**Chapter 8** **Misty** With a fierce determination, I fling open the door to Damon’s office, the force of my entry slamming it against the wall and sending a violent tremor through the glass panes. For a moment, the world around me seems to pause as he looks up, one brow perfectly arched, his gaze sliding over my form, lingering on the enticing slit of my skirt. His eyes darken with a mix of intrigue and something akin to hunger, igniting a shiver that threatens to course through me, igniting a fire within that I desperately try to suppress. “Why does he have to be so undeniably attractive?” I wonder, my body betraying my mind’s resolve. “You have no right to do this,” I assert, forcing my shoulders back, standing tall before him, determined not to give an inch. Leaning forward, he locks me under his intense gaze, taking a long, luxurious drag from his cigar. The tendrils of smoke weave between us, wrapping around my senses and yanking me back to that night in the shadowy alley—my breath hitches, and suddenly the room feels impossibly small. My heartbeat ramps up, a steady thrum against my ribcage, as his thumb brushes over his bottom lip, a gesture that sends shockwaves through my core. The memory of his touch in the conference room lingers unsettlingly, a ghost that haunts me, and I shudder involuntarily. Damon's lips curl into a smirk, a dangerous testament to his awareness. He knows exactly the effect he has on me. I clench my fists, frustration boiling over as I suppress the urge to stomp my foot, like a child refusing to concede. This is madness. I shouldn’t be here—he’s my superior, the mastermind behind the company I rely on for my very existence. My contract is perilously close to expiry, and yet the impulse to confront him swells within me. Damon, with his tousled brown hair framing his face, leans back nonchalantly in his chair, his crisp black shirt tightening over muscles that defy the stereotype of a corporate environment. His stormy gray eyes pierce through me, a knowing smirk playing at the corner of his lips, as if he relishes the turmoil he causes. “I expect your undivided attention as my personal PR representative,” he states, his tone commanding, offering no room for dispute. “Nicholas will be your personal driver. You will use this service to go wherever you’re needed.” “Why would I do that?” I challenge, my voice steady despite the tumult beneath the surface. “Because you want this job,” he replies with an unyielding certainty. “And I’m your boss.” “I already have a job,” I retort, my resolve starting to falter. “I have important responsibilities.” His indifference only fuels my frustration. “The sooner you assist me, the sooner you can return to what you’ve been working on,” he counters, shrugging as if everything hangs on a thread of casualness, when it means the world to me. “Assist you with what?” I demand, fighting to mask the growing curiosity creeping into my tone. I remind myself that I should be indifferent to his whims, detached. And then it spills out, raw and abrupt: “I need a wife. And you’re the only one who can make that happen.” Hours pass, and simmering irritation churns within me as I attempt to quell the storm of my thoughts. In a moment of desperate defiance, I yank the pins from my hair, letting it cascade down my shoulders, the ends swaying gently against my collarbones. I rub the back of my neck, trying to relieve the tension that’s been building like a vice around my skull all day. With a sigh, I click through yet another torrent of emails, my exhaustion palpable. It's well past the time the clock should've signaled the end of my shift, but today has been relentless, a relentless barrage of tasks. I had spent every waking moment transferring responsibilities to Melissa, who assured me she could manage everything without fail. Everything except for Mia’s auction; that I’d hold onto, no matter what. Damon could deal with it. I dive into my unread emails, filing them accordingly—“action,” “information required,” or simply deleting them, banishing them from my inbox. But then my heart plummets with dread. A familiar name catches my eye: **Sender:** U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service **Subject:** H-1B Visa Renewal Panic surges through me as I read the initial lines: *Miss Hart,* *There was an issue found with your H-1B renewal request. You have 31 days from receiving this message to provide the appropriate documentation to validate your employment. Failure to supply the requested prerequisite will result in your H-1B visa being revoked. Please see attachment for further details.* Revoke. Revoke. Revoke. I battle for control as breath escapes me in rapid, shallow bursts, and the world blurs at the edges. Overwhelmed, I slide my chair back and rest my forehead against my desk, desperate to quell the rising nausea. I can manage this. This is merely paperwork. It’s nothing I can’t handle. I tell myself, running my thumb over a scar etched into my skin—a relic of a past I can’t shake. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let Thomas find me. My parents would hand me over to him without a second thought. Bleakness crawls inside me as I fight to stand, fighting against surrendering to that fear. Not this time. Not ever again. Krista, my supervisor and my second-least favorite person on the planet, sits in her office. She had been the one to originally submit my visa paperwork, and it shouldn’t be a problem getting it resubmitted. “Yes?” she replies, her eyes glued to her laptop, unbothered. “Krista, there’s been an issue with the paperwork you submitted for my visa renewal. They’re asking for it again.” I cut to the chase, suppressing the rising anxiety in my chest. She leans back, fingers drumming idly on her chair’s arms, and after what feels like an eternity, she responds, “I’m sorry, Misty.” Her tone drips with a condescending sympathy that grates on my nerves; she’s viewed me as an adversary since day one. “You’re still in possession of the file. It’s just resubmitting it. I can review it quickly,” I plead, desperation creeping into my voice. “No can do,” she replies with a dismissive wave. “You’ll need to address this with Mr. Everette now. I have no say.” The spiteful smile that crosses her face feels victorious, like she savors my predicament. Dread coils in my stomach. I don’t want to hand any leverage to Damon—yet the reality is I have no choice. “Thank you for your time,” I mutter, turning on my heel before my tears betray me. I have to escape. I gather my belongings from my desk, urgency pushing me forward. Just as I reach the door, my phone vibrates insistently in my pocket. Carter: Teams heading to Elysium. You coming? Ordinarily, I would hesitate, keeping my boundaries firmly in place between work and personal life. But today, I crave recklessness—anything to divert my thoughts from the dark clouds hovering overhead. Moreover, the idea of alarming Damon—of stepping outside the confines he’s tried to establish—sends an exhilarating thrill through me. A grin breaks across my face as I type back: Me: I’m in. See you there.