CHAPTER SEVEN
Charles
Ever since Selene Graham started working in my company, directly under me, I've been… distracted. It's not something I care to admit, even to myself, but the truth has a way of creeping in despite my best efforts. I used to be the last to leave the office, always the one shutting down the building. Now, I stay behind for a different reason. I tell myself it's to ensure she leaves safely, to observe her work ethic, but I know better. There's something about the way she moves, the soft confidence, the calm intensity she carries, that holds my attention far longer than it should.
I've made it a habit to remain until she's left, watching her from my office, my gaze fixed on her through the one-way glass. It's an ideal vantage point. From the outside, the glass looks like a void, impenetrable, but from the inside, I see everything. And I see her. Every evening, without fail, she stays late, often until 8:30 or later. The dedication is commendable, but I know there's more to it. Something weighs on her, something that drives her to bury herself in work.
I watch her tonight, as usual. My eyes follow the subtle movements of her body as she leans over her desk, typing away furiously. There's an elegance in her efficiency that holds me captive. The way her blouse tightens slightly across her back, the way her hair falls messily around her face—it all draws me in more than I'd like to admit. I find my gaze lingering on the curve of her neck, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Unbidden, a warmth settles low in my abdomen, and I force myself to refocus.
It shouldn't be like this. I am her superior, her CEO. I keep reminding myself of that fact. And yet…
Her supervisor, that rat—whatever her name is—treats her like she's disposable. It irritates me. Not that I haven't worked her hard myself, but there's a difference. I have the right to test her limits. Only I can do that. There's a strange satisfaction in watching her push herself, knowing that her determination is as unyielding as my own. And yet, no one else has the right to treat her that way. No one but me.
Tonight is no different, except that something about her seems more fragile. It's in the way she hunches over her desk, the stiffness in her shoulders. I should leave it alone, but I can't.
As I turn away to pour myself a glass of whiskey, I hear her phone ring. My head snaps back toward her instinctively. Her face tightens, and I watch as she hesitates, contemplating whether to answer. When she does, her entire demeanor shifts, the strength in her posture slowly crumbling as the conversation drags on. Her face begins to fall, bit by bit, as though the weight of the world has pressed down on her all at once. Her eyes… I've never seen them look like that.
Tears well up, but she doesn't cry. She won't let herself. I've known women to break easily, but not her. The tears only make her green eyes shine brighter, even as they hollow out with something darker. There's a dead look there now, one that unnerves me more than I care to admit. Even in her vulnerability, there's something about her—something that stirs an undeniable heat inside me.
When she finally hangs up, the tension in the air is palpable. I shift in my chair, feeling the sudden tightness in my chest, and elsewhere. She's breaking down, piece by piece, but still holds herself together enough to get up from her desk. She grabs her bag hurriedly, leaving her company ID card behind in the process. Her walk to the elevator is almost mechanical, her usual grace replaced by something hollow.
I wait for five minutes after she leaves, though every instinct urges me to follow immediately. I go down to the garage, watching as she hails a cab. She's too distracted to notice me tailing her from a distance. It's not typical behavior for her—she usually takes the train. The change unsettles me. I feel my pulse quicken, though whether from concern or something else, I can't quite tell.
The cab drops her off at a small mart near her apartment. She walks inside, and I follow, maintaining my distance as she drifts through the aisles, absentmindedly picking up groceries. Junk food, mostly. Chips, chocolate, ice cream—things she probably wouldn't bother with if she weren't so distressed. I watch her slender fingers close around each item, tossing them carelessly into the cart. My mouth goes dry, and I feel a pulse of heat as I picture those same hands reaching for me, unsteady and desperate.
It's ridiculous, I know. Yet the thought lingers, igniting a fire I force myself to suppress.
When she reaches the cashier, I watch the way her shoulders sag, the last vestiges of her composure draining away. I lose focus for a moment, distracted by the sight of her bare neck, the way a strand of hair falls against her collarbone. I barely notice her turn until I feel her gaze on me.
"Mr. Stone!" she exclaims, startled. The way she says my name sends a flicker of heat through me, pooling low in my abdomen. I clench my jaw, keeping my expression neutral.
"Miss Graham," I reply coolly, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. I don't allow myself to respond to the warmth in her voice, the way her lips shape around my name. I keep my eyes on hers, though I can't help but notice the faint flush creeping up her neck.
"Do you frequent here?" she asks, clearly flustered, her attempt at casual conversation almost amusing.
It's the same question I had asked her the day we first met. The memory flashes through my mind, and I catch the brief flicker of realization in her eyes as well. She clamps a hand over her mouth, embarrassed.
"I do not," I reply, my tone as even as ever. "But it seems fate has decided otherwise today."
There's a faint tremor in her breath as she lets out a soft, nervous laugh. Despite the tension in her, despite everything that's clearly wrong, there's something different in the way she's looking at me now. Something more vulnerable. I feel the air between us shift, thickening with an awareness I can't quite ignore.
"You forgot your ID card," I say, pulling it from my pocket and holding it out to her. Her eyes widen briefly, and I watch as she reaches out, her fingers brushing mine. The contact, brief though it is, sends a jolt of heat through me. I'm thankful for the control I've mastered over the years—no hint of what I feel shows in my face.
"Thank you," she whispers. This time, her voice carries something softer, more delicate. Her eyes linger on mine longer than they should, and I find myself staring back, captivated by the faint shimmer of vulnerability still present in her gaze.
I force myself to nod, breaking the moment. "You're welcome, Miss Graham."
"How did you find me?" She narrowed her eyes, looking up at me.
There's a pause, the air between us heavy with unsaid things. She looks like she wants to say something else, but I don't give her the chance. My body is tense, the control I pride myself on fraying at the edges.
"Like I said, fate had other plans. If you'll excuse me," I say, stepping back. My voice is calm, but my pulse quickens as I feel her eyes follow me. I turn, walking toward the door, though I can't resist one last glance over my shoulder.
She stands there, staring after me, her shoulders still slightly hunched but with less tension now. The ID card dangles loosely in her hand, and I watch as she lets out a small, barely audible breath. I hear the shift in her, the relief, the weight lifting ever so slightly from her shoulders.
I can't explain why, but knowing I've changed her mood, even for a moment, sends a flicker of satisfaction through me. And something else.
As I walk out, I remind myself of who I am, what my role is. I have no intention of getting involved in whatever is happening with Selene Graham. I will not indulge these distractions. I will not break my composure.
But tonight, as I leave, the heat lingering in my veins tells me a different story. A dangerous story.
Tomorrow, everything returns to order. Tomorrow, I will be Charles Stone again.
But tonight… I allow myself the smallest of cracks.