The Heiress in the Dog Cage

I had been in love with Damian Moretti for two full years.

I knew how pathetic that sounded. Falling for your boss was already a bad idea. Falling for a man like Damian was practically a warning label in human form.

He was the heir to the Moretti family, the CEO of Moretti Holdings, and the kind of man Upper East Side socialites watched the way people watched a loaded gun: with fear, curiosity, and terrible judgment.

The Moretti name came with rumors. Private docks. Black Bentleys. Men in dark suits who appeared before trouble and disappeared before police did. None of that had anything to do with me.

To me, Damian was the man in the top-floor office who wore black suits like armor, spoke in clipped sentences, and made grown executives sweat with one quiet look.

With everyone else, he was brutal.

With me, the blade always seemed to stop short.

I started at Moretti Holdings as an assistant trainee. In my first month, I sent legal the wrong merger attachment, and the entire support team watched me walk into Damian's office like I was marching to my funeral.

I thought I was finished.

Instead, Damian closed the folder and asked whether I was adjusting to the pace upstairs, whether I had eaten lunch, and whether someone had dumped the worst client schedules on me because I was new.

He never mentioned the mistake.

When I came out, everyone stared. I lowered my head and pretended I had just been torn apart.

I was not naive. Special treatment in an office was the fastest way to make enemies.

After that, I worked twice as hard. If people called me lucky, I answered with results. Every late night, every impossible calendar, every client file I cleaned up before anyone noticed carried the same secret reason.

I wanted Damian to see me.

Not just Nora Vale, the polite little assistant who remembered his coffee order and never pushed back.

Me.

Moretti Holdings had just closed a major port logistics deal, and everyone who worked on it received a bonus check. Damian handed them out himself during a small celebration on the top floor.

When my turn came, the silver tray was empty.

Beside me, Vanessa Crane let out a soft laugh. She was the senior executive administrator, polished, sharp, and never shy about wanting Damian's attention.

Damian looked at me. His expression gave nothing away.

"Nora, you joined the project late. The bonus pool was already closed."

My heart sank, but I still managed a smile. "That's all right, sir."

Then he opened a drawer and took out a long black velvet box.

"I prepared something else for you."

When he opened it, a lipstick lay inside.

The tube was satin black and weighty, with a tiny M engraved on the end. The shade sticker read Crimson Vow, and someone had tied a narrow rose-gold ribbon around it with suspicious care.

I stared at it.

Then translucent comments slid across my vision, like live reactions on a serialized romance app.

[@BookTokAfterDark: Oh, she has no idea what that lipstick does.]

[@SteamQueen: I can smell the spice from here. I am seated.]

[@KindleKiller: He really put his weak spot in a velvet box. Sir.]

[@RomanceGremlin: Buckle up. This is about to get messy in the best way.]

I almost dropped the box.

What did they mean, weak spot? What spice? And why were strangers commenting on my life like I was the heroine of some late-night romance binge?

Damian's voice pulled me back.

"You don't like it?"

His tone was steady, but the hand around his champagne flute had gone pale at the knuckles.

[@SoftDomScholar: He is trying so hard to look calm.]

[@MafiaMutt: One yes from her and this man is finished.]

[@PageTurner88: Face blank. Soul on the floor.]

My ears burned.

Of course I liked it.

I had liked him for so long that even a folder from his hand could keep me glowing for half a day. I had survived on tiny scraps: the way he asked, "Still here?" after late meetings, the way his gaze paused on my desk before he left, the way he remembered I hated hazelnut syrup after hearing me say it once.

Loving him from a distance was one thing.

Seeing reader comments about a mysterious lipstick was another.

I reached out and touched the cool black tube.

Damian's throat moved.

[@SteamQueen: She touched it. He is cooked.]

My pulse jumped.

Some reckless little spark in me sent my fingertip gliding along the smooth case.

"Wait," Damian said, and for the first time since I had known him, his voice slipped.

Too late.

Across from me, Damian Moretti made a low, rough sound.

The entire top floor went silent.