HIS ASSISTANT, HIS TERMS

CONTROL

Adrian’s POV

The elevator doors closed behind me, leaving Clara behind. Clara would be gone. I had dismissed her for the day, her heels already fading as the elevator rode down to the lobby. Mia stood beside me, calm, smiling with a teasing glint but without malice, but I didn’t speak. Her words from the office echoed in my mind.

Your assistant… she fits naturally into your life.

By the time I reached my penthouse, the city stretched beneath me, glittering and indifferent. I stepped inside, shedding my jacket, loosening my tie, undoing the knots of control I carried like armor. I kicked off my shoes and paused, taking in the silence. The apartment was perfect, minimal, clean and controlled. Every corner precise. It was my sanctuary.

Yet her face won’t leave me. Clara. My assistant. Always in motion, always present, and somehow unnoticed in ways that now feel too intentional;. I took a deep breath. She’s young. Too young. That’s the rational thought. But my mind refused to rest there.

I remembered her movements, small, effortless gestures I'd ignored before: the way she leaned slightly when reading a document, how her eyes narrowed in focus, lips pursed just a fraction when something amuses her. Her laugh, soft, unexpected, the fleeting expression of surprise when I bark instructions at her, or when something startles her. Even the slight tremor of her hands when she’s anxious. Tiny signs I’ve never allowed myself to notice until now.

My chest tightens, a warning I try to ignore. I pace the space, trying to distract myself, trying to talk myself down. Focus on control. She’s my employee. Nothing more.

But the images keep coming. The curve of her hips as she bends over a stack of files. The way her lips part slightly when she’s concentrating. The faint blush that appears when I give an unexpected command, her eyes darting, quick and aware. Her scent, subtle but unmistakable, roses in the early morning, a quiet sweetness she never needs to announce. I shake my head, trying to banish it, muttering to myself.

"Stop thinking about her."

I walk over to the mini bar and pour a glass of scotch, the amber liquid catching the light as I swirl it in my hand. I sip, letting the burn anchor me. I should stop thinking. I should focus on work, on control. But the thought of her persists.

What it would feel like to wrap her hair around my fingers, gentle but claiming, to pull her closer in some impossible private moment. To feel the warmth of her skin near mine without her realizing it. These images are dangerous, reckless, and yet I can’t push them away.

I pace again, more deliberately, letting the glass of scotch be my companion, a shield against the desire I refuse to acknowledge. My mind races: her laughter in quiet rooms, the sound of her voice when she’s unaware I’m listening, the small confident tilt of her chin when she knows she’s right. I let myself linger on the thought, despite the rules I’ve set for myself.

I close my eyes briefly and see her again soft, alive, entirely human in ways I’ve spent years avoiding. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, an unfamiliar tension I refuse to name. I mutter to myself.

Control, Adrian, Control.

And yet, as the glass empties, I pour another and the cool evening stretches into night, I cannot stop. My imagination refuses to be denied. I picture her sitting quietly on the edge of a sofa, hair loose, the faintest hint of rose lingering in the air, her eyes catching mine with an unspoken question. I imagine mornings together that don’t exist, moments of intimacy and laughter that defy my ordered life, touches that shouldn’t happen.

Sleep comes quietly, almost welcome, dragging me under before I can think too much about the consequences.

And I dream.

Not fully real, not fully imagined, but close enough to feel. A house