The power in the room has shifted. She knows it. I know it. These absurd red shoes have accomplished exactly what I wanted—they’ve made her uncertain in her own body. They’ve given me the upper hand.
And yet there’s something about the way she stands now—slightly uncomfortable but refusing to complain—that suggests this battle is far from over.
I circle the room slowly, studying her from every angle like a predator. Each deliberate step is another turn of the screw. Little Miss Take shifts her weight from foot to foot, already uncomfortable.
“Stop shuffling,” I murmur. “Posture matters, Miss Take. Chin up. Shoulders back.”
The look she gives me could freeze hell. Her eyes narrow, jaw tightening—a flash of pure hatred before she masks it. But she obeys, straightening her spine and lifting her chin with mechanical precision. The movement forces her to adjust her balance, her body tilting forward slightly, fingers splayed at her sides for stability.
I can almost see the calculation in her head—weighing defiance against self-preservation, pride against necessity. She’s learning the first rule already: adaptation is survival.
She hates this.
She hates me.
It makes me irrationally pleased.
I move to the kitchen counter, retrieving a manila folder I prepared last night. It’s thick with invoices from the restaurant’s shell companies—meaningless busywork that looks important. Perfect for establishing the hierarchy between us.
“Alphabetize these,” I say, extending the folder like I’m doing her a favor.
There must be a thousand invoices in there. All different sizes, each one unique and filled with data only an accountant can appreciate. Receipts for wine deliveries, produce orders, linen services—all printed on different paper stock, some crisp and new, others creased from handling. The kind of mind-numbing busywork designed to establish who’s in charge and who takes orders. I can almost taste her frustration.
The folder almost slips from her grasp when I hand it over. Her fingers scramble against the manila surface, catching it at the last moment. The red heels click awkwardly against my polished wood floors as she shifts her weight to compensate.
“By company name or contact?” she asks, voice admirably steady despite the precarious balance she’s fighting to maintain and the chaos of paper in front of her.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I watch her open the folder, those delicate fingers sorting through the first few pages. The slight tremble in her hands is visible only because I’m looking for it.
“Company name,” I finally reply, moving to stand behind her.
She tenses, sensing my proximity without turning. Her shoulders hitch slightly higher—a defensive posture.
Interesting.
Someone’s trained her to expect danger from behind.
She turns her head just enough to side-eye me. “I’ll need somewhere to sort them.”
I gesture to the room. “Use all the space you require, Miss Take. Consider the entire apartment your office.”
I step back, giving her space to work while maintaining my position of power. “I have emails to return. Continue this task until it’s complete.”
Little Miss Take doesn’t look at me, already arranging the invoices in preliminary piles across the desk surface. Her focus is absolute, eyes scanning each document efficiently. The shoes force her to shift constantly, subtly swaying as she works to keep her balance.
That flirty fucking skirt kills me each time it flutters against her pale thighs. It’s a deliberate distraction, dancing just at the edge of professional, teasing the boundary between modest and maddening. Every slight movement sends the fabric whispering across her skin, drawing my attention when I should be focused on anything else.
I find myself tracking the hem like a predator, waiting for the next innocent shift that will reveal another half-inch of those legs she’s trying so hard to downplay.
She shoots me another side-eye. This time it’s menacing. Am I going to watch her all morning?
Yes, Emmaleen. Yes, I am.
I sprawl across the couch, phone in hand, pretending to scroll through emails I’ve already answered. The real entertainment is across the room, struggling with Louboutins and loose papers.
Little Miss Take has created a system—a chaotic one, but a system, nonetheless. Piles grow across her desk, each labeled with a sticky note from the pack she pulled from her purse.
“Fuck,” she mutters as an invoice slips from her fingers, floating to the floor like a surrender flag.