Chapter 3
It unsettled her, but she didn't let it show.
She carried on like he wasn't there. She first laid a coaster and then a table mat.
Set his coffee down perfectly centred on the coaster.
Then she placed the bagel next to it, just so.
The angle had to be right. His desk, as always, was a study in precision.
Four pens, perfectly aligned and black. Four paperweights, evenly spaced.
Even the decorative carved dice on the sideboard were arranged in a group of four, with the facet for four facing up and lined up like soldiers ready for battle.
The large meeting table across the room had sixteen chairs, eight on each side.
Dorian liked his numbers to behave.
He stared at her as she adjusted the final placement of the coffee cup.
"You're late," he said. His tone was detached, like he was working on a project to freeze hell. Flat, cold, and utterly bored.
Rune straightened a fold on her pants while artfully avoiding his eyes. "I decided to stick to my contractual hours. Eight a.m. sharp. Would that be a problem, Mr Albury?"
He didn't answer right away. He seemed to consider her, as if he was rolling her words around in his mind like marbles. His eyes lingered on the warpaint she had applied so carefully. If he was taken aback by the flatness in her voice which had been professional but still warm and attentive a day ago, he didn’t let it show.
His eyes travelled over the chunky sweater, comfortable chinos and bright red lipstick with barely disguised distaste.
This new Rune didn't fit the curated image of his Rune in his head.
It felt a little like the dog he had trained from puppyhood had dared to bark at him.
For a moment, just a fraction of a second, he looked like a man who wasn’t sure about how to proceed.
"No," he said finally as if losing interest, before looking back at the screen of his laptop. "No problem at all, Ms O'Connor. Let me know when the candidates are here."
Rune turned and left without another word while mouthing “yes, your majesty” “no, your majesty” the moment she turned her back to him. She knew what this was.
This was not his regular routine, and she did not miss the slight narrowing of his jet-black eyes or the crease between his bushy brows. She had thrown him a googly, as her gramps used to say when he played cricket. And Dorian did not know what to make of it.
The afternoon arrived with five new, eager faces in the lobby.
Rune arrived at 1:00 p.m., her movements precise and her face a mask while her frayed heartstrings were tucked carefully away from sight.
She greeted each candidate with her usual quiet professionalism, offering them water and a smile.
Nostalgia hit her unexpectedly. Five years ago, it was her in this very lobby, hoping for a chance.
A nod from Adrian, one of the pool secretaries, wrenched her from the reverie and back to the job.
She took her place at the far end of the interview room with her notepad and pen as an observer, not a participant.
Rune greeted each candidate as they walked into the room, then sat through the interviews because Dorian insisted that she take notes.
She wasn't sure if it was protocol or cruel and unusual punishment.
Dorian sat in silence, leaning back in his chair like a king on a throne he’d built himself.
They filed in, one after the other. Candidate one was a brunette with perfectly curled hair, red lipstick, and a neckline that belonged in a nightclub.
Her resume was forgettable but her body, less so, at least that's what she was betting on.
She leaned forward within seconds, her ample bosom nearly toppling a glass of water.
"So," she purred midway through the interview, "what's a man like you doing in an office like this?"
Dorian deadpanned, not looking up from the blank page which seemed to hold his interest. "Screening candidates for a job. Just not the one you seem to be auditioning for. The escort service is in the next building."
Rune nearly choked on her own spit. The woman flushed, sat back stiffly, and the rest of the interview was a graceless tumble into irrelevance. Dorian cut it short after five minutes.
"She won't do," he muttered before the door even clicked shut behind her.
“Oh, I don’t know. She states her typing speed is 100 WPM. Just not with her fingers,” Rune muttered under her breath, but loud enough for Dorian to hear.
At the continued silence, she found him looking at her with his mouth slightly open as if the teapot started speaking.
Candidate two was younger. Maybe twenty-one.
Barely out of university, her ponytail too high, her blazer a little too big, her smile hopeful in a way that hurt to watch.
She tried, she really did. Fumbled her way through answers, corrected herself, and apologized three times too many.
By the end of it, she was blinking back tears.
In some ways, this was Rune for her interview.
She wondered why Dorian didn't send her packing back then.
Rune stood up to guide her out, but the girl bolted, apologizing for "not being ready" as she disappeared down the corridor.
"She'll be a great receptionist," Dorian muttered dryly. "For someone else."
Candidate Three was Margo. She made a perfect entrance, heels clacking, hips swaying ever so slightly, her voice well-modulated and cut glass which spoke of private education.
She was tall, and her platinum blonde hair was up in a knot, not a strand out of place.
Her makeup was impeccable and understated like the old Rune.
She oozed competence, slipping in buzzwords into the interview that had started to sound like a conversation between old friends.
She had given Rune a brief, superior look that implied that she had been judged and found wanting before shifting her laser focus to Dorian.
Her resume was solid, but nothing Rune hadn't seen before. However, she had Dorian’s undivided attention, Rune noted with invisible despair that she couldn’t quite suppress.
When she crossed her legs, his gaze dropped.
