CHAPTER 6
1108 Words
By the following morning, Tristan Moore was back to being untouchable. If the night before had left any trace—any fracture in the armor—he buried it beneath a perfectly pressed suit and an expression carved from stone. When he stepped out of the elevator onto the executive floor, the air itself seemed to straighten.
Victoria felt it before she saw him. She was already at her desk, coffee untouched, calendar open, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She lifted her gaze as he approached, posture flawless, pace unhurried.
“Good morning, sir,” she said.
“Schedule,” Tristan replied without breaking stride.
She stood immediately, handing him the tablet. “Your eight a.m. was moved to the larger conference room. Legal requested—”
“I didn’t approve that.”
“You did,” she said calmly. “Yesterday at four-thirty. I followed up in writing.”
He stopped. Turned. Looked at her.
The pause drew attention from down the hall—subtle, dangerous. Tristan took the tablet, eyes scanning quickly.
He said nothing. Finally, he handed it back. “Next time, confirm verbally.”
“I will,” Victoria replied quietly.
Tristan walked into his office and shut the door. Victoria exhaled slowly and sat back down.
That was how the day went. Requests delivered like commands. Corrections without context. Silence stretched thin and sharp between them. Tristan treated her like a tool—efficient, replaceable, necessary only as long as she performed flawlessly.
And Victoria performed.
She anticipated needs before he voiced them. She filtered calls with ruthless precision. She caught errors before they reached his desk and absorbed blame without complaint when something slipped through.
By noon, her head ached. By two, her hands trembled faintly when she reached for her water. She didn’t slow down.
At three, Tristan exited his office mid-call, eyes locked on his phone.
“Move the merger briefing to tomorrow morning,” he said. “Cancel everything after six.”
Victoria glanced at the calendar. “You have a dinner with the Singapore delegation.”
“Cancel it.”
“That may jeopardize—”
He stopped short. Slowly, he turned to her. The hallway went quiet.
“I said cancel it,” he repeated, voice low and unmistakably final.
Victoria nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Tristan watched her from behind his glass wall more than he wanted to admit. Not openly and more than he wants to admit.
But he noticed things. The way she rubbed her temples when she thought no one was looking. The faint shadows beneath her eyes.
How she stayed later than required, as if leaving early might cost her something she couldn’t afford to lose.
She didn’t argue anymore. That unsettled him. He had expected resistance. Emotion. A c***k he could exploit.
Instead, she gave him professionalism so immaculate it felt like a shield. It made him angrier than if she’d fought back.
By late afternoon, tension coiled tight beneath his skin. He called her into his office without warning.
She entered immediately, closing the door behind her. “Yes, sir?”
He didn’t invite her to sit. “Why do you stay late?” he asked abruptly.
The question surprised her. “To finish my work,” she said.
“That doesn’t answer the question.” She hesitated, then said carefully, “Because unfinished work becomes tomorrow’s problem.”
“And you don’t tolerate problems?”
“I don’t have the luxury,” she replied before she could stop herself.
Something flickered in his eyes. “You think I do?” he asked.
Victoria met his gaze. “No.”
The word landed between them—soft, heavy.
Tristan leaned back against his desk, arms crossed. “Then stop pretending you’re doing me a favor by overworking yourself.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
“Then what are you pretending?” he pressed.
Her throat tightened. “That I can afford to fail,” she said quietly.
Silence fell.
For a moment, Tristan looked like he might say something else. Instead, he straightened. “You’re dismissed.”
She nodded and left.
At six forty-seven, Victoria was still at her desk. The floor was nearly empty, the lights dimmed automatically to conserve energy. She finished typing the last email, hands stiff, shoulders aching.
She checked her phone. Three missed calls. Two messages. She closed her eyes briefly. I’m coming, she typed quickly.
She shut down her computer and stood just as Tristan’s office door opened.
He looked surprised to see her still there.
“You’re still here,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She picked up her bag. “Because you’re not done.”
Something sharp passed over his face. “That’s not your concern.”
She paused, then looked at him. “It is if I work for you.”
Their eyes locked. For a heartbeat, something unspoken hovered between them—years compressed into silence.
Then Tristan looked away. “Go home,” he said. “You’re no use to me exhausted.”
The words were cold. But they weren’t cruel. Victoria nodded. “Good night, sir.”
“Victoria.”
She turned.
He hesitated—just a fraction. “Tomorrow,” he said, “will be worse.”
She gave a faint, tired smile. “I’ll be ready.”
Tristan remained standing in the doorway long after she was gone.
The office felt too quiet. Too large. He returned to his desk, opened a file, stared at it without reading a word.
Why did she look like that? Like someone bracing for impact every second of the day.
He closed the file sharply.
This was a mistake, he told himself. Letting her stay. Letting her get close enough to matter again.
He should end it. And yet—
He glanced at the empty desk outside his office.
She hadn’t asked for favors. Hadn’t brought up the past. Hadn’t tried to soften him with familiarity or guilt.
She was just… enduring.
That disturbed him more than anger ever could.
Victoria rode the bus home, exhaustion settling deep into her bones. She leaned her head against the cool window, watching the city blur past.
Today had been brutal. Tomorrow would be worse.
She thought of her children waiting, of Ethan’s medicine, of Elisa’s questions.
She straightened. Survival, she reminded herself, wasn’t about comfort.
It was about staying upright long enough to see another day. And so she would. No matter how cold Tristan Moore became.
No matter how heavy the past pressed against her chest. She would survive this, too. Because she had no other choice.
- Writer
