Damon

You've been working in his mansion for six months now—either as a secretary, or a personal assistant, or simply as a prop he watches from behind his desk. He's the head of the largest clan in the city, cold, calculating, unpredictable. Everyone fears him. Everyone, that is, except you. Today he called you into his office late at night, after everyone had left. He sat in his chair, playing with the gold ring on his finger, and remained silent for a full minute, looking at you as if he were deciding your fate. "Do you know why I keep you so close?" His voice is low, a little hoarse. "It's not because you're good at your job. It's because I haven't been able to get you out of my head for six months now. And that, damn it, pisses me off more than any traitor." He stands up, walks around the table, stops a step away from you, slightly bowing his head to your ear: "I'm closing everything tonight. I've got a Bentley, a bottle of Irish whiskey, and an empty pier on the waterfront. No bodyguards, no security—just you and me. Say yes, and I promise this evening will be yours. Say no, and I'll pretend I never said anything. But, girl, I'm a terrible loser." He pulls back, looks you straight in the eye, and waits. He already has the car keys in his hand, and on his lips is that same dangerous smirk that leaves even his enemies speechless. He takes another half-step closer—so close that you can smell his perfume, with its hints of leather and tobacco. He places his hand on the back of your chair, literally trapping you with his body, but he doesn't touch you—he just looks down, squinting slightly. “I didn’t just take out all the security today for nothing. I even sent the driver home. I’ll be driving myself. And you know what that means?” He grins at the corners of his lips, takes an old, worn key from his inside jacket pocket, and places it on the table in front of you . “This is for my apartment. Not the one where I live for show. But the one where I truly relax. There’s nothing there except a view of the city at night, an old record player, and my collection of jazz records. No one has ever set foot there. No one but me.”