BURNING FATE

"Are you seriously wearing that again?" Sia's voice carried from the bathroom, followed by the sharp hiss of the kettle and the low thrum of morning news playing in the background. Our tiny apartment was still half-asleep, curtains drawn, city hum stretching beyond the window panes. I glanced down at my neatly pressed white blouse and charcoal-grey pencil skirt. Clean lines. Safe choices. My favorite pair of low heels stood waiting by the shoe rack like obedient soldiers. Classic, neutral, forgettable. "It's clean," I called out, sliding two slices of whole grain bread into the toaster. I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, still damp from the rushed shower. My reflection in the microwave door looked... normal. Unassuming. "It's boring," Sia replied, emerging wrapped in a towel, her hair a wild halo of curls still dripping onto the hardwood. "You work for Raegan freaking Drayke, woman. That man is basically sin dipped in espresso and served in a three-piece suit. If I had your job, I'd be strutting through those glass doors in scarlet heels and vintage Chanel lipstick." "And that's exactly why you don't have my job," I muttered, smirking as I poured two mugs of coffee. One black, one with a generous pour of oat milk. Sia grabbed her mug and perched on the kitchen counter like a pixie who belonged in a fairytale, not finance. "I'm just saying. You've had a full-blown, soul-sucking, slow-burn crush on your boss for, what, a year now? And you still act like he's a mannequin in the lobby." "He is my boss," I said pointedly, hoping the conversation would die there. But Sia arched one perfectly shaped brow. "He's also the only man on this planet who can say your name without you blushing or babbling. Admit it. That alone makes him special." I didn't answer. Mostly because she was right. The 49th floor of Drayke Tower hummed with organized chaos by the time I arrived. Phones rang, shoes clicked, elevators dinged, and the scent of overpriced coffee mingled with anxiety. But the moment I stepped past the frosted-glass doors into the executive wing, silence fell like a velvet curtain. That was the Raegan Drayke effect. He didn't have to raise his voice. He didn't even have to look your way. People just knew. He was the type of man who didn't command respect. He owned it. I kept my head down and my heart rate steady. Mostly. "Morning, Ember," Martha greeted softly from behind the sleek reception desk, her voice warm and familiar. A woman in her late fifties with gentle eyes and silver-streaked hair pinned into a neat bun, Martha had the kind of calm presence that made you feel like everything was going to be okay, even on the worst Monday. She offered me a knowing smile, one that hinted she saw more than she ever said. "He's already in." Of course he was. He was always early. Always watching. I reached my desk which I always kept tidy, minimalist, everything in its rightful place, and took a slow breath before flipping open my planner. Back-to-back meetings. Two investor calls. Lunch with the CFO. A merciful window to breathe at 4:15. I was just about to set the planner down when the intercom on my desk rang with a crisp, unmistakable chime that sent a ripple down my spine. I clicked the button, the receiver barely at my ear when his voice cut through. Low, smooth, commanding. "Coffee." Just that. No greeting. No pause. No question. Before I could even whisper a reply, the line went dead. My fingers tightened around the receiver. Well. Good morning to you too, sir. I returned with his double-shot espresso, no sugar, and nearly crashed into Bianca who stood outside his door like a model waiting for her cue. Her red nails clicked impatiently against the glass panel. "Oops," she said sweetly, stepping aside just enough for me to pass. "Didn't realize you were already... running errands." I forced a smile. "It's called doing my job." Bianca's laugh was airy, laced with venom wrapped in roses. "Right. Of course." She smelled like vanilla, cherry, and ambition. Her blonde hair was perfectly ironed, cascading over a crisp pink blouse that was definitely not in the company's conservative dress code. Her makeup was a full production - flawless contour, lashes that could slice through air, and lips the exact color of war. In contrast, I probably looked like a blurry background extra. Pushing the insecurity to the back of my mind, I slipped into his office and set the cup down silently. Raegan sat behind his mahogany desk, dressed to the nines in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that hugged his broad shoulders like it had been stitched in silence. A silver tie cut down his chest, drawing attention to the icy sharpness of his eyes that always seemed colder, more calculating, when framed by that particular shade. He never merely walked... he owned every inch of space he stepped into. His presence was sculpted from steel, precise and unyielding. And yet... sometimes, when he wasn't looking, I thought I saw something flicker beneath the surface. A shadow of something softer. Maybe I imagined it. Or maybe I just wanted to. He didn't look up. "Double shot. No sugar." I definitely imagined it. "Of course," I said softly, backing away. Just as I was about to turn away, his voice rang again. "Cancel the 4:30 with Viera. Move it to tomorrow. And the Mitchell file - on my desk by one. Yours. Not Bianca's." A breath caught in my throat. Bianca had been assigned the Mitchell file for weeks. This would destroy her. "Yes, sir." His gaze finally flicked up. Brief, assessing, unreadable. For just a heartbeat, our eyes locked. And the air changed. It felt like standing too close to a live wire. Then he looked back down, as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn't just imagined the heat in that moment. By noon, the office was on edge. The Mitchell meeting loomed. Tension crackled in the air like an impending storm. Bianca stood near the boardroom, tapping on her iPad with the finesse of a wolf in stilettos. Her lipstick was even redder. Her blouse tighter. Her posture screamed, Look at me, respect me, worship me. But Raegan hadn't looked at her once. I stayed at my desk, working through his updated investor pitch notes until his voice sliced through the tension. "Ms. Wren. In my office. Now." Inside, Raegan stood behind his desk, holding Bianca's Mitchell file like it was a landmine. "This is wrong," he said, flipping the pages with a calmness more terrifying than anger. I stepped closer, trying not to flinch. "Sir?" "Bianca's version is outdated. Two quarters behind. Gaps in revenue. Fabricated projections." His jaw ticked. "If I take this in there, we're done." "You won't," I said, before I could think. He stared. Still. Silent. "She insisted on handling it. But I... I kept a backup." I reached into my folder, heart pounding. "I got the updated numbers from Singapore Friday. Just in case." I laid the revised file on his desk. Another silence. One heartbeat. Then another. He took it. Flipped it open. Eyes scanning. Fingers pausing at key charts. "You stay for the meeting." "W-what?" "You heard me." And just like that, I followed him into the lion's den. Inside the boardroom, the air was thick with anticipation and cologne. Raegan was cold fire. Precise. Unshakeable. Beside him, I sat quietly, ready with figures and notes. Bianca fumed from the far end, her iPad forgotten in her lap. Her nails tapped on her phone. Her smile was gone. Ten minutes in, a Mitchell exec questioned a forecast. Raegan didn't even blink. "Ms Wren?" "Q3 reflected a 9% dip due to acquisition turbulence," I said. "But Q4 rebounded by 11.3%. Forecasts show stabilization and steady growth." Nods around the table. Murmurs of approval. Raegan still didn't smile. But I saw the way his jaw eased. Bianca's gaze could've cut glass. When the meeting ended with a handshake and a verbal agreement, Raegan murmured something low to Mitchell which made him glance at me and grin. I didn't ask. Outside, Raegan paused at the doorway. His voice low, just for me. "Well done." I turned, startled. "Thank you, sir." He didn't stop walking. Didn't even glance back. But Bianca saw. And looking at the silent storm brewing beneath her eyes, I knew right then, this wasn't over. This was just the beginning.