Claim Me

The elevator door opened in front of me. I stepped out, my heels hitting the marble floor in a soft rhythm. The sign Blackwell & Associates loomed high above me as I walked. I used to belong in places like this, but now I barely feel like I belong anywhere. I walked up to the receptionist's desk, who looked up at me with her glossed lips in a tight thin line. "Ms. Bennet?" she asked, sounding as though my name left a bitter taste. "Yes," I replied with a sigh. "Mr. Blackwell is expecting you, the private elevator is behind you, top floor." I didn't say thank you, I didn't smile, I just turned and walked away. "Top floor, of course!" I thought to myself as I walked to the elevator, the soles of my heels echoing against the floor. Once I got into the elevator, I quickly glanced at the mirror that was on the right side of the elevator. My hair is a dark auburn color that hangs loosely over my shoulders. Eyes: green with golden flecks that look very sharp and observant. Soft make-up covering the freckles that are on the bridge of my nose. Three months ago, I was a rising star in litigation, now a paralegal with nothing but a tainted name who is dragging her pride behind her like a corpse. And to make things so much worse, I'm crawling back into the legal world under the only man who had ever humiliated me in court. The elevator chimed, and the doors slowly opened to the first floor. I glanced around as I stepped out of the elevator, and I found very little color in the office, as I usually did. The walls were charcoal black, with dark brown hardwood-stained floors with matte black fixtures. No warmth, no softness. Though the windows were floor to ceiling and let anyone who looked see down over the city. In the center of the office was a black oak desk that was very clean and intimidating. In front of the desk were two leather chairs, both slightly lower, so his clients would always have to look up. Behind the desk were built-in bookshelves that were all filled with legal texts. Off to the far side of the office was a small silver glass bar cart that held decanters of scotch, whiskey, and brandy. The lighting in the room was softly dimmed, which made you feel pulled in and welcomed, but also gave the feeling of a need to listen closely. Ivy's eyes fell to the chair behind the dark oak desk, and there he was - Damin Blackwell. He stared up at me through intense gray eyes, which currently looked almost silver. His hair was black and thick and looked neat as always. "Intimidating," I stated as I walked over to the desk. "You're late." He stated, I met his gaze. "It's only eight- oh - four." He stared me down for a moment before responding, "I said eight." his gaze held mine. "Then fire me," I replied coolly. Damian wasn't rattled easily, but the faintest twitch at the corners of his mouth flickered something more than amusement. "You still think this is about your pride? That's adorable," he murmured. I stiffened, every muscle tight. I hated how Damian stared at everything, cold and intently. Like he owned it, like he owned me for just being here with him like that. Damian stood up and walked around the desk, stopping a bit too close to me. His gaze dragged across me, like a touch I couldn't feel until it was gone. "You'll be reporting to Lexi Grant." He said. "Senior associate, demanding, unforgiving. Just like me." His tone was cold and demanding. "Do your job, keep your head down, and don't forget who you answer to when you're on this floor." My hands curled into fists. "I don't answer to anyone." Damian leaned his head down, lowering his voice. "You do now." My breath caught at his response, something flared to life in me, I wasn't sure if it was rage or something much worse, something that I didn't want to name. Damian turned and picked up a case file and held it out like a challenge. "Wrongful death, political and messy, I want a strategy brief by Friday." I took the file, our fingers brushing against each other briefly, the contact was electric and made me catch my breath for a moment as my pulse jumped. The look on Damian's face as he gazed into my eyes told me he knew I felt it. "Anything else?" I asked as I kept my voice steady. "Don't lie to me, don't defy me, and don't think I won't notice when you do." He stated, his eyes digging into mine. I stared him down, not blinking. He then smiled, but not kindly, it was cold, and told me that he could see right through me. "You can go." He stated, I turned and walked out, holding my head high, even though I felt anything but pride. Back in the elevator, I finally let out the breath I was holding in, my throat burned, and somewhere deep down, something coiled, tight, hot, and terrifying. Though he had barely touched her, and it was only for a second, I could still feel him everywhere. Back in the elevator, I finally exhaled, my grip on the folder was too tight. My throat burned, and somewhere deep down something coiled, tight, h,ot and terrifying. And though he had barely touched me, and it was only for a second but I could still feel him everywhere. My apartment was a box of cracked paint and old borrowed furniture, temporary, forgettable, kind of like me. I kicked off my shoes, undid my blouse, and poured myself a glass of bourbon in one of my chipped glasses. I set the case file down on the counter, but I didn't open it. Instead, I walked to the window, and the city was alive outside. I sighed and picked up my phone, searching for his name. Damian Blackwell. I knew what would come up before the page even loaded: "multi-million dollar settlements, ruthless cross-examinations." But I didn't want his resume, I wanted to know why my skin still burned from being in his office, I wanted to know what that look meant. And I hated that I already knew, it wasn't just humiliation, it was hunger.