Chapter 2: The Office and the Decision
The fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped insects overhead, casting a sickly greenish pallor over stacks of case files. Mark rubbed his gritty eyes, the dense legal text on his screen blurring into grey smudges. Outside his windowless office door, the building was tomb-silent. His phone, face down on the desk, vibrated against the cheap laminate with a sound like angry bees trapped under glass. Probably Dave again, he thought, pushing his chair back with a tired sigh. Checking in from the party Becca insisted I skip for this damn merger paperwork.
He flipped the phone.
He flipped the phone. Dave’s name glared on the screen, followed by that ominous caption: Dude. U gotta see what ur girl just did. Party’s WILD! Below it, the video thumbnail froze on Becca, her face slack, eyes glazed, her own hands creeping up her fishnetted thighs. Mark’s thumb hovered. A sour taste flooded his mouth, metallic and hot.
He tapped play. The grainy footage filled the small screen. He saw Becca, his Becca, moving with a languid, alien grace under the flickering party lights. Chad’s low, rhythmic voice, barely audible over the thumping bass, coiled around her. "Warming your chest... your beautiful skin... tingly? Sensual?" Mark’s knuckles went white around the phone. His breath hitched, trapped in his throat.
He watched, transfixed, as her hands slid higher, the movement disturbingly intimate, self-possessed yet utterly vacant. Chad’s whisper, cutting through the noise: "You’re mine now." Mark’s stomach clenched, a cold dread warring with a treacherous, unwelcome heat coiling low in his gut. He shifted in his chair, the cheap fabric sticking to his back.
The video ended. Silence crashed back, broken only by the fluorescent lights’ insistent drone and the frantic drumming inside his own skull. Disbelief curdled into something sharper, uglier. What the actual fuck? His fist slammed down on the desk, rattling the half-empty coffee mug. Lukewarm liquid slopped onto a deposition transcript, spreading a dark brown stain.
His phone buzzed again, vibrating violently against the laminate. Dave. Another text: Dude, Chad just took her outside—want me to follow? The words pulsed on the screen like a physical blow. Outside. Into the dark. With him.
Mark stared. His mind raced, fragmented. Images flashed: Becca laughing over breakfast, the way her eyes crinkled. Becca in that damn costume that morning, winking as she adjusted the low-cut bodice. And now Becca, blank-eyed, her body moving like a puppet for that arrogant prick Chad. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. He could smell the stale coffee, the photocopier toner, his own sudden sweat.
His free hand trembled, drifting down towards the waistband of his slacks. It was instinct, a dark reflex sparked by the visual of her lost sensuality, warring violently with the icy fury at Chad’s violation and the sickening fear for her. He jerked his hand away, disgust souring his mouth. He scrubbed it hard over his face, the rasp of stubble loud in the quiet.
He needed to think. To act. But his body felt leaden, anchored to the chair by shock and that persistent, shameful thrum of arousal. He forced air into his lungs, trying to quell the tremor in his hands. Focus. Becca. Outside. With him. Was she still under? Was she okay? Or was she… willing? The thought was a knife twist.
Another buzz. Dave: Seriously man? They’re heading towards the trees by the bonfire. Should I go or not? Gonna lose them! The urgency in the text snapped him partly out of his paralysis. Trees. Bonfire. Darkness.
Mark fumbled, thumbs clumsy on the screen. He typed, deleted, retyped. Is she ok? What’s happening? He sent it. Too vague. Useless. The image of Chad’s hand, low on Becca’s back, guiding her out, filled his mind. He saw Chad’s expression in the thumbnail again – that possessive satisfaction.
He typed again, the words hammered out. YES. FOLLOW THEM. NOW. Keep your distance. Just tell me what’s happening. And DAVE? He paused, the fury rising, hot and clean. DON’T lose sight of her. He hit send. The message whooshed away.
Mark surged up from his chair so fast it screeched backwards. He grabbed his jacket, keys jangling wildly. The stained deposition, the blinking computer monitor, the merger paperwork – all forgotten. He needed to get there. Now. He was already moving towards the door, the fluorescent lights strobing overhead, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He needed to see.
Mark's keys bit into his palm as he wrenched open the flimsy office door. The harsh corridor light blasted his tired eyes after the dim cave. He barely registered the empty cubicle farm stretching into gloom, his boots already slapping the cheap linoleum towards the elevator bank and escape.
"Mark! Hold up!"
The voice, sharp as a paper cut, sliced through his single-minded focus. Gerald Vance, his boss, materialized from the copy room shadow, arms laden with thick, unwieldy files. His usual harried expression deepened as he blocked the path. "Thank God I caught you. Where's the fire?"
"Gerald, look, it's an emergency—" Mark started, sidestepping, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Becca's vacant eyes, Chad's smirk, the dark trees by the bonfire – the images flashed behind his lids. Dave hadn’t texted back.
"This is the emergency," Gerald stated flatly, shoving the topmost file into Mark's chest. The impact forced him to take it. "Barclay merger. Dellinger just dumped this whole new tranche of discovery on us. Needs a full audit by 9 AM. Non-negotiable." He piled on another two folders, the weight threatening to buckle Mark’s arms. "Everything else is on hold. Burn the midnight oil."
Mark stared, dumbfounded. The keys dug deeper. "But Gerald, my fiancée—"
"Is at a party, Mark. This," Gerald tapped the stack meaningfully, "is your job. Your career advancement. Don't make me regret putting you on this account." His gaze held no room for argument, only the cold pragmatism of billable hours. "Get it done. I need preliminary notes on my desk before you even think about leaving."
Gerald turned on his heel, disappearing back towards his corner office without a backward glance. The heavy door clicked shut with finality. Mark stood frozen in the empty corridor, the buzzing fluorescents suddenly deafening. The thick folders pressed against him, smelling of dust and urgency.
He looked down at the top file: Barclay Acq. - Due Diligence - Confidential - Expedite. The words blurred. His phone, still clutched in his sweaty hand beneath the files, vibrated silently. Once. Twice. Dave. Reporting from the dark. Mark’s breathing hitched. He was caged. The exit sign above the distant stairwell door glowed mockingly red. He couldn’t move. The weight of the files, the weight of Gerald’s expectation, pinned him to the spot as effectively as chains. His office door stood ajar behind him, the harsh screen-light spilling out like an accusation.