3. Cloe #2
The look on his face—if it had been a look.
The pressure of his shoulder against mine.
The heat that lingered after he left. As if his silence was still touching me.
I hated it.
I hated him.
I hated that I couldn’t stop wondering?—
What would he have said, if he had stopped?
If he had leaned in close and spoken just behind my ear?
Would it have been cruel?
Would it have been quiet?
Would it have been something like?—
You don’t walk like you belong here, but your body tells a different story.
The thought made me flinch.
Made my thighs press together.
Made shame tighten across my chest like a corset.
I hated myself for it.
And then I noticed the box.
It hadn’t been there before.
It sat at the far corner of my desk.
Black. Matte. Perfect.
There was no label.
No note.
No courier slip.
I looked around.
No one watched me.
No one looked.
The hallway buzzed with normalcy—clicking heels, low murmurs, soft hums of technology.
But not here.
Not in my corner of the building.
I reached for the box with slow fingers.
Lifted the lid.
Inside:
Lipstick.
Deep red. Bold. Almost sinful.
The casing was gold. Heavy. Etched with a single word:
Obedience .
My breath caught.
The letters weren’t cheap. They weren’t laser-printed. They were carved.
Like a brand.
I turned the tube in my palm.
There was no price tag.
No logo.
Just that one word.
A command .
Or a promise.
My mouth went dry.
I looked around again.
Still no one.
Then I pulled the cap free.
The color was richer than blood.
Velvet-dark.
The kind of red that belonged on lingerie and lips pressed to wrists.
The kind that said everything I wasn’t brave enough to ask.
I held it in my hand like it might vanish.
Then—
Ding.
A message appeared on my screen.
Not HR.
Not Loyal.
Not any contact I recognized.
UNKNOWN:
Reapply every time you see one of us.
No name.
No explanation.
Just that.
My chest tightened.
My thighs shifted.
My fingers curled around the lipstick so tightly it could have snapped.
I stared at the message.
Then at the screen.
Then at the lipstick again.
I closed the message.
Opened it again.
The words didn’t change.
I didn’t breathe.
And then— like I’d been triggered, like I’d been activated—I did it.
I unscrewed the base.
Lifted the stick.
Raised it to my lips.
And drew it across my bottom lip.
The color caught the light.
My reflection in the screen showed it faintly.
I pressed my lips together.
Rubbed.
The red deepened.
Like obedience blooming on my skin.
My heart raced.
I didn’t know what terrified me more?—
That someone had sent it.
Or that I had obeyed.
The pigment clung like sin.
Dark red. Bold. Reckless. It made my mouth look too full, too soft. Like I’d already done something wrong.
And I swore—for one heartbeat—I could feel them watching.
The break room was empty.
It usually was after five. That’s when the real executives disappeared to private lounges and corner offices with stocked bars and panoramic views.
The rest of us—assistants, interns, junior staff—scavenged what was left.
Cold coffee. Half-stirred sugar packets. The stale scent of status out of reach.
I stood by the small mirror above the sink, lipstick in hand.
Obedience.
I hadn’t reapplied it since the message. Since that single line appeared on my screen like a branded order:
Reapply every time you see one of us.
I hadn’t questioned it .
I hadn’t asked who sent it.
But now, here I was.
My hand trembled slightly as I uncapped the tube again, the soft click of the lid echoing far louder than it should have. I tilted the gold case and ran the color across my bottom lip.
Smooth.
Cool.
Like silk soaked in blood.
My pulse thrummed in my throat.
I didn’t hear the footsteps.
Didn’t sense the shift.
Not until I saw him.
Reflected in the mirror.
Royal .
He stood in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame. His arms crossed. Watching me like I was something unfolding just for him.
My breath caught.
But I didn’t lower the lipstick.
Didn’t cap it.
I just met his eyes in the mirror.
And he smiled.
Slow. Lazy. Sinful.
“Look at you,” he drawled. “Training yourself already.”
I swallowed. My hand dropped to my side.
The lipstick stayed uncapped.
Royal pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room with the kind of swagger that didn’t require effort. It was in his DNA. Coiled elegance. Expensive cruelty. Every part of him moved like it had been choreographed for a slower, more dangerous world.
His tie was half-undone. His shirt sleeves rolled up.
He didn’t stop until he was behind me .
So close I could feel the heat of him against my back.
He didn’t touch me.
Not at first.
He reached forward—slow, calculated—and brushed his knuckles across my cheekbone.
A feather-light graze.
“Little smudge,” he murmured.
His voice was velvet-wrapped violence.
I couldn’t breathe.
“You want to be perfect for us, don’t you?”
The words slithered down my spine like silk laced with barbed wire.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
My breath caught in my chest, shallow and frantic.
I hated how my thighs pressed together beneath my skirt.
How the mirror showed everything—me, red-lipped and trembling, and him behind me like a shadow with teeth.
He leaned closer, mouth near my ear.
“Careful, Cloe,” he whispered. “If you act like a toy… someone’s going to play with you.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
Not because they were lewd.
But because they were true.
He stepped back before I could respond.
Left the room without a sound.
Like he hadn’t touched me.
Like he hadn’t undone me with a smile.
I stayed frozen there.
Lipstick still uncapped in my hand.
The color burned on my mouth.
And something even darker burned between my legs.
Later, at home, my apartment was still and dim .
Quiet in the way loneliness always is—too silent, too loud. It hummed with a kind of ache that no playlist could fix.
I kicked off my shoes the moment I stepped through the door.
The soles peeled. One heel bent slightly when it hit the floor.
I didn’t fix it.
I peeled off my skirt.
Hung the blouse on a chair.
Dropped my bag with a hollow thud.
The fridge hummed softly when I opened it.
Empty.
A near-expired yogurt. Two condiment packets. A bottle of water I’d already refilled from the office sink three times this week.
I closed the door.
Stared at the nothing.
My phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN:
Final notice. Balance: $2,378. 72 hours remaining.
I silenced it.
Didn’t respond.
Then turned back to my bag.
The lipstick was still there.
Still in its case.
Still pulsing in the back of my mind like a dare.
I pulled it out.
Set it on the counter.
Stared at it under the kitchen’s flickering fluorescent light.
The gold casing gleamed like it knew something I didn’t.
I could still feel Royal’s knuckles against my cheekbone.
Still hear Wolfe’s breath in the hallway.
Still taste the shame in my mouth .
I picked up the lipstick again.
Ran my finger along the engraved word.
Obedience.
And I whispered?—
“I don’t want this.”
But I didn’t throw it away.