And for the first time all morning, he smiled.
Rune pretended to look down at her notes but her nails dug crescents into her palm. As she incredulously looked on the interview slid smoothly from conversation to flirtation.
"Oh, a start-up," Margo said when asked about her last job. "Lots of late nights. It was a small team, but we were very... close," She said it like a sultry promise.
Rune recorded the line with cool detachment.
"And you are twenty-four?" Dorian asked.
"Correct," Margo replied sweetly, eyes sliding to Rune. "Hard to believe how quickly some people age in corporate settings, isn't it?"
Rune blinked at her like watching a goldfish in a bowl. Or a piranha.
When Margo stood up, and Rune led her to the door, she leaned in close and whispered, "Good luck, honey. Men like that don't usually keep exes hanging around."
Rune replied, calm and quiet, "No. They usually bury them."
Candidate four was a man in his fifties. Polished and articulate, but flat. His answers were textbook and his approach lacked imagination. He wasn't applying to work for Dorian, he was counting down the days to retirement so that he could holiday in Spain.
Dorian, bored within five minutes, speed-wrapped the interview with a perfunctory nod and a "We'll be in touch" that meant absolutely nothing. When he left, Dorian muttered to Rune, "I'd rather outsource the job to a fax machine."
Candidate Five was Tom Burton. Fresh-faced and bespectacled, yes, but sharp.
He wore a modest suit, not expensive but well-tailored, and sat with the kind of calm that inspired confidence.
Rune had a good feeling about this one. His answers were thoughtful, his questions intelligent.
He didn't fawn. He had prepared for the interview with well-reasoned suggestions for streamlining client communications and restructuring file systems. He performed the best without a doubt. But he didn't have breasts.
Rune, for the first time that morning, let her pen rest. Dorian nodded, giving nothing away. And for Dorian, that was practically affection. When Tom left, Dorian leaned back.
"I think Margo Fairman will be a good fit," he said, almost absently. Rune didn't respond. She just got up, but her neutral silence only seemed to egg him on.
He watched her closely. "You think that's the wrong choice."
She glanced at the clock, then at her notes. "I'm leaving in thirteen days. It doesn't matter what I think."
Dorian picked up his pen. It was a sleek, obsidian Waterman with gold trim. He twirled it once between his fingers, an unconscious habit only when he was thinking too hard or playing a cat-and-mouse game. It had been a gift, she knew, from someone important. Ophelia, his beloved godmother.
The only person she'd ever heard him speak about in gentler tones. She was his mentor and possibly more of a mother than his own. Dorian never discussed her but his voice had softened once when he mentioned her name, and Rune had never forgotten it. He personally chose all her birthday gifts.
"You're being replaced," he said after a beat while watching her like a hawk. "And you don't like it."
Rune's voice was as warm as a Siberian breeze. "I am not paid to feel, as you have kindly reminded me so very often. And it wasn’t like I didn’t know what ‘interviewing my replacement’ meant."
He paused. A strange emotion crossed his face, a flash of irritation, maybe. Or a crack in the mask.
"Tell me what you think," he persisted in an almost cajoling tone. Those dark, fathomless eyes rested on her with an intensity that made goosebumps break out.
"I think Tom Burton is the best choice.” she finally relented.
The silence stretched between them and suddenly, the air felt heavy and full of a familiar awareness.
"You think I should pick the boy?" he asked.
Rune met his gaze, deadpan. "I think you have already made your choice."
Then, Dorian dismissed her brusquely, "Engage them both provisionally. One month and then I'll decide."
Rune nodded, though she didn't quite understand what had just happened. This wasn't like him. He didn't backtrack, and he never sought validation for his decisions. But today, he'd pushed. He'd needled. He'd lingered in a way that left her unsettled.
Still, she gathered her file. "I’ll let them know and get the contracts ready."
"I will take care of the contracts," replied Dorian while watching her with those demon eyes.
"Arsehole. Bet you have a special one for Margo," she thought to herself.
She turned, her flats silent against the carpeted floor.
Dorian didn't look up from his file but his parting shot-I expect you to dress professionally and not like a hobo-followed her out of the door.
She left the building on time. No more staying late.
No being "available" when Dorian felt like a cup of tea from across town. No answering calls after five.
The autumn chill had begun to settle into the streets, a quiet warning of winter.
Rune pulled her coat tighter and walked with slow, deliberate steps, knowing the next few days would be difficult.
Training Margo would be exhausting, personally, professionally, and emotionally.
And Dorian? Dorian was beginning to behave is ways she could not predict.
That scared her more than she cared to admit.
Because unpredictability meant he was plotting.
This was never a good thing. And Rune knew exactly how dangerous Dorian Albury could be when he started to think too much.
And so, the circus ended for the day with her barely hanging on to her composure. She loved him and this was killing her. But she didn’t have a choice but to watch as he left her bleeding. She didn't say it aloud, but she knew. He'd already made his real choice.
Margo would win Dorian's favour for a while. Tom would do the work.
And Rune? Rune would disappear, to be forgotten like she had never been there.