Chapter Six - Emery #2
The battle between us is mostly wordless, waged in the spaces between conversations.
He’ll stand too close in the kitchen, brushing past me to reach for a glass, his arm grazing my hip. He’ll linger in the doorway to the living room, eyes skating over the line of my waist, the softness of my thighs, the curve of my stomach beneath the loose fit of my clothes.
I’m plus size, and I see the way he looks at me: hungry, focused, unashamed. It makes my heart race, makes me ache with confusion and something hotter, more shameful, that I can’t admit even to myself.
Every night, I lie in the guest bedroom, replaying our exchanges: how I held my ground, how he turned the tables, how my own words betrayed more than I wanted to reveal.
My fear hasn’t faded; it’s evolved, thickened into a mess of defiance, resentment, and reluctant fascination. I remind myself of everything he’s done, every cold calculation, every threat implied and unspoken.
My body won’t listen to reason. I’m attuned to him now, every cell aware of the space he occupies, the power he wields with so little effort.
Sometimes, I think he knows. Sometimes, I think that’s the point—that the real game isn’t about finance or leverage, but about control. Not just over the world outside these glass walls, but over me—my mind, my fear, my desire.
I keep telling myself I’m only here because I have no choice. But every morning, every confrontation, every word between us makes it harder to remember what it is I’m supposed to be resisting.
That realization terrifies me more than Damien Rudenko ever could.
***
I start to see the pattern in him. Damien doesn’t waste a gesture or a word, and every time I think he’s relaxing, letting something slip, I look closer and realize he’s just watching me. Measuring. Testing.
He leaves nothing to chance, not even the smallest details. If he stands too close in the kitchen, it’s not just because the space is narrow—it’s because he wants to see how I’ll react.
If he lingers by the window, silent, it’s to see if I’ll ask what’s wrong. If he offers the barest hint of warmth, it’s to study what I’ll do with it.
Sometimes, he’ll break the rhythm with something softer. He’ll ask about my childhood, my favorite meal, the music I listen to when I can’t sleep.
Damien listens closely, gaze unwavering, as if my answers are the solution to a puzzle he’s intent on solving. It takes me days to understand that these aren’t casual questions, not really.
They’re probes, gentle but deliberate, mapping the lines of my private world. I answer with as much care as I can, keeping things safe and surface-level, but he always seems to sense what I’m holding back.
Other times, he’s as cold as marble. I’ll walk into the office to find him on the phone, discussing ruin and acquisition like it’s weather.
“We move by Tuesday,” he’ll say. “If he won’t play, we erase him.”
His eyes flick to me, making sure I hear. I remind myself that this is the same man who issued a death sentence in an empty office, the same man who could end me with a single word.
Sometimes the cruelty is direct—a sharp reminder of what he’s done, what he’s capable of—but just as often, it’s an absence of any comfort, any kindness, as if he’s warning me not to expect it.
Yet, I can’t ignore the magnetic pull between us.
It’s there in every wordless standoff, every moment when his gaze slides over me: appraising, hungry, sometimes almost gentle.
I feel it in the way my skin prickles when he stands behind me, in the ache I try to silence every time his voice lowers just for me.
At night, I replay these moments, desperate to convince myself it’s only the stress, the trauma, Stockholm syndrome.
The truth claws its way up through every denial: I want him. I want the attention, the challenge, even the danger, and it disgusts me.
I catch myself studying him in return—how his hands move when he’s thinking; the rare edge of frustration when something doesn’t go as planned; the way his expression softens for a heartbeat when he’s caught off guard.
He notices everything: the flicker of a smile I can’t suppress, the way my breath stutters if he brushes close, even the tiny tells that betray my fear. Sometimes he pushes, crowding my space; sometimes he retreats, giving me enough distance that I feel the lack like a physical ache.
The war between us becomes more intricate by the day. I test boundaries in small ways—pushing back on a request, questioning the necessity of some move, even making a joke at his expense.
He lets most of it slide, but every so often, he’ll lean in, voice pitched low, and remind me who’s in control.
“Careful, Emery,” he’ll say, with that faint curve of a smile that’s equal parts warning and invitation. “You don’t want to push too far.”
Except, I do. I want to see what happens if I do.
It’s not all games and tension. There are moments—unexpected and unguarded—when he almost seems real.
He’ll bring me tea after a long meeting, the cup warm against my hands, his touch lingering at my wrist for a fraction too long. He’ll ask if I’m cold, offer me a blanket, then watch with quiet satisfaction as I accept it, my body betraying its need for comfort.
I know these are tests too, but I can’t always help myself. Sometimes, I take the blanket. Sometimes, I say thank you.
Sometimes, I let him see my gratitude, my fatigue, the small cracks in my composure.
It’s during one of these silences, late at night, that he crosses another line. I’m sitting on the couch, knees drawn up, trying to lose myself in the view of the city—its glitter and chaos a distant, indifferent world. He sits beside me, closer than usual.
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting.
Finally, he leans in. He’s so near I can feel his breath against my cheek, the warmth of his thigh pressed to mine. His voice is soft, almost intimate.
“Why are you still single, Emery?”
It isn’t idle curiosity; it’s a probe, another scalpel in his careful dissection.
I want to lie. I want to make it light, make a joke, but my mouth goes dry. I know this is about more than boyfriends or loneliness. He’s searching for something he can use, something that matters.
I try to keep my answer neutral. “I guess I’ve always been too focused on work. I never wanted to settle for someone who didn’t really see me.”
He nods, watching every twitch of my face. “That’s honest. Most people lie.”
I swallow, feeling exposed. “It’s easier to be alone sometimes. Less risk.”
He studies me, head tilted. “Also less reward.”
The words hang between us, thick with meaning. My heart pounds, caught between dread and longing. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t move away, either. I want to close the distance. I want to run.
Instead, I manage, “Some things aren’t worth the risk.”
His lips curve, not quite a smile. “I disagree.”
He leans back, finally giving me space. The tension doesn’t fade; it shifts, settling in my bones like a secret. I feel him watching me, cataloging every breath, every heartbeat, every tiny victory or defeat.
I remind myself of his cruelty, of what he’s capable of, but I can’t stop wanting the attention, the challenge. He knows it, and he’s already using it.
When he finally leaves me alone with the city’s lights and my own traitorous pulse, I realize I’m no longer just trapped by circumstance.
I’m entangled with him, bound up in a game where the rules are his, and every move I make only draws me deeper.
My fate is changing—not just because of what he can do, but because of what I’m starting to want.
That’s the scariest part of all.