Chapter 6
Grey
The moment I walk into the office, the air feels thicker.
Charged, like when the sky goes grey and everyone pretends not to notice. Cain is already here. That’s the first sign. He’s never here before me. I have his schedule memorized. He shouldn’t arrive for another twelve minutes. But his door is closed, and I can hear him moving around inside.
My mind races, missed meeting? Wrong file? No. I’ve been perfect. No mistakes. People leave when you make mistakes. I’m not letting him have a reason. So why is he here?
His door opens.
I feel him looking at me. The kind of look that lands on your skin like a hand.
"Morning, Grey."
His voice is the same, low, measured. But there’s something underneath it.
"Good morning, sir."
I look up and smile. He’s standing in his doorway. White shirt today, sleeves already rolled to his elbows, no jacket, no tie. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. Like he’s been here for a while.
His eyes move over my face, slow, deliberate. He’s looking at me differently.
"Come into my office," he says. "We need to discuss the William revisions."
"Of course, sir."
I stand up and follow him inside. He sits behind his desk, I sit across from him.
The same chair I sat in yesterday. The same leather.
The same view of the city behind his head.
But something is wrong. I can't put my finger on it.
The office looks the same. Neat desk, books are in order, jacket on the rack.
But the air is different. It smells like me.
That’s impossible. I was careful. I cleaned up. I never leave traces. But I sat on his desk last night. I touched myself. I said his name.
The memory hits me like a physical blow. My face stays neutral. My hands stay steady. But inside, I’m screaming.
He doesn’t know. I was careful.
"Grey?"
I blink. Focus on his face.
"Sorry, sir I didn’t sleep well."
He tilts his head, studying me.
"Neither did I."
The words hang in the air between us.
Why didn’t you sleep? Because I spent half the night replaying what I did in his office and the other half imagining him shutting me out. Walking away. Leaving like people do when they see too much.
"Lets go over the revisions," he says. "Page three. The equity clause."
I open the file, and the words come automatically. Legal terms and financial projections. All the things I’ve memorized so I can sound like I belong here.
But I’m not paying attention to the words. I’m paying attention to him. The way his eyes follow my mouth when I speak. The way his fingers tap against his desk, a rhythm I’ve never heard before. The way he leans back in his chair and looks at me like he’s seeing something he didn’t see before.
Stop.
He’s looking at me, eyes focused. "You’ve been here five months?" he says.
"Yes, sir."
"And in that time, you’ve never once made a mistake." It’s not a question, but I don’t know if it’s a compliment either.
"I try to be thorough, sir."
"Almost too thorough." He pauses. His fingers stop tapping. The words land like a stone.
What does that mean? That I’ve been digging too deep? Watching too closely? That I’ve crossed lines and he’s noticed? Good. A voice in the back of my mind whispers. Mistakes are how people decide you’re expendable. If he thinks I’m perfect, maybe he won’t leave.
"I like to know everything about the people I work with," he continues. "Their habits, their schedules and the way they think."
He’s describing me perfectly.
"I’ve noticed the same thing about you, Grey." His voice drops just enough to make my pulse spike.
"You pay attention. You notice things. You remember."
Does he know?
"I pay attention to the people I work for," I say carefully. "It’s my job."
"Is it?"
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat has closed up. He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he looks down at the file.
"Page four," he says. "The non-compete clause."
The moment passes but I still feel it. The weight of it. The knowing.
He doesn't know. He can’t know. If he does, he can end this. Fire me. Replace me. Walk past my desk one day and never look back. I know exactly how that feels. I didn’t survive it well last time.
But what if he does?
The meeting ends twenty minutes later. I stand up, walk to the door.
"Grey."
He’s still sitting at his desk. Still watching me.
"You look tired," he says. "Get some coffee. You have a long day ahead."
How do you know I have a long day ahead? You don’t control my schedule. Except he does. He’s my boss. He controls everything. Where I sit. What I do. How long I stay in his orbit.
"Thank you, sir. I will."