Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
She works with her head down, deliberate and methodical, with the kind of focus I respect. But she undercuts it with small, thoughtless gestures that tear through my control. Like the way she chews her bottom lip when she concentrates. The way she brushes her hair back, only for it to fall forward again minutes later. How her brows draw together whenever she finds something that won’t reconcile.
I’ve had more women than I care to count but the memory of her body tangled with mine that night keeps coming back to me, unbidden and relentless. Out of nowhere, I remember the way she gasped against my mouth, the way she opened for me without hesitation, the way her skin burned under my hands. It should have been forgettable. Yet the memory clings to me like cellophane.
My employees are starting to notice my distraction. In meetings, I catch myself drifting. My eyes skip past spreadsheets and graphs, pulled instead to the faint outline of her in her office across the floor. I force myself back to focus, only to realize the silence has stretched too long and that I’ve missed half a sentence. Their eyes flicker, uncertain.
I correct it the way I always do, with a sharp edge. I tear apart proposals that would have passed on any other day. I cut men down with words cold enough to sting for weeks. They think I’m ruthless. They think I’m distracted by work. I’m happy to let them believe that.
Better that than the truth.
When she brings me her first report, all neat columns and careful notes, I could tell her it’s solid. I could give her the rare approval I offer when someone actually meets my standards. Instead, I flip through it with a frown, tell her it’s not good enough, and order her to redo it by morning. Her eyes spark with anger, quick and hot, but she swallows it and nods.
An hour later, I call her back into my office on a pretext so thin it barely holds. She stands in front of me again, shoulders stiff, voice clipped, and all I can think about is how those same shoulders had pressed into the mattress when I pinned her down. I ask questions I don’t need answered just to keep her in the room.
It becomes a cycle. I push her harder than anyone else, then I find excuses to summon her back when she’s been gone too long. I tell myself I’m testing her, that I need to know if she can withstand pressure. That’s a lie. The truth is simpler. I want her near me. I want to watch the small cracks in her composure, to see if I can break past that professionalism into something raw.
I built my life on discipline. I control everything. Nothing touches me unless I allow it. However, she has slipped through my grip, and the more I try to lock it down, the more my control slips.
One night, I stay late, the building quiet, my lamp the only light left on the executive floor. She’s still in her office, bent over a stack of statements, her blazer hanging off the chair. Her blouse clings to the curve of her back, her hair falling forward as she scribbles notes. I tell myself to leave, to walk out and let her stay alone in that square of lamplight. Instead, I send a message through my assistant, summoning her one more time.
She comes with tired eyes but steady hands, sets another report on my desk, and explains her process with calm precision. I don’t look at the numbers. I look at her. The faint smudge beneath her eye. The indentation on her finger from the pen she gripped too tightly. The soft rise and fall of her chest as she draws a breath. None of it is my business. All of it feels like mine.
“Eat before you go home,” I say.
The words come out before I can stop them. I’ve never given a damn if my employees ate, slept, or collapsed at their desks. They’re tools. Replaceable.
She freezes at the unexpected softness, then nods once. “I will.”
Then she leaves, the door shutting softly behind her, and I sit there, furious with myself.
The next day, I overcorrect. I bark orders sharp enough to slice. I cut her off when she answers. I make her justify decisions that don’t need justification. I tell myself I’m breaking her down to test her resolve. The truth is uglier. I’m trying to drown out the heat pressing against my ribs every time she looks at me.
It doesn’t work.
In the middle of a briefing, I catch sight of her through the glass, sleeves rolled up, hair falling loose, lip caught between her teeth. A memory slams into me. Suddenly, we’re back in the hotel elevator, her pressed against the wall, my hand wrapped around her thigh. My chest tightens so hard I have to grip the edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white.