Claimed By Desire

Mid Night Podcast.

Amara

I couldn't sleep.

It was past midnight, and I was pacing my apartment like a caged animal, still wearing the clothes I couldn't wait to get out of the moment I walked through my door. My feet were killing me—these stupid heels that seemed like such a good idea this morning, armor disguised as footwear. Now they just felt like torture devices.

The black skirt that felt like protection earlier now clings to my legs, restrictive and uncomfortable. Yet here I am, haven't changed, haven't showered, haven't done anything except pace and replay that moment in his office repeatedly.

"Is there anything else you'd like me to do for you?"

God, why did I say it like that? My voice went all breathy and weird when I was trying to be professional. And the way he looked at me—Jesus. I don't even know how to describe it.

Hungry, maybe? Like he was thinking things that definitely weren't workplace appropriate.

His eyes had this weird golden thing going on, and for a second I felt... stuck. Not scared, exactly. More like when you're standing at the edge of a cliff and part of you wants to jump just to see what happens.

I pour myself a glass of wine—my second—and slosh some on the counter because my hands are still shaky. Great. I grab a paper towel and try to rationalize what happened today while cleaning up the mess.

It's normal to be attracted to your boss, right? Totally normal workplace crush that means absolutely nothing. He's hot, he's powerful, he's rich. Of course, my stupid brain would respond to that.

That's all this is.

So why do I feel like I'm lying to myself?

The wine tastes sharp and leaves a bitter aftertaste as I remember how he just... dismissed that phone call. Didn't even look away from me. Like whoever was calling about some million-dollar deal could wait because watching me was more important.

And my body just—ugh. Why did that make me feel things?

Professional, I keep telling myself. Keep it professional.

But there was nothing professional about the way he watched me through that glass wall today. Nothing professional about whatever happened with that woman—Celeste. Nothing professional about how I couldn't stop watching even when I should have.

Her moan was muffled but not enough. And his voice, all low and commanding—I couldn't see much through the fogged glass, but I didn't need to. The outline of her on her knees. The way his shadow moved.

I shouldn't have watched. But I couldn't look away. And that's what's really messing with my head.

I slam my wine glass down harder than I meant to, and some more sloshes over the rim. Perfect.

This is exactly what I've talked about before. Powerful men who think they can do whatever they want, wherever they want. Men who use their position to mess with women's heads.

The anger feels better than the confusion. Safer than admitting I'm attracted to him.

I grab my laptop from the kitchen counter, knocking over a stack of unopened mail in the process. Bills scatter across the floor, but I ignore them. If Lucien Thorne wants to play games, he picked the wrong woman.

Twenty minutes later, I'm cross-legged on my couch, laptop balanced precariously on my knees. My recording setup looks amateur compared to the fancy equipment some podcasters have, but it works. Usually the routine of setting up calms me down, but tonight my hands won't stop shaking as I adjust the microphone.

The TV's still on in the background—some late-night talk show I wasn't really watching—and I fumble for the remote to turn it off. Deep breath. I can do this.

I hit record.

"Hey everyone, it's Amara, and welcome back to my podcast... um, sorry, it's really late and I'm kind of unsettled. It's almost 1 AM and I should be sleeping, but something happened today that I just... I can't shake it."

I pause, trying to organize my thoughts. In my head, I can see him behind that glass wall, watching me with those dark eyes that seemed to see right through me.

"You know when you meet someone and every instinct you have starts screaming? Not the good kind of screaming—the kind that tells you you're in danger, even when you can't figure out why?"

My voice is getting steadier now. Good.

"I want to talk about workplace intimidation tonight. But not the obvious kind. I'm talking about... God, how do I explain this? The kind of boss who uses mind games instead of outright harassment. The kind who's too smart to leave evidence but makes sure you know exactly who's in charge."

I'm thinking about those voice messages. He stands way too close during our... first meeting. The whole thing with Celeste felt deliberately calculated to get a reaction out of me.

"These guys—and yeah, it's usually guys—they're like artists or something. They know exactly how to make you feel off-balance without doing anything you could actually report to HR. They make you question yourself, you know? Like, am I overreacting? Am I imagining things?"

The words are coming faster now.

"They'll send you messages that sound totally professional but feel like... something else. They'll have their little... meetings... where you can see exactly what kind of person they are. What they want from the women around them."

I lean closer to the mic, dropping my voice.

"But here's what these men don't get—we're not toys. We're not puzzles to solve or territories to conquer. We don't exist for your entertainment."

Even as I say it, I can feel my face heating up. Because if I'm being honest, there was a moment today—several moments—where part of me wanted to be conquered. His attention made me feel more alive than I have in months.

God, I'm such a hypocrite.

I push the thought away.

"To any woman dealing with this—trust your gut. If something feels wrong, it probably is. Don't let anyone make you question your own reality."

I pause, thinking about tomorrow. About walking back into that office and facing him.

"And to the men who think they can manipulate women with power plays—we see you. We know what you're doing. And some of us fight back."

I let that hang there before continuing.

"You might think you're the predator here, but you're wrong. The moment you show your hand, you've already lost."

Even as I say it, I know it's bullshit. I don't feel like I'm winning anything. I feel like I'm drowning and I don't even know why.

But he doesn't need to know that.

"Thanks for listening, everyone. This'll be live in a few hours. Until next time, keep speaking your truth."

I end the recording and slump back against the couch cushions. My heart's racing like I just ran a marathon.

My phone buzzes. Text from Gracie: Girl, what are you doing up so late??

I stare at the screen, then type back: *just finished recording. Couldn't sleep

Everything ok?

I start to type "I'm fine" but delete it.

new boss is... complicated

Complicated how? Hot Complicated or asshole complicated?

I stare at the cursor blinking. How do I explain that he might be both? That I spent the day feeling hunted by something dangerous, and the worst part is some twisted part of me liked it?

both I finally typed.

Uh oh,, that's the worst kind, wanna talk?

Maybe tomorrow, thanks tho.

Np! btw I'll be back Saturday, can't wait to hear all the tea

Can't wait I type back. If he tries anything, report his ass to HR, right?

Absolutely. night babe

If only it were that simple. If only

Gracie knew that reporting him to HR wouldn't fix whatever's wrong with me. It wouldn't explain why every instinct I have is sending mixed signals whenever I look at Lucien Thorne.

I close the laptop and finally drag myself to the bedroom, kicking off these torture device heels on the way. But I know sleep won't come easily.

Because despite everything—the anger, the podcast, telling myself he's just another powerful man trying to intimidate me—I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me.

Like he knew something I didn't.

Like he was waiting for me to figure out some secret I didn't even know I was supposed to be looking for.

And the really terrifying part?

Part of me wants to know what that secret is.