Chapter 8 The Clause
JASMINE
Was I really that desperate for a job?
I paced the length of my small apartment, bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor as the question repeated itself in my head like a taunt. I dragged a hand through my hair, letting out a frustrated breath that did absolutely nothing to calm me.
Was that seriously the reason I’d been practically drooling over Damien Black?
The thought alone made my face burn with embarrassment.
I stopped in front of the mirror hanging near the hallway and stared at my reflection like I might find answers written on my own face. I looked… normal.
Tired, maybe. A little flushed. But nothing about me screamed woman who almost forgot how to function during a job interview.
And yet, there I was.
I groaned softly, dropping my head back against the wall. I didn’t know how I felt about getting cozy with my boss—potential boss—but something about Damien threw me so far off balance that I barely recognized myself.
It wasn’t just that he was attractive. Plenty of men were attractive. I’d served them, smiled at them, ignored them.
Damien was different.
There was something unsettling about him. The way he spoke like he expected to be obeyed. The way his eyes lingered—not leering, not crude, but sharp, assessing, as if he were peeling layers off me one by one.
Being around him felt like standing too close to the edge of something deep and dangerous.
And yet…
Ignoring how horribly the interview had gone—because, truly, I refused to relive every cringe-worthy second of it—I found myself looking forward to our dinner.
That realization made me freeze mid-step.
I frowned, pressing my lips together as I stared out the window at the city lights just beginning to flicker on. Why was I looking forward to it?
A sane person would be nervous. Cautious. Possibly running in the opposite direction.
Instead, my stomach fluttered..
I didn’t know why, but I felt like I needed to see him again. Like there was something unfinished between us, something I couldn’t quite name but felt all the same. Maybe I really was going crazy. Or maybe Damien had some strange gravitational pull that dragged you in whether you wanted it or not.
His emerald-green eyes flashed through my mind without warning.
I shivered.
The memory of that intense gaze alone was enough to make goosebumps rise on my olive skin. The idea of sitting across from him at dinner—alone, no office walls, no formal distance—sent an unfamiliar mix of nerves and anticipation through me.
Enough, Jasmine.
I shook my head sharply, forcing my thoughts in another direction before they spiraled even further. Deciding it would be better to wait for the call from his secretary rather than overthink myself into insanity, I turned toward the kitchen island where the documents Damien had given me sat neatly stacked.
Work. Focus on the job.
I picked up the papers and sat down, pulling a pen closer as if that alone would make me more confirms.
I read slowly, carefully, making sure to go through every page—not once, but twice. Contracts were not something to skim through, especially not when they came from a man like Damien Black.
Everything started out… normal.
Salary. Benefits. Work hours. Expectations.
Impressive, yes—but nothing alarming.
Until my eyes landed on a particular section halfway through the document.
I frowned, rereading the paragraph slowly.
In case of any inconvenience on the assistant’s part, concerning transportation issues, living arrangements, or any other factor that may affect work efficiency—or if the employer deems it more convenient—the assistant is obliged to adjust living arrangements and may be hosted by THE BOSS.
My breath caught.
Hosted by… the boss?
I gulped harshly and read it again.
And again.
My heart began to pound, the sound loud in my ears as confusion quickly turned into disbelief. Surely I had misunderstood. Surely this was some strange corporate wording that didn’t mean what it sounded like.
Living with him?
My eyes darted down the page, scanning desperately, and then—
Another clause.
In the event that the employer relocates temporarily or permanently, the assistant is required to relocate alongside the employer for the duration of employment.
My mouth fell open.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered aloud.
Was this a sick joke?
There was absolutely no way Damien expected me to agree to something like this. Living arrangements dictated by him? Moving whenever he moved? Being hosted by him like some inconvenient piece of luggage?
Living with Damien?!
The image invaded my mind without permission—him in casual clothes, the tension of shared space, mornings and nights under the same roof. My chest tightened, and heat crept up my neck.
No.
No, no, no.
I shook my head hard, dismissing the thought immediately, as if physically rejecting it would erase it from existence.
This had to be addressed. There was no universe where I signed this without clarification.
I grabbed a stack of sticky bookmarks and carefully marked every page where those clauses appeared, pressing them down firmly like proof that I hadn’t imagined any of it.
I made a mental note to bring it up during dinner—calmly, professionally, without sounding like I was accusing him of running some billionaire hostage situation.
Dinner.
The word alone made my nerves flare again.
I glanced around my apartment, suddenly hyper aware of how small and unimpressive it was. I hadn’t even thought about what I would wear. I doubted I owned anything nice enough to sit across from Damien Black without feeling painfully out of place.
I was still lost in thought when a familiar ringtone shattered the silence.
My phone vibrated against the marble of the kitchen island, the screen lighting up insistently. I blinked, startled, then leaned forward, resting my hands on the counter as I picked it up.
“Hello?” I said, pressing the phone to my ear.
For a second, there was only silence.
Then—
“Jessy.”
The sound of that deep voice sent a sharp jolt through my body. My breath hitched painfully in my throat as recognition settled in.
It had been so long.
Too long.
My grip tightened on the phone.
“Uncle Thomas?” I whispered, suddenly unsure of myself, afraid to say the name too loudly—as if doing so would make everything real.
“We need to talk.”
The seriousness in his tone made my heart stutter violently in my chest. Goosebumps rose instantly along my arms, a chill crawling down my spine. Uncle Thomas was many things—protective, gruff, sometimes overbearing—but serious like this?
Never.
He never called out of the blue. He never sounded like this.
My mind raced, fear creeping in fast and unwelcome.
Had something happened?
Was he hurt?
Or worse…
Was it about him?
The thought sent a wave of dread crashing over me, heavy and suffocating. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe.
“O-okay,” I said quietly. “What’s wrong?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, thick and weighted with things unsaid.
And in that moment, I knew—whatever this conversation was about, my life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.