BENEATH THE SILENCE

**Nyra** The office air is stiff with tension. It hums between the clack of keyboards and the heavy silence that trails behind Mr. Darius Blackwell’s footsteps. He's been at the company headquarters all week, micromanaging departments he usually overlooks—like mine. My fingers hover uncertainly above my keyboard as he strides past my desk for the fifth time today. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough to make everyone sit straighter, type faster, breathe less. I’ve had a bad day. Hell, it’s been a bad week. The reports he asked for got mixed up with another intern’s, and of course he didn't try finding out the truth, he didn't ask questions or even let me tender an explanation, he barked at me in front of the team. Said I was slow. Incompetent. That wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part is that I can’t stop thinking about how handsome he is when he’s mad—like fire bottled into human form. His jaw clenches and his eyes darken like he wants to destroy something. And somehow, even that destruction feels magnetic. God help me, I’m having these kinds of thoughts about a man who doesn’t even know I exist beyond my employee ID. If only… If only he saw me but without the contempt and anger in his eyes and voice. ‘just love me’ by Julie Peters started playing on my head. Down to earth Nyra! Get a grip of yourself. --- It’s past 9PM when I finally slide into a bar a few blocks from the office. The place is low-lit, almost empty, with a quiet jazz hum in the background. I sink into a stool near the end of the counter and order something strong enough to numb my feelings, my thoughts, my worries, my insecurities, my debts, my whole life if possible. The bartender doesn’t ask questions—just hands me a cheap whiskey with two clinking ice cubes. I sip. And exhale. --- **Cassian** My mother’s voice rings in my head like a broken record. "You’re not getting younger, Darius. Do you plan to die in this pain?” “You need to move on and live life again. Do you plan on dying alone?” I need a drink. I leave the boardroom late, still wearing my navy suit, tie slightly loosened, the weight of this week dragging me down like a stone in deep water. I don’t plan where I’m going. My driver drops me off outside a quiet bar I used to frequent back in college. Familiar. Low-key. No eyes on me. I settle into a stool without glancing around, order bourbon neat, and down half of it and then another and another before my mind finally stops racing. Then I notice her. Soft face. Sad eyes. Dressed plainly in a tan sweater that hugs her small frame just enough to stir something primal in my blood. She looks up. We could barely lock eyes as her hair flowed and covers half her face, leaving barely enough for me to take in. Something… flickers. I suddenly forgot how to start a conversation, what to say to get words out of those beautiful lips. --- **Nyra** He slides onto the stool beside me. I freeze. Darius. In the flesh. No suit jacket now. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled up. A man, not a CEO. "Rough day?" he asks, voice deep, raspy. I blink, unsure if he recognizes me. The lighting is dim. My hair is down. I’m not wearing makeup. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe I don’t want him to. Maybe I don't want him to because I look a mess. I nod. "Something like that." He orders another drink. I do too. One becomes two. Then three. He talks about pressure. About betrayal. About not being able to trust anyone. I talk about working hard and being unseen. He stares at me too long sometimes, like he’s trying to place me, but then he smiles faintly. "You remind me of someone." "Someone good?" "Someone I should stop pushing away.” My heart stumbles. The tension simmers. When he leans closer and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, I feel my resolve collapse. "You’re trouble, aren’t you?" he murmurs. "I don’t know what I am tonight." He kisses me. And I let him. --- **Later...** His hotel suite is dimly lit. Our clothes trail across the marble floor. I don’t remember who moaned first, who whispered what. I just know he said my name once, breathless—"Nyra..."—like it meant something. Maybe it meant something. Maybe I finally meant something. --- **The next morning** I step out of the bathroom, cheeks flushed, head hurting, towel clutched tight around me. He’s gone. No note. No number. Just a thick wad of bills neatly placed on the pillow. “Cash? Why? What for? Is he paying me?” These questions race through my mind as tears prick my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I mustn't. I get dressed. I leave the cash still on the pillow , defying the fact that I am drowning in debts and that wad of cash can go a million miles for me. I am going to pretend it never happened. --- **Monday Morning** I walk into the meeting room with trembling hands and a mask of calm. And there he is. Sitting at the head of the table. Wearing a tailored suit and an expression so cold it slices right through me. "Miss Carter," he says sharply. "You’re late. Again." And I realize… it was all a lie. My breath stills. The hum of fluorescent lights above, the low murmur of clacking keys, the occasional ring of a desk phone—all of it fades to a dull, distant buzz in my ears. He walks past me. Cassian. Immaculately dressed in another crisp black suit. Broad shoulders. Commanding stride. That same scent I remember—something expensive, dark, and laced with cruelty—trails behind him like an invisible noose tightening around my throat. His eyes don’t even flicker in my direction. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t remember. Not me. Not that night. Not the girl whose soul shattered quietly beneath him. I stand frozen by the file cabinet, my trembling fingers locked around a stack of documents I was told to retrieve—documents that now feel like bricks weighing me down. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to laugh at myself for being so stupid. It wasn’t some twisted fate. It wasn’t kismet. It was just another man using a broken girl for warmth in the dark. The cash he left beside the bed burns in my memory. I remember staring at it the next morning—disoriented, sore, mascara smudged on the pillow—and wishing I could disappear. Wishing I could scrub the night off my skin, scrub him out of my blood. But now that I see him, now that I know the truth... It wasn’t a mistake. It was deliberate. He thought I was for sale. He paid me. My stomach twists. “Nyra,” someone calls from across the floor. “Those files going to take all day?” I flinch. My name sounds too loud. Too exposed. I quickly dip my head, nodding, not trusting my voice. I walk, legs weak, knees almost buckling, and I slip back to my desk in silence. My mind plays tricks on me. I keep expecting him to stop. To look back. To frown like he’s seen a ghost. But he doesn’t. To him, I’m invisible. Just a girl in a gray skirt, barely holding herself together. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I won’t let them fall here. Not in this building. Not in front of him. Because he might not know me... But I know him. The man who took me that night is now my boss. The same man who humiliated me without even knowing it. The same man who just barked at the HR team to bring him coffee and shredded someone’s proposal without blinking. Cassian Rhys. CEO of Rhys Corp. Heartless. Powerful. My one-night stand. No. My worst mistake. No trace of recognition. No memory of the night he undressed me, kissed every inch of my body, whispered my name like it mattered. The light in his eyes were gone. “I'm really sorry sir.” For words I have said a thousand times, it sounded different this time, I sounded pained and I hated it My chest aches as I quietly and quickly made my way to the back of the room and slowly sat on the only available seat as everyone started peeling their eyes off me and back to him. My hands shake beneath the table. He thinks I’m just an intern. And I realize... It was all a lie. He sees me as a hooker. My body and time was just ‘service’ I let my mind wander off as I thought about the things he did to my body that night “Miss Carter!!” I snapped back to reality to meet his eyes and hell they were full of something. “S.. Sir” my trembling lips blurted He takes a deep breath as if suppressing the urge to lunge at me and strangle the ‘incompetence’ out of me “Compile the De Luce folder and have it at my table tomorrow morning” Already on his feet as the last word leaves his mouth. “No excuses” he says pausing by the door and then walk out majestically.