Chapter 4: Office Games
The emerald silk feels like a second skin under the fluorescent glare of the office. It whispers against your legs with every step, the high slit a cool, treacherous breath against your thigh. You clutch the new Montblanc notebook Elise insisted was ‘de rigueur’ like a shield, the leather cover slick under your damp palm. The walk from the elevator bank to the imposing double doors of his office felt like crossing a minefield. Gavin’s last text – "Late flight home tomorrow, meetings stacked. Love you." – blinked accusingly in your mind. Love. Bundled between airport codes and meeting times.
"Rachel." His voice, deep and resonant, cuts through the sterile hum before you even fully enter. He doesn’t look up from the sprawling, antique-looking map unfurled on his massive mahogany desk. "Close the door." It’s not a request.
The heavy oak clicks shut behind you, muting the outside world. The air inside is thick with the scent of expensive leather, aged paper, and his cologne – something dark, spicy, dangerous. Like woodsmoke and crushed pepper. Your new desk, sleek chrome and glass, sits angled near his, facing both him and the panoramic window framing the skyline. Power position. Or prey position.
"Good morning, Boss," you manage, your voice thankfully steady despite the tremor in your knees. You move towards your desk, acutely aware of the way the silk pulls across your hips, the way the slit parts with each step. The plush carpet muffles your heels, amplifying the frantic drumming of your own heart.
He finally glances up. His gaze isn’t a look; it’s an inventory. It travels from the carefully pinned-up knot of your hair, down the column of your throat exposed by the surprisingly low neckline of the silk shell you’d nervously paired with a tailored black blazer, over the swell of your breasts barely contained by the lace-edged camisole Elise bullied you into buying, down the length of the clinging green dress, lingering on the exposed skin above your knee where the slit gapes open. His eyes, the colour of storm clouds, hold yours. A slow, predatory appreciation glints within them. No smile touches his lips.
"Emerald," he states, the single word hanging heavy in the quiet room. "Bold choice for a Tuesday morning. Especially considering the… revelations of our last meeting." The reference to the NDA you signed – the one stipulating absolute discretion regarding all aspects of your duties – makes your cheeks flame. Zurich hangs unspoken in the air.
"It… Elise suggested it was appropriate," you stammer, setting your notebook down with a soft thud, immediately regretting how defensive you sound. "For the… the role."
"Did she?" He leans back slightly in his cavernous leather throne, steepling his fingers. "Elise has excellent taste. And an eye for… potential." His gaze flicks down to your hands fidgeting with the notebook strap. "Sit. We have the Jakarta logistics to finalize. Gavin’s flight path needs confirming, and the supplier manifest requires a final cross-check before he lands. Time is money, Rachel."
You slide into the surprisingly low chair. It’s designed to force you to look slightly up at him. The silk whispers again as you settle, the slit falling open wider, exposing a broader expanse of your thigh to the cool office air – and to his gaze. You tug the hem self-consciously, but it’s futile.
Taking dictation becomes an exercise in exquisite torture. His voice is low, commanding, outlining flight numbers, container IDs, tariff codes. Yet his attention feels like a physical weight. You focus fiercely on the notebook, the sharp scratch of the pen your anchor. But then his hand is there, reaching across the desk to tap a point on a printout of Gavin’s itinerary.
"Here. The layover in Dubai is tight. Ensure the car meets him airside." His fingers brush yours as he slides the paper towards you. It’s fleeting, accidental? The contact is electric, a jolt of heat that travels straight up your arm. You snatch your hand back as if burned.
"Y-yes, sir," you murmur, scribbling frantically, your handwriting wobbling. He doesn’t move his hand away immediately. It rests near yours on the polished wood, large, capable, the knuckles slightly prominent.
He leans forward suddenly, his forearms resting on the desk, bringing his face disconcertingly closer. The spicy scent of his cologne intensifies. "Your typing is… deliberate," he observes, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Focus is admirable. But unnecessary tension hinders efficiency." His eyes drop pointedly to your shoulders, rigid under the blazer. "You look… constricted."
You swallow hard. "It’s just… the jacket is new. Still stiff." The lie tastes sour.
"Indeed." A slow, knowing smile finally curves his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "It rather defeats the purpose of that exquisite camisole Elise selected, don't you think? Hiding such… craftsmanship."
Your breath hitches. He knew. He knew exactly what was underneath when you walked in. The humiliation burns through you, hot and prickling. Zurich. Astrid. The confidence Elise promised felt like a cruel joke.
"Sir, I…"
"Rachel." He cuts you off, his tone soft but utterly inflexible. He pushes his chair back slightly. "We operate in a world of impressions. Confidence is the currency. That jacket," he gestures dismissively at your blazer, "screams insecurity. Hiding. It’s unbecoming of this office." He pauses, letting the judgement hang. "Take it off."
The command is quiet, absolute. It’s not shouted, not barked. It’s simply stated, a fact of your new reality. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out the faint hum of the air conditioning. Your fingers feel numb, clumsy. The emerald silk suddenly feels flimsy, treacherous. You think of Gavin, somewhere over the Pacific. You think of Carol and her cardigans. You think of the obscene amount on the company card receipt.
Slowly, your movements wooden, you unbutton the blazer. One button. Two. The silk shell beneath feels like nothing. The lace edge of the champagne camisole peeks out at the deep V-neck. You slide the jacket off your shoulders and drape it over the back of your chair. The cool air of the office hits the exposed skin of your arms, your neck, the upper curve of your breasts. You feel horrifyingly exposed, yet… a strange, traitorous thrum of something else vibrates beneath the shame. His gaze sweeps over you, lingering on the revealed lace, the vulnerable line of your throat. His expression is unreadable, but the intensity is palpable. A hunter assessing the trap sprung.
"Better," he murmurs, satisfaction a low hum in the single word. "Much less… provincial." He turns back to the map, tapping another point. "Now. Back to Jakarta. The port authority contact. His name and direct line." As if nothing monumental just happened. As if he hadn't just stripped away one more layer of the woman you thought you were.
Your cheeks are on fire. The pen trembles in your hand. You force your eyes back to the notebook, the looping script of ‘Port Authority - Malik Hassan - +62…’ blurring before your eyes. The silk clings, the slit gapes, the lace itches against your flushed skin. You feel the weight of his regard even as he pretends to study the map. The office, once imposing, now feels like a velvet-lined cage. The air vibrates with unspoken challenge and the terrifying promise of more revelations to come. The next command, the next touch, the next piece of armor he decides to remove… it hangs suspended in the silence between the scratch of your pen and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.
"That reminds me there has been a change of plans we are leaving on the flight tomorrow, I am afraid you will not be able to see Gavin before we leave. Also only bring the clothes you bought with the company card. I will send a car for you at 7am be ready." You stammer, yes sir.
Wait, what? Tomorrow? I... I can't possibly be ready that soon. I have to pack, and I thought I had more time to-"
He cuts you off with a sharp look. "Rachel, I understand this is a sudden change. But our business doesn't wait for convenience. Our clients expect promptness and professionalism. This trip is crucial for the company, and I need my secretary by my side. Your bag should be ready by tonight, along with any personal items you deem necessary. Remember, less is more. We'll be staying at the Mandarin Oriental. Pack accordingly."
You blink, trying to process the whirlwind of information.
The Mandarin Oriental? Personal items? Your mind is a chaotic buzz of questions and panic. "But… my husband... Gavin… he won’t expect me to be gone for so long. I wasn’t supposed to leave until next week."
"Gavin will understand," he replies, his tone firm but not unkind. "He knows the demands of our line of work. You’ll be with me for the duration of this trip.