him.

“That’ll be all. You can go,” I said, dismissing him with a flick of my wrist.

“Sure,” he replied. “Should I pick you up at six, or will you be staying late again?”

I glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just… guessing you’re the type who forgets to eat unless someone reminds you.”

My lips parted, but no words came out. He smiled faintly, gave a respectful nod, and walked away.

I stood there for a moment, completely thrown off balance. Then I shook my head. “Unbelievable,” I muttered, stepping into my office.

The morning dragged on with meetings, reports, and one endless phone call after another. By noon, I finally took a breath. The city stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, alive and relentless — just like me.

I reached for my coffee, but something on my desk caught my eye. A folded piece of paper.

My brows furrowed. “What’s this?”

Unfolding it, I read the single line written in neat, unfamiliar handwriting:

You look better when you’re not frowning.

No name. No signature. Just that one infuriating sentence.

I stared at it, heartbeat quickening.

“Damien,” I whispered under my breath.

I looked out the glass wall — he was downstairs, standing by the car, talking to the security guard, his expression calm as ever.

A mix of irritation and curiosity burned through me.

Who does he think he is?

But before I could react, my phone buzzed. A message popped up from an unknown number:

Don’t be too mad, boss lady. Consider it… an observation.

My grip on the phone tightened. A smirk tugged at my lips despite myself.

“Game on,” I muttered.