Crippled by His Shadow

CHAPTER TWO: ON EDGE

ZARA’S POV

The second I walk into the office, I know I’m not going to be okay.

How can I, when everything looks the same. The shiny marble floor, the glass walls, the smell of coffee drifting from the break room.

But… it doesn’t feel the same.

It feels heavier, sharper, like the air itself is in on my secret and pressing down on me. My heels tap against the floor, too loud, way too loud, and it makes my chest squeeze tight. I keep my head down because if I look up and accidentally meet anyone’s eyes, they will know. They will know I woke up in the wrong bed, with the wrong man, and the man just happens to sign my paycheck.

I glance once, just once, and of course he’s there. Damian Kush. My boss. My mistake. My undoing. He’s standing inside his glass office, phone to his ear, sleeves rolled up, jacket on the back of his chair. He looks calm, powerful, in control, the exact opposite of the mess I am. His eyes flick toward me for half a second, then away, like I’m nothing. Like I don’t even exist.

That should make me feel better. It doesn’t. It feels worse.

I slide into my chair, right outside his office, and pretend to focus on the computer screen. My hands are shaking so bad I can barely type. His voice drifts through the glass, smooth and steady, and every time I hear it I’m pulled back into that hotel room. His mouth. His hands. My name on his lips. My stomach twists, heat rising in my cheeks, and I want to crawl out of my own skin.

I tell myself to get it together, to just act normal, but by ten a.m. I’ve already screwed up twice. I handed him the wrong meeting schedule, and when I tried to fix it, my pen slipped out of my hand and clattered on the floor right at his feet. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even sigh. He just looked at me, one quick, sharp look that cut deeper than if he’d shouted. Then he walked away.

That silence is worse than any lecture. That silence tells me exactly what he thinks of me.

By noon, I swear people are whispering. Two women from accounting walk past, giggling about something, and one of them glances at me. My chest squeezes so tight I can’t breathe. Are they laughing at me? Do they know? Did he tell them? Another guy from marketing leans over my desk to ask for a file, and when he smiles, it feels like he’s mocking me. Rationally, I know I’m probably imagining it. But my guilty conscience won’t shut up. Every laugh, every smile, every look, it all feels like they’re in on it. Like there’s a sign on my forehead that says: Slept with the boss.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Tehila: How’s work, Miss Secretary Extraordinaire? I stare at it, thumbs hovering. What do I even say? That work feels like a prison today? That I can’t look my boss in the eye without remembering every single second of last night? That I might throw up if someone asks me one more question? I lock the phone without replying.

The day drags. My head is pounding, my stomach is in knots, and every time Damian speaks my name, even if it’s just to ask for a file, I flinch. His words are short, clipped, almost sharp. “Fix this.” “Send that.” “Not this one, the other one.” It’s work talk, normal boss stuff, but it feels like punishment. Like each command is meant to remind me that he’s the one with power, and I’m the i***t who crossed the line.

By five, I’m ready to bolt. I stuff my things into my bag and head for the elevator, moving fast, like if I don’t leave right now, I’ll suffocate. Just a few more steps and I’ll be free.

“Zara.”

I freeze. His voice. My name.

I turn slowly, my heart thudding so hard it shakes my chest. He’s standing in his office doorway, leaning against the frame like he’s been waiting for me. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a file he doesn’t seem to care about. His eyes are fixed on me.

“Yes, Mr. Kush?” My voice is soft, shaky, barely there.

“Inside. Now.”

My stomach drops. My legs feel like cement, but somehow they move. The glass door shuts behind me, sealing me in, and suddenly it’s just the two of us in his office. The smell of his cologne hits me, that same sharp, clean scent that still lingers on my dress from last night. My pulse races, my palms sweat, and I can’t look at him for too long because every time I do, I see too much.

He doesn’t sit down. He doesn’t glance at his desk or the papers piled on it. He just steps closer, slow, deliberate, until there’s barely a foot of space between us. My breath stutters.

“You wanted this job,” he says, his voice low, steady, cutting straight through me.

“Yes,” I whisper, because my throat is too dry to say anything else.

“Then prove you deserve it.”

My mouth opens, but no words come out. My heart is hammering so loud it drowns out everything.

“How?” I finally manage, my voice trembling.

He holds my gaze, unblinking, unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches for the shelf behind him. He pulls down a bottle of whiskey, the same brand from last night, and pours it into a glass. The smell hits me instantly, dragging me straight back to that hotel room, to the moment everything spun out of control.

He sets the glass on the desk, slides it toward me, his hand moving slow, deliberate.

The same drink. The same burn. The same mistake waiting to happen.

His eyes lock on mine, daring me to pick it up.

And I don’t know if this is punishment, or if he’s pulling me right back into the fire.

The glass sits there, the amber liquid shimmering under the office lights, and my heart races faster than it should. Every nerve in my body screams at me to walk away, but I don’t move. I can’t.

Damian’s eyes stay locked on mine, and I feel that weight again, the one that’s been crushing me since I woke up this morning. His gaze is sharp, like a blade held just inches from my throat, daring me to make the wrong choice.

I stare at the glass. The same drink. The same damn mistake waiting to happen.

Don’t do it, I tell myself. Walk away. Keep your dignity. You’re better than this.

But my hands are shaking, and my body betrays me. The temptation is too much.

I reach for the glass.

His lips curl into the faintest of smirks, like he knew I’d do it before I did. My fingers graze the edge of the glass, and for just a second, everything freezes.

I glance up, meeting his eyes, and I see something flicker there. Something dangerous. A warning.

But before I can stop myself, the glass is in my hand, the whiskey burning the back of my throat.

Damian doesn’t say a word.

He just watches.

And in that silence, I feel the walls closing in. This moment, this damn moment is going to change everything.

But before I can think, his phone rings. The sound shatters the tension in the room, and just like that, he pulls his attention away from me.

I freeze. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

He’s not done with me yet.