Chapter 17
1316 Words
What Control Could Not Silence
Ace Monteverde had always believed that control was instinct.
Not something he learned.
Something he was born with.
From a young age, he understood how power worked. How silence intimidated. How distance unsettled. How withholding attention created hunger. He learned early that people revealed more of themselves when they were unsure of where they stood.
That was how he survived his father.
That was how he built his empire.
That was how he kept the world at arm’s length.
So when control began to slip in small, almost invisible ways, he noticed immediately.
It began with Bea leaving on time.
Not rushing.
Not hesitating.
Not glancing back.
She used to linger at her desk even after everything was finished, as if waiting for a final instruction that never came. She used to move like someone afraid of missing something.
Now, she moved like someone who had already decided where she was going.
Ace watched her through the glass walls of his office that evening, his expression carefully neutral as she gathered her things. The office lights reflected against the windows, turning the city into a blur of color and shadow.
She did not look at him.
Not once.
That absence felt louder than confrontation.
He waited until she was gone before he allowed himself to move.
Ace loosened his tie and poured himself a drink he did not need. He did not drink often. Alcohol dulled reaction time, and he did not like anything that slowed him down.
But tonight, he wanted the burn.
He stared at the amber liquid in his glass, his reflection warped by the curve of crystal.
When did she stop waiting?
The question irritated him because he did not have an answer.
He had always assumed Bea stayed because she needed the job. Because survival demanded compliance. Because fear was a stronger tether than affection.
But lately, fear no longer seemed to anchor her.
And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Ace replayed their recent conversations in his mind.
People change.
Sometimes change happens quietly.
I’m not an object.
Each sentence struck him again with delayed impact.
He had not expected defiance. He had not expected honesty. He had certainly not expected calm.
Anger he understood. Tears he understood. Silence he understood.
Resolve?
That was unfamiliar territory.
Ace set the glass down and walked to the window. The city stretched endlessly below him, lights pulsing like a living organism. Every building, every road, every contract within reach had been shaped by his decisions.
Except one.
Bea Fernandez.
He did not know when she stopped being predictable.
Or when predictability stopped satisfying him.
He remembered the first day she arrived.
She had stood in front of his office like someone bracing for impact. Chin lifted. Eyes steady. Pride barely masked by necessity.
He remembered thinking she would break easily.
He had been wrong.
She did not break.
She endured.
And endurance, he learned, was more dangerous than fragility.
Because endurance eventually turned into awareness.
And awareness led to choices.
The thought of her choosing something else made his chest tighten.
Another man.
The image rose again without invitation.
Adrian Vale.
The name alone irritated him.
Ace had met many men like Adrian. Polished. Respectful. Well-mannered. The kind who believed decency was enough.
But there was something different about him.
He did not compete.
He did not posture.
He did not seem impressed by Ace’s power.
And worst of all, he looked at Bea like she was not something to be conquered or controlled.
Ace clenched his jaw.
He did not like men who did not fear him.
He especially did not like men who made women feel safe.
Because safety was something Ace had never offered anyone.
Not even himself.
The intercom buzzed softly, startling him.
“Sir,” his assistant from another department said. “The board meeting has been moved to tomorrow morning.”
“Fine,” Ace replied curtly.
The call ended, leaving him alone again with his thoughts.
He sat at his desk, fingers steepled, gaze unfocused.
Why does this matter?
The question haunted him.
He had women. Always had. Women who admired him. Desired him. Accepted his terms without question.
Bea was different.
She never asked for his attention.
She never tried to impress him.
She never attempted to belong.
And yet, her presence had reshaped his space more than anyone else ever had.
She made him aware of things he preferred to ignore.
Loneliness.
Emptiness.
The quiet cost of control.
Ace leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes briefly.
He did not want affection.
Affection required vulnerability.
Vulnerability required trust.
And trust required relinquishing control.
But what if control was already slipping?
The thought made his chest tighten again.
He opened his eyes and stared at the door.
For a moment, he considered calling her back.
Just to test.
Just to see if she would come.
The urge surprised him.
He had never needed reassurance.
He did not press the button.
Because a part of him already knew the answer.
She would come.
But not because she wanted to.
And that realization tasted bitter.
The next morning arrived with relentless efficiency.
Ace arrived early, as always. The office buzzed to life slowly around him, executives filtering in, assistants preparing briefings.
When Bea arrived, he noticed immediately.
Not because she stood out.
But because she did not.
She moved through the space with quiet certainty, greeting colleagues politely, settling into her desk with ease.
She looked… calm.
The sight unsettled him.
Calm meant acceptance.
Or detachment.
Neither worked in his favor.
He waited until midmorning before calling her in.
“Miss Bea,” he said through the intercom.
She arrived moments later, posture straight, expression composed.
“Yes, sir?”
Ace studied her carefully.
She met his gaze without hesitation.
He did not like how steady she looked.
“You’ve been meeting Adrian Vale frequently,” he said.
The statement was deliberate.
A test.
Bea did not flinch.
“Yes,” she replied calmly. “During lunch.”
The honesty caught him off guard.
“Why?” he asked.
She tilted her head slightly. “Is that relevant to my work?”
The question irritated him.
“It might be,” he said.
“Then I assure you,” she replied, “it hasn’t affected my performance.”
He could not argue that.
Her work remained flawless.
That irritated him even more.
Ace leaned forward slightly. “You’re becoming careless.”
“With what?” she asked.
“With boundaries,” he said sharply.
Bea’s gaze softened, not in submission, but in something closer to understanding.
“I think,” she said slowly, “I’m finally learning where my boundaries should be.”
The words landed harder than accusation ever could.
Ace straightened.
“You should be careful,” he warned quietly. “Not everyone who offers comfort has good intentions.”
Bea met his gaze steadily. “Neither does everyone who demands endurance.”
Silence fell.
Ace stared at her, something hot and sharp twisting in his chest.
“Return to work,” he said finally.
She nodded and turned to leave.
At the door, she paused.
“Sir,” she said softly.
He looked up.
“I will always do my job well,” she continued. “But I won’t pretend anymore.”
Then she left.
Ace remained seated long after the door closed.
Her words echoed in the space she left behind.
I won’t pretend anymore.
For the first time in a long time, Ace Monteverde felt the unsettling truth settle deep in his chest.
Control had kept her close.
But truth might be what pushed her away.
And if she walked out of his life for good…
He was no longer certain he would know how to replace what she took with her.
- Writer
