Chapter 22 Mr. Stone
Her voice was rushed, breathless, words tumbling over each other in a way that made my heart sink instantly.
“What happened?” I asked, sitting up straight as my shoulders tensed.
“You know our top client?”
That was a strange question.
“Yes,” I replied slowly. “Mr. Stone. Sixty-five years old. Irish. Why are you asking?”
Panic crept in before I could stop it.
Anything involving Mr. Stone was reason enough to worry.
He was Black Empire’s top client—the one whose accounts brought in numbers so high they nearly broke our internal scales. He was also our oldest client, having been one of the closest friends of Mr. Dick Black… Damien’s late father.
God rest his soul.
They had been inseparable, from what I’d heard. After his passing, contact with Mr. Stone had dwindled, limited strictly to business matters. Which made this sudden appearance even more alarming.
“Well,” Richelle whispered harshly, “he’s here. And he wants to see Damien. He seems upset. I need you to get Damien ready and to the lounge quarters in fifteen minutes. I’ll stall him as long as I can, but hurry!”
My heart dropped straight to my ankles.
Before I could respond, the call ended with a sharp beep.
I stared down at my phone, panic surging through me like a tidal wave. My fingers felt numb.
I shot up from my chair and rushed out of my office, heels clicking sharply against the floor as I made a beeline for Damien’s office.
I didn’t bother knocking.
I pushed the door open, my breath catching when my eyes collided with a pair of piercing emerald green irises staring back at me from across the room.
He raised a brow, clearly taken aback by my sudden entrance.
“Tesor—”
“I don’t have time,” I cut him off, striding toward him with hurried steps.
He stood almost immediately, a crease forming between his brows as concern flickered across his face.
I placed my notepad and tablet down on his desk with a soft thud. My eyes flicked to his blazer hanging neatly on the back of his leather chair.
Without hesitation, I grabbed it.
“Put this on,” I said, already lifting it.
He didn’t argue.
I helped him into it, my movements brisk and efficient, though my pulse was racing. He stayed quiet, but I could feel his gaze tracking my every move, heavy with unspoken questions.
I reached for his tie, which hung loose around his neck.
“Your number one client—Mr. Stone—is on his way in the next eight to ten minutes,” I said quickly. “He’s upset. And I don’t need to tell you how sensitive he gets.”
I began knotting his tie, my fingers moving on instinct.
“Please,” I added quietly, “don’t upset him. Don’t make him feel awkward. For the good of everything—try to smile. Just a little.”
My eyes stayed fixed on the tie as I worked, hyper-focused.
Once I finished, I let the fabric fall neatly against his chest. My fingers brushed his broad torso for the briefest moment, and a strange tingle shot through my fingertips.
I froze.
Then forced myself to step back.
Ignoring the sensation, I smoothed out his suit jacket, brushing invisible lint from his shoulders, tugging the lapels into place until he looked every bit the composed CEO he was meant to be.
Only then did I look up.
His eyes were on me—intense, unreadable.
And for a split second, the panic faded… replaced by something far more dangerous.
. ~ DAMIEN ~
This was the first time I was seeing Jasmine like this.
Focused. Determined. Completely in her element.
She stood close to me, fingers deft as they worked at my tie, her brows furrowed in concentration.
The world around us faded into insignificance as she focused entirely on the task at hand, lips pursed slightly as though the knot had personally offended her.
I tried—truly tried—to suppress the smile threatening to curve at my lips.
Seeing my tesoro like this did something to me. Something unsettling. Something dangerous.
She cared.
And not in a casual, obligatory way. This wasn’t part of her job description. This was personal.
“Your number one client, Mr. Stone, will be here in the next eight to ten minutes,” she said briskly, eyes never leaving my tie.
“He’s upset, and I don’t need to tell you how sensitive he gets. Don’t upset him. Don’t make him feel awkward.”
Her fingers tightened briefly as she adjusted the fabric.
“For the good of everything,” she added, finally lifting her gaze to mine, “try to smile a little.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
She knew me far better than she realized.
I watched as she dropped my tie and stepped back half a pace, eyes narrowing as she assessed it. Only then did I realize something unsettling.
I’d been tying it wrong all along.
She moved closer again without hesitation, dusting invisible lint from my shoulders, smoothing out every crease in my suit with practiced ease.
Her fingers brushed the side of my neck for the briefest second, and I swear my skin burned beneath her touch.
I inhaled sharply.
Jesus Christ.
She circled behind me, her presence unmistakable even without seeing her. I felt her straighten my collar, her knuckles grazing my skin, and then her hands returned to my shoulders, firm yet careful as she adjusted the jacket.
The restraint I had built over years cracked dangerously.
Her touch was innocent.
My reaction was not.
I clenched my jaw, every muscle in my body tightening as I fought to regain control. She had no idea what she was doing to me.
No idea how close I was to snapping.
This girl was going to kill me.
She stepped back around to face me, taking a few deliberate steps away as if sensing—instinctively—that she needed distance. I finally exhaled, lungs burning from how long I’d been holding my breath.
She squinted at me, lips pursed thoughtfully as she inspected her work. Then her expression softened.
A smile spread across her face.
Satisfied. Approving.
That smile—warm, genuine, unguarded—did something to my insides I couldn’t explain. It settled somewhere deep, steadying me and unravelling me all at once.
“Alright,” she said, nodding to herself. “Let’s go over everything one more time.”
She lifted her tablet, scrolling as she spoke. “Smile. Make small talk. Ask about his health, his travels, his wine preferences—he loves when people remember that. Just show him you’re interested. Show him you care.”
Her voice faded into background noise.
Not because it wasn’t important—but because I couldn’t focus on anything except her.
I watched her lips move, the soft cadence of her voice, the way her curls fell forward as she tilted her head down to read. Milky chocolate strands brushed her cheeks, some slipping forward to obscure her vision until she impatiently blew them away.
Something about her bossiness—her confidence—lit a fire in me I hadn’t anticipated.
Before I could stop myself, my feet were already moving.
Slow. Measured. Intentional.
A predator stalking its prey.