The Man In The Hallway
878 Words
Camilla’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It never does.
She stands at the end of the corridor like a vision in shadow—flawless, expensive, untouchable. Her gaze pins me, glittering with the kind of knowing that makes my blood run cold.
I move past her without a word. She doesn't stop me. She doesn’t have to.
Back at my desk, I try to focus, but my hands shake over the keyboard. The nausea I thought had passed coils again in my stomach. I barely make it to the bathroom in time, gripping the sink as I retch. It’s the third time this week.
I press a damp paper towel to my face and stare into the mirror. I look wrecked. Pale, hollow, hunted.
You have to keep it together, I tell myself. For the baby. For your job. For whatever life you can still salvage from this mess.
When I return to my desk, there’s someone standing there.
He’s tall. Dark suit. Quiet confidence. I don’t recognize him, but something about him makes my pulse jump. He turns before I speak—his eyes sharp, amused.
“You looked like you were about to faint earlier,” he says.
His voice is smooth, British, polished. Dangerous.
I straighten. “Can I help you?”
He smiles faintly. “Maybe. But I doubt it. You look like you’ve got your hands full.”
“I’m sorry—who are you?”
He tilts his head like he’s weighing whether or not to answer. “Just a visitor. Observing. This building’s more interesting than I expected.”
Then, without waiting for a response, he walks off—like smoke vanishing down the hallway.
Who the hell was that?
Before I can process it, I hear it again.
“Emma.” Gabriel’s voice, deep and steady. “My office. Now.”
My stomach lurches for an entirely different reason.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
Gabriel stands near the window, tie loosened, his jaw tense. “You’re pale.”
“Thanks,” I say. “That’s exactly what every woman wants to hear.”
He doesn’t smile. He turns to face me fully.
“You were sick again?”
I nod. “The bathroom and I are becoming very close.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, slowly, he comes around the desk. The concern in his eyes almost undoes me.
“You need to rest.”
I laugh once, bitter. “Right. I’ll just put in a request for maternity leave and tell HR I slept with the CEO.”
His expression hardens. “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“No. I have to be invisible. And careful. And quiet. Especially now that your fiancée is circling like a vulture.”
He flinches.
“She cornered me,” I add. “Smiled like a snake and told me I looked pale. I think she’s getting closer.”
“I’ll handle her.”
“Handle her?” I echo. “You couldn’t even look me in the eye yesterday.”
Gabriel steps closer. His presence is overwhelming—heat and intensity and restraint held on a tight leash.
“Emma, I’m trying.”
I shake my head. “No. You’re trying to contain it. You’re trying to make this go away without getting your hands dirty.”
His mouth sets in a grim line.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
“But you did,” I whisper. “The second you made me feel like a mistake.”
His gaze flickers, and for a heartbeat, he looks gutted.
“I care about you,” he says finally.
“Then act like it.”
The room hangs heavy with what we’re not saying. The air between us sizzles, charged with regret and something darker—something I wish I could kill inside me.
Because I still want him.
God help me, I still want him.
Later that afternoon, I return to his office to drop off a document. I hesitate outside his door when I hear voices.
Camilla’s.
“I’m not stupid, Gabriel. Something’s going on.”
I freeze.
“You’re imagining things,” he says, too calmly.
Camilla lets out a brittle laugh. “She flinches when I speak. You avoid her like a disease. You think I don’t see the cracks?”
Silence.
Then she says, soft and cutting, “Is it her? That secretary of yours?”
He doesn’t respond.
“She’s weak. Frightened. I could end her if I wanted.”
Still silence.
Then: “I don’t want her hurt.”
I press a hand to my mouth.
Camilla hums like she’s just confirmed a theory. “So it is her.”
The air inside the office changes. I hear footsteps. Then—
“I should’ve known,” Camilla murmurs. “You were never that good at hiding your obsessions.”
I should walk away. I know I should.
But I’m stuck there.
Then I hear it—the shift in her voice, a soft gasp. A moan.
I stagger back from the door, heart racing, stomach roiling.
They’re not talking anymore.
They’re having s*x.
I walk away before I lose what little self-respect I have left.
- Writer
