He kissed me once more, not a question, not an apology, just a claim. Then he zipped up his slacks. Buttoned them. Refastened his belt and left, no words, just the echo of his footfalls. The empty conference room swallowed the sound. I stood there a minute, dizzy, sticky, fighting the urge to collapse.
Then I woke up.
My sheets were twisted around my waist, one hand clenched in the comforter, the other jammed between my thighs. The pulse in my core hadn’t faded. I caught the sweet-sharp scent of my own sweat and sex, hot and raw in the air. For a second, I had to check if I was alone.
No Gabriel. No wainscoting. Just my bedroom, city lights striping the far wall, and a phone buzzing with calendar alerts I’d already missed.
I rolled onto my back, heart pounding. My body throbbed, needy and unsatisfied, but it was the aftershocks that stung the most; shame, delight, and the jagged sense of loss I never admitted to anyone. I dug my nails into my palm, trying to ground myself.
I wanted him. I fucking wanted him. Even when I hated him. Maybe especially then.
I pushed off the covers, padded into the bathroom, and stared at myself in the mirror. The reflection looked unbothered; clean skin, hair wild from sleep, cheekbones still on point. I’d dressed to kill yesterday, black blouse and skirt, blood-red heels I could run a marathon in. Now, though, I was in my sleeping sweats and tank top.
I splashed water on my face and tried to imagine what it would be like to walk into the office and see Gabriel again now, after this dream. Would he sense it, the static crackle of hunger and desire? Would he know, somehow, that I’d let him fuck me against a wall in my own head? Or would he just keep playing his game, cool, calculating, above it all, until I snapped again?
It didn’t matter. I’d spent years clawing my way up this ladder, and no fantasy, no matter how wet and filthy, was going to knock me off the next rung.
But the feeling of him lingered in my mind.
I turned on the shower, stepped in, and scalded myself back to reality. When I stepped out, I laid out my clothes: tailored, severe, unapologetic. I set my lipstick with surgical precision.
The only way out was through.
I’d be ready.
The next morning, I was sitting in front of my screen. I’d have enjoyed the quiet because Gabriel was in a meeting I’d begged out of, but the code on my screen had been rewritten. Again.
A logical person would’ve blamed the coffee. Or the time. Or maybe my own nerves, strung tight from a full day of avoiding Gabriel, because I was afraid he’d smell the dream I’d had like perfume on me. So far, I’d managed to avoid him.
But sections of my codebase kept reverting in a way that no scheduled backup or automation protocol could explain. I’d documented the anomalies, even looped in IT. Their response: “No evidence of unauthorized access.” I’d started saving every version like a digital magpie, hoarding timestamps and deltas in my private sandbox. My code was being edited, but I had no idea by who or why.
Well, I had a theory.
And that theory entered the room.
He looked as fresh as always, tailored charcoal suit unwrinkled, the open collar of his shirt framing a neck that could have modeled luxury chains for men. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Eliza,” he said, voice pitched low. As if the building might be listening. He surveyed the damage: the paper blizzard around my keyboard, the two empty Red Bull cans, my abandoned heels resting beside my desk. His gaze lingered at my bare feet for a heartbeat, then climbed, unflinching.
“I see the Valor inspection teams are on a new schedule,” I said, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “Is there a memo I missed?”
Gabriel’s lips twitched. A controlled upward shift, like he was humoring a child. “I needed to check the forecast pipeline.”
“I’ll leave once I solve my own murder.” I gestured at the monitor, pulling up the latest commit logs. “If you’re here to audit, might as well witness the latest attempt on my sanity.”
He stepped inside. Not close enough to touch me, but close enough that the space between us felt charged. He leaned over my chair, hands braced on the desk so the sleeves of his jacket pulled tight against his forearms. His aftershave, some subtle, cedar thing, made the office air smell like forbidden fruit.
This was a mistake. All I could think about was the way he’d picked me up, pinned me to the wall, claimed me like he’d never wanted anything more. My pulse jumped and galloped away.
“Show me,” he said.
He was an asshole. Not the overt, desk-pounding kind, but the quieter species; the power-obsessed, silver-spooned conqueror who could manipulate a boardroom with a single, skeptical eyebrow. But Gabriel didn’t do performative aggression. He did cold logic. He did precision. He did the kind of intensity that made you question your own perceptions. I’d spent years resisting the urge to punch him and now, also resisting inviting him to see exactly how well my bedframe handled pressure.
I clicked through the logs, conscious of how his shoulder nearly brushed mine. “Every time I fix a bug, the file reverts to an earlier version. But the timestamp is always current. Like someone’s copy-pasting and overwriting my work in real time.”
Gabriel watched the screen. I felt his breath on my hairline. “IT says there’s no external breach.”
“I never said it was external.”