15. Elena
Elena
The morning after Dominic fucks me on my desk, he challenges my financial projections in front of twelve senior executives.
He doesn’t hesitate when he reaches the revised debt assumptions. His tone remains even, his tie is perfectly straight, and nothing about the way he looks at me suggests he spent part of last night between my thighs.
“Your downside case assumes the current credit facility remains available through closing,” he says.
“It will.”
“Based on?”
“The lender confirmed it yesterday.”
“Verbally.”
I lean back in my chair, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “I have the written confirmation in my files.”
A few people around the conference table glance between us. This is familiar territory. Dominic questions the model, and I defend it, and everyone else waits to see which one of us wins.
He holds out his hand. “Send it to Evan.”
“Already did.”
The corner of his mouth ticks upward. “Then the assumption stands.”
I should feel relieved. Instead, I’m irritated by how easily we do this.
I present the rest of my analysis without missing a figure. Dominic interrupts twice, agrees with me once, and sends one section back to the operations team for review. By the end of the meeting, I’ve almost convinced myself last night didn’t change anything.
Then everyone begins gathering their laptops and papers.
“Elena, stay for a minute.”
It’s an ordinary request; he’s kept me back after meetings hundreds of times.
I wait until the door closes behind the last person. Dominic stays at the opposite end of the table, maintaining enough distance that no one walking past the glass walls would notice anything unusual.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Yes, Dominic. I’m okay.” The lie is for both of us.
His eyes move over my face, checking the answer even though he has no reason to doubt me.
He asked if I was sure before he touched me last night.
He asked again after I locked the door and kissed him.
He checked afterward too, while I sat on my desk with my skirt back in place and his shirt missing a button.
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“No.”
“Any regrets?”
My fingers tighten around my tablet. “You’re asking me this now?”
“You left before we could have the conversation properly.”
“We were in my office.”
“I noticed.”
“And there are security cameras in the elevator.”
“I noticed those too.”
The answer is dry, but his attention remains serious.
“No regrets,” I say, and it’s mostly true.
“Good.”
He opens the door for me, and we return to work.
By Thursday afternoon, I have cleared my entire pending queue, reviewed two reports that aren’t due until next week, and reorganized six months of forecast archives.
On Friday morning, I correct the formatting in a presentation Maya prepared even though nothing was wrong with it.
She watches me move one chart three pixels to the left.
“I’m going to move that back as soon as you leave,” she says.
“It wasn’t centered.”
“It was centered yesterday.”
“The margins changed.”
“The margins did not change.”
I save the file and close it. “Do you need something?”
Maya lowers herself into the chair across from my desk. As my assistant, she has a legitimate reason to be here. As one of my closest friends, she has the confidence to stay when I clearly want her gone.
She looks at the stack of completed folders on the credenza, then at the color-coded calendar open on my second monitor.
“You’re working twice as hard to look normal.”
“I am normal.” Nothing has felt normal since last night.
“You’ve reorganized the forecast archive.”
“It needed to be done.”
“You did it last month.”
“I improved it.”
Maya’s eyes narrow. “Did something happen with Mr. Rowe?”
My attention goes straight to the desk before I can stop it.
She follows the movement and looks at the spotless glass surface.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Nothing happened.” I straighten a stack of papers that are already perfectly aligned.
“I didn’t say anything happened.”
“You implied it.”
“I asked a question.”
“And I answered.”
“You responded. Those aren’t always the same thing with you.”
A knock saves me from whatever she plans to ask next. Dominic stands in the open doorway with his jacket over one arm.
His eyes move from Maya to me. “Am I interrupting?”
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Maya says at the same time. I shoot her a look that could curdle milk.
He ignores both answers and looks at the unopened lunch container beside my monitor. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I’ve been busy.” Too busy untangling what happened in this office to think about eating.
“You’re always busy. Eat before the committee call.”
Maya points at him. “Thank you.”
Dominic gives her a brief nod and leaves.
He doesn’t touch me. His eyes never travel below my face, and his tone is the same one he would use with anyone else who tried to work through lunch.
Maya waits until he reaches his office across the executive floor.
“That was interesting.”
“He has told me to eat lunch before.”
“Yes, he has.”
“Then it wasn’t interesting.”
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
I reach for the container, mostly so she’ll stop looking at me.
The problem is that I finally understand what she means.
Dominic’s attention is unchanged. He has always noticed when I skip lunch, lose patience in a meeting, or stay too late.
He knows when I need him to support my position and when stepping in would undermine it.
For four years, I told myself his awareness was professional because our relationship was.
Now I know what he looks like when he stops holding back.
Knowing doesn’t make the distinction any easier. It makes me wonder whether there was ever a distinction at all.
The executive floor empties early on Friday. By six-thirty, most of the offices are dark, and the cleaning crew hasn’t reached our end of the building yet.
I’m reading the same paragraph for the fourth time when my desk phone rings.
Dominic’s name appears on the display.
I pick up. “Yes?”
“That sounded welcoming.”
“I’m working.”
“So am I.”
I turn my chair toward the glass. He’s standing beside his desk with his phone to his ear, looking directly at me across the dark floor.
“What do you need?” I ask, my voice carefully neutral.
“You.”
My stomach clenches.
He waits a second, then adds, “In my office.”
“That clarification should’ve come sooner.”
“I enjoyed the silence.”
“I wasn’t silent.”
“You were considering it.”
I hang up before he can sound more pleased with himself.
Dominic’s door is open when I cross the hall. He closes it after me but leaves the blinds untouched. Anyone passing can see us.
That should make the room feel less private. It doesn’t.
He gestures toward the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”
“I thought you needed something.”
“I do.”
I stay on my feet. “Then ask.”
He studies me. “Do you plan to admit you wanted me last night?”
Of course this is what he wants.
“I came to your office for a work-related conversation.” The lie sounds flimsy even to my own ears.
“No, you came over here because I said I needed you.”
“The statement was intentionally misleading.”
“And effective.”
“You’re proving my point.”
“What point?”
I fold my arms. “You enjoy making everything personal.”
“Everything between us is personal now.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
Is it? I’m not sure anymore.
“I had sex with you on your desk after you dismissed Maya, locked the door, and told me exactly what you wanted. Which part was professional?”
“The setting.”
His mouth almost curves, but the humor vanishes before it becomes a smile.
“You’ll joke about the office. You’ll admit the sex was good. You’ll even tell me exactly how you want me to touch you while it’s happening.” He rests one hand on the back of his chair. “Why can’t you admit you desire me when we’re both fully dressed?”
“I have admitted I enjoy having sex with you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I’m not sure why the wording matters this much.”
“It matters because you keep describing me as useful.”
My arms loosen.
“I have never called you useful.” Not in that word, no. But the accusation lands with the weight of truth.
“You don’t have to use the word.”
“Then tell me what I’ve said.”
“That sex with me is effective for conception. That orgasms reduce stress. That the old-fashioned method is more enjoyable than the clinic.” His voice stays controlled, but an edge of hurt cuts through the composure. “You can explain every reason you choose me except wanting me.”
“I do enjoy the sex.”
“I know.”
“And yes, orgasms reduce stress. That’s a documented physiological response, not an insult.”
“Jesus Christ, Elena.”
“What?”
“I don’t want a performance review.”
“That isn’t what I’m giving you.”
“It sounds exactly like one.”
I turn toward the windows. The lights from the surrounding buildings shine against the glass, broken by faint reflections of Dominic’s office furniture.
He comes around the desk but doesn’t approach me.
“Do you desire me,” he asks, “or do you value what I can provide?”
The question is too direct to deflect with another joke.
“That’s an artificial distinction.” I can feel my pulse in my throat.
“No, it isn’t.”
“You offered to be the father of my child. Of course what you can provide matters.”
“Sex. Sperm. Safety. Reliable co-parenting,” he names each one in the same controlled tone. “I meet every requirement you had for a donor.”
“You aren’t a donor.”
“Then stop talking about me like I’m one.”
I face him, seeing the flash of hurt in his eyes before he controls it. “You knew what this arrangement was when you made the offer.”
“I knew you wanted a child and didn’t want a relationship attached to conception.”
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t know we would end up here.”
“Neither did I.”
“But we did, and you’re still using the logic you built for a stranger.”
I open my mouth, then close it.