Boss Daddy's Brown Sugar

1. Cassie

CASSIE

“Okay,” I say calmly. “Move the investor call to conference room B, tell finance I need finalized projections in fifteen minutes, and if legal complains, transfer them to me.”

Olivia looks seconds away from fainting. “You make this look disturbingly easy.”

I arrive at Carrington International forty minutes early and immediately regret it.

The executive floor looks like a war zone. Phones ring nonstop, assistants rush between offices, and someone is already crying near the reception desk. Typical Monday.

I drop my bag on my desk just as Olivia from acquisitions barrels toward me clutching a tablet to her chest.

“Cassie, thank God. The Azure Cay meeting was moved to ten, but legal still booked Gideon with investors at the same time, and finance says the revised projections never got approved.”

Of course they didn’t.

I skim the schedule on her screen and suppress a sigh. Three departments made changes without speaking to each other. Again.

“It’s either this or setting the building on fire.”

She snorts a laugh and hurries off.

By eight-thirty, I’ve reorganized two executive calendars, fixed a catering disaster, and prevented Gideon Carrington from walking into a meeting with the wrong acquisition numbers. Honestly, I deserve a bonus and a vacation in Greece.

Instead, I get Raymond Holloway having a breakdown outside the conference room.

“This deal is collapsing,” he hisses, pacing aggressively. “If Gideon sees these numbers before I explain?—”

“He’s going to see the numbers regardless,” I cut in. “So unless you want to hyperventilate on Italian marble, pull yourself together.”

Raymond stares at me.

I soften slightly. “What’s the actual problem?”

“The hospitality projections were sent without the revised operating costs.”

“Fixed already.” I hand him the corrected file. “Present page twelve first. It answers most of the board’s concerns.”

His shoulders sag with relief. “Cassie, I swear you’re the only competent person in this company.”

The conference room doors swing open before the words come.

Silence crashes through the hallway instantly.

Gideon Carrington steps inside wearing a black tailored suit and an expression cold enough to stop hearts. Executives straighten like soldiers preparing for inspection.

His gray eyes land on me first.

Not Raymond. Not the board members.

Me.

And for one dangerously distracting second, he doesn’t look away.

Something unreadable flashes across his face before his attention shifts toward the conference room, every inch of him controlled, ruthless, and untouchable as always.

The second Gideon walks into the conference room, the temperature drops ten degrees.

Executives scramble for seats. Laptops snap open. Nobody breathes too loudly.

I slide into my usual chair beside him while Gideon takes the head of the table like he owns oxygen itself.

“Let’s begin,” he says coldly.

Raymond starts the acquisition presentation with the confidence of a man walking toward his own execution. Three slides in, Gideon leans back slowly.

“These projections are embarrassing.”

The room goes silent.

Raymond clears his throat. “The numbers were based on?—”

“Bad judgment?” Gideon suggests. “Because that’s the only explanation I can find for wasting my time with this.”

Several people immediately look down at their notes.

I hide a sigh and quietly slide the corrected financial file beside Gideon’s hand before Raymond completely combusts.

Gideon glances at the document, then continues without missing a beat.

“Your operating costs are wrong. Your market analysis is outdated. And if this presentation had reached the investors, Carrington International would look incompetent.”

Raymond looks moments away from cardiac arrest.

“Page twelve,” I say softly.

Raymond flips to it instantly. Relief flashes across his face when he finds the revised numbers.

Gideon’s eyes flick toward me briefly.

“Continue,” he orders.

The meeting drags forward like corporate warfare. Every weak answer gets ripped apart within seconds. One executive actually starts sweating through his shirt halfway through a branding discussion.

Then Dylan , one of the new junior analysts, stands too quickly while passing reports around the table. His elbow catches the coffee pot beside him.

Coffee spills everywhere.

Dylan freezes in horror. “Sir, I am so sorry?—”

Gideon rises slowly from his chair, terrifyingly calm. “Do you usually destroy things this carelessly, or is today special?”

Poor Dylan looks like he might pass out.

Before Gideon can reduce him to ashes publicly, I stand and grab the napkins from the center of the table.

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, pressing them into Dylan ’s shaking hands. “Go get club soda from the break room before the stain sets.”

Dylan practically sprints away.

The room stays painfully quiet.

I glance at Gideon while blotting coffee from the table. “Congratulations. You’ve officially traumatized another employee before nine-thirty.”

Gideon stares down at me with narrowed eyes. “You find this amusing?”

“A little,” I admit.

His jaw softens, slightly, but I catch it anyway—that tiny shift near his mouth that almost becomes a smile.

Almost.

As the meeting resumes, I notice something strange.

People keep watching me.

Not subtly either.

One investor looks at me every time I speak. Another executive keeps smiling whenever I correct numbers for Gideon. Even Raymond seems weirdly grateful now.

And Gideon notices the attention.

His entire posture changes. Colder. Sharper.

When one executive laughs a little too warmly at my joke about budget disasters, Gideon cuts him off instantly.

“If everyone’s finished being distracted,” he says icily, “perhaps we can return to discussing the acquisition before my patience completely evaporates.”

Nobody speaks after that. For long.

The second the meeting ends, executives flee the conference room like survivors escaping a natural disaster.

I gather scattered files into neat stacks while Gideon signs documents on the table, perfectly composed, like he didn’t just emotionally destroy three grown men before lunch.

“You know,” I say casually, “human resources would probably have several concerns about your leadership style.”

Gideon doesn’t look up. “And yet profits continue increasing.”

“Fear is not a personality trait.”

That finally earns me his attention.

Those cold slate eyes settle on me, sharp enough to pin people in place. Unfortunately for him, I’ve worked beside Gideon Carrington for two years. I’m immune. Mostly.

Across the room, one of the visiting investors pauses near the doorway, clearly listening now.

Gideon leans back in his chair. “If employees cannot handle pressure, they shouldn’t work here.”

“There’s pressure, and then there’s publicly humiliating a twenty-three-year-old over spilled coffee.”

“He was careless.”

“He was nervous,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”

The investor looks openly stunned that I’m arguing with the billionaire CEO like this.

Gideon notices too. “You enjoy challenging me in front of audiences?”

“Oh, absolutely. It’s the highlight of my week.”

A faint exhale leaves him, dangerously close to a laugh.

Dangerous because Gideon almost never laughs.

I point a warning finger at him. “And don’t traumatize Dylan again. The poor guy looked seconds away from updating his résumé.”

“He survived.”

“Barely.”

I turn toward the door before this conversation somehow gets me fired. Again. Or flirted with. Honestly, with Gideon, sometimes it feels weirdly close to both.

Outside the conference room, Dylan catches my arm. “Thank you for earlier.”

“You’re fine,” I promise with a smile. “Welcome to Carrington International. Emotional damage is complimentary.”

He laughs nervously.

Behind me, I feel Gideon watching.

Not casually.

Intensely enough that heat crawls up at my spine.