Chapter 5 Mrs. Scott
DAMIEN
“I’m really sure about this one, Damien,” Raymond’s voice droned through the speakerphone, far too confident for someone already on thin ice.
“She’s a striking beauty. Unlike any other you’ve ever seen. She’s really sexy too. There’s just something about her—something you won’t be able to resist, I’m sure.”
I didn’t answer him immediately.
My gaze was fixed on the file laid open on my desk, fingers resting against the edge of the folder as if touching it for too long might burn me. The office was quiet—too quiet—save for the low hum of the city far below the eighty-first floor.
The glass walls reflected my silhouette back at me: calm, composed, controlled.
That control was already beginning to crack.
I stared at the photograph clipped neatly inside the file.
She was… beautiful.
Not in the exaggerated, artificial way I had grown accustomed to—no overdone makeup, no desperate stare into the camera, no rehearsed seduction. Her beauty was quieter, softer. Natural. The kind that didn’t beg for attention but stole it anyway.
Gorgeous, even.
I exhaled slowly through my nose and read her name aloud, my voice flat, unaffected—at least on the surface.
“Jasmine Scott.”
I scanned the neatly typed details beneath it.
Age: 21
Height: 5’4
Young.
Too young to be mixed up in Raymond’s usual nonsense.
“You can’t expect me,” I said finally, irritation bleeding into my tone, “to give a girl I know absolutely nothing about a job just because you find her sexy and attractive, Raymond.”
A pause followed on the other end of the line.
This was not the first time he had pulled something like this.
The last few girls he had personally recommended had been disasters—loud, entitled, shallow women who confused proximity to power with actual worth. They were unbearable. I could hardly stand them for two seconds, let alone the thought of one shadowing my every move as a personal assistant.
They always wanted something. Attention.Validation. More. And I had no patience for it.
“She’s not like them,” Raymond said quickly, his voice unusually earnest now. “I swear to you, sir. I know my judgment hasn’t exactly been… stellar in the past. But she’s different. Trust me.”
I scoffed, leaning back in my chair.
“That’s what you said the last three times.”
“I know,” he admitted. “And I was wrong. But not this time. I want this one.”
The words made my jaw tighten.
“I want this one.”
That was new.
“She’s the one for me, sir.”
I laughed then—low, humorless.
“Are you serious right now?” I asked coldly. “You’re overstepping.”
Inside, irritation simmered dangerously close to rage.
I wasn’t about to waste my time entertaining another pretty distraction when I had an empire to run. I didn’t care where he’d found her or what fantasy he’d built around her existence.
Where did he even find her?
Raymond was overselling this—desperately so. Yes, I slept with some of the women who crossed my path, but it was transactional. Brief. Controlled.
One night.
Nothing more.
And I had no intention of entertaining this ridiculous idea any further.
“No,” I said firmly. “Call her off.”
I was already considering how I’d deal with Raymond later—professionally, of course.
Then—
“Hello… a-am I in the right place?”
The voice cut through the room like a blade wrapped in silk.
Soft.
Clear.
Unmistakably real.
My head lifted slowly.
And the world shifted.
A girl stood just inside my office, one hand still resting hesitantly on the glass door. The transparency of it did nothing to shield her presence—she filled the space effortlessly, as if the room itself had been waiting for her.
For a moment, I forgot Raymond was still on the line.
Her footsteps were light, careful, almost reverent, and each one echoed louder in my chest than it should have. I stared at her as though moving my eyes might shatter the illusion.
“Sir?” she said again, uncertainty threading through her tone.
I set the phone down without another word, ending the call mid-breath.
I couldn’t look away.
Her hair—milky brown, warm and soft-looking—was pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, delicate strands escaping to frame her face. An olive complexion glowed faintly beneath the office lights, cheeks flushed a subtle pink.
And her eyes.
Dark. Wide. Searching.
They met mine, and something tightened painfully in my chest.
It was as if she could see straight through me—past the tailored suit, past the authority, past the carefully constructed distance I kept between myself and the rest of the world.
She shifted nervously, gaze dropping to her feet, fingers fidgeting together as if she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. She nibbled on her lower lip, a small, unconscious motion.
I noticed.
Of course I did.
My eyes followed the movement shamelessly as her lips pressed together, then parted slightly. The room felt warmer. Or maybe that was just me.
She looked intimidated.
Good.
And yet—something about her wasn’t afraid in the way others were. There was no calculation in her expression. No pretense. Just raw nerves and quiet courage.
I rose from my chair.
The movement was deliberate.
Her head lifted instinctively as I stood, and when I came to a stop in front of her, the height difference became apparent. I towered over her petite frame, though I was careful not to crowd her—didn’t want to spook her too quickly.
Her breath hitched.
Interesting.
“Ms. Scott,” I said calmly, my voice lower than intended. Controlled. Smooth. “It’s not very polite to walk into someone’s office without knocking.”
She swallowed.
“M-my apologies, s-sir.”
The word slipped from her lips like a confession.
Sir.
I had been called many things in my life—names spoken with fear, greed, reverence—but never like that. Never so softly. Never as if it meant something more.
Her voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it echoed in my head.
I watched her closely now—how she stood straight despite her nerves, how she met my gaze only briefly before looking away again. How she tried to be composed and failed beautifully.
She was nothing like the women Raymond usually brought to me.
Nothing like anyone I had known.
Raymond’s voice echoed faintly in my memory.
She’s different.
For once, the fool might have been right.
I circled her slowly, not touching, just observing. She remained still, tension visible in the way her shoulders stiffened.
“You’re here for an interview,” I stated.
“Yes, sir,” she answered quickly. “I was told—”
“Eighty-first floor,” I finished for her. “Yes. I know.”
Her eyes flickered up, surprised.
Good.
I returned to my desk, gesturing subtly for her to sit. She obeyed immediately, perching on the edge of the chair as if afraid to take up too much space.
I picked up her file again.
Jasmine Scott.
I looked at her now—not the photograph.
The picture had done her no justice. Not even close.
She was… arresting.
Alive.
And something deep in my chest stirred—something unfamiliar, unwelcome, and entirely too interested.
She was perfect.
Not flawless.
Perfect.
And as I studied her, one thought settled firmly into place, heavy and undeniable.
Sorry, Raymond.
But Ms. Scott is mine.