Chapter 6 Fifteen minutes
JASMINE
The interior of his office was intimidatingly beautiful.
Everything about it screamed power and control—white tiled walls so pristine they reflected light, black marble floors polished to a mirror-like sheen, and towering windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of the city far below.
Cars moved like tiny specks, people like ants. The world looked small from up here.
I would’ve admired it longer if I weren’t so painfully aware of the man standing in front of me.
He towered over me, at least a head taller, his presence alone enough to make the air feel heavier. I could feel his eyes on me—slow, deliberate, unapologetic—as they traced every inch of my body from head to toe.
I stood frozen, my fingers curling nervously at my sides, my gaze glued to his dark leather shoes because I was too afraid of what would happen if I looked up again.
I stole a quick glance anyway.
And immediately regretted it.
Drop-dead gorgeous didn’t even begin to cover it.
His emerald-green eyes were sharp and vibrant, like they saw far more than they should. Jet-black hair was slicked back neatly, though a few rebellious strands framed his perfectly sculpted face.
His white shirt clung to him in a way that felt unfair—thin fabric outlining a powerful chest, broad shoulders, strong arms, and a narrow waist that made my throat go dry.
He looked unreal.
Like something carved from marble and brought to life.
It should be illegal to look this nerve-wracking.
The first three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a patch of slightly tanned skin that I found myself staring at longer than appropriate.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms and prominent veins running along the back of his hands.
I swallowed hard.
When our eyes met, my breath hitched painfully in my throat.
His gaze was mesmerizing—intense, calculating, consuming. Heat rushed to my cheeks, my knees threatening to buckle beneath me. I felt paralyzed, trapped in the weight of his attention as his eyes continued their slow assessment.
“I don’t think I’ve introduced myself,” he said.
His voice was husky. Smooth. Controlled.
My heart rate spiked instantly.
“Damien Blackwood.”
A smirk tugged at his lips as he extended a hand toward me.
For a second, I just stared at it—long fingers, strong grip waiting patiently. His name echoed in my mind, finally clicking into place.
Damien Blackwood.
As in Black Empire Blackwood.
The self-made billionaire. The man whose name dominated business headlines. The richest man in New York City.
That was impossible—
I snapped out of it and quickly slid my hand into his, realizing far too late that I’d left him hanging.
Bad first impression, Jasmine.
You idiot.
I mentally scolded myself, panic bubbling in my chest.
You need this job.
Don’t mess this up.
Don’t mess this up.
I repeated the words in my head like a mantra, trying to steady myself as his fingers closed around mine.
\- DAMIEN
Her skin felt like velvet against mine.
Soft. Warm. Real.
I had to resist the sudden, dangerous urge to lift her hand to my lips—to feel her skin there, to memorize the texture, to appreciate her effortless beauty in a way that would surely cross a line.
She wore a red blouse.
Too red.
Too tempting.
It dipped low enough to reveal the gentle curve of her cleavage, fabric hugging her in a way that left very little to the imagination. My jaw tightened as heat flared through me—hot, sharp, possessive.
I didn’t like it.
The feeling.
The way my chest tightened with irritation at the mere thought of other men looking at her like this. No one else had the right. No one else was allowed to lay their eyes on her—certainly not like that.
Not unless it was me.
And the skirt— God.
It ended high enough to show off long, beautifully shaped legs, smooth olive skin catching the light with every slight movement.
Every inch of her looked deliberate, dangerous, like she was unknowingly testing my restraint.
She was a masterpiece.
A living, breathing distraction.
“Shall we continue, Ms. Scott?” I asked, forcing a small smile onto my face to ease the tension thickening the room.
She nodded quickly, though her smile was strained—nervous, unsure.
“Please, come in,” I added, stepping aside. “I don’t have much time.”
That was a lie.
I had all the time in the world.
But if she stayed standing there any longer, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could maintain control.
Something about her presence unraveled me, chipped away at discipline I’d spent years perfecting. What the hell was happening to me?
I was Damien Blackwood—sole owner of Black Empire, the most powerful man in the city. I’d been surrounded by models, actresses, women who begged for my attention.
And yet none of them—none—had ever affected me like this girl.
I turned away, heading toward my desk, needing the distance.
Her footsteps followed—quiet, careful, echoing softly through the pin-drop silence of the office. I didn’t need to turn around to know where she’d gone. Anyone would gravitate toward the windows.
The view was irresistible.
When I did turn back, I found her standing there, gazing out over the city.
Her silhouette was breathtaking.
Light framed her figure, softening her edges, making her look almost unreal—angelic. For a brief moment, the sight rooted me to the spot.
I needed to end this quickly.
Before my body betrayed me completely.
“Raymond tells me you’re looking for a job,” I said.
She turned to face me, nodding gently. Her fingers twisted together, and once again she nibbled on her lower lip—a small, nervous habit that sent a sharp bolt of irritation straight through me.
There was no way she was unaware of what she was doing to me.
This was torture.
I wanted her—wanted her now—but I forced myself to breathe, to slow down. She wasn’t mine yet. I couldn’t afford to scare her off.
Control, Damien.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I… I lost my job the night we met.”
Her gaze finally locked with mine, and I inhaled sharply, the intensity of her dark eyes stealing the breath from my lungs. It was too much. I tore my gaze away, focusing on the file in my hands instead.
I glanced at my watch.
Fifteen minutes.
Already gone.
This was taking far longer than it should have.
I stood, closing the file as I did.
“So you’re twenty-one?” I asked, watching her carefully.
She nodded, still avoiding my eyes.
“Yes.”
Short. Direct.
She looked uncomfortable—and the realization sparked a smug sense of satisfaction deep in my chest.
So my presence affected her. Good.
I stepped closer.
Too close.
I invaded her personal space deliberately, watching her stiffen as she became acutely aware of how little distance separated us. Her scent reached me then—soft florals, warm vanilla. Sweet. Addictive.
She inhaled too.
I saw it—the slight rise of her chest, the subtle widening of her eyes as she realized what she’d done. Her cheeks flushed instantly.
I smiled.
Perfect.
She was perfect.
I looked down at her, towering but not touching, enjoying the way she struggled to keep her composure.
She was nervous, overwhelmed—but still standing her ground.
That alone told me more about her than any file ever could.
And in that moment, one thing became terrifyingly clear.
I wasn’t just interested.
I was already in too deep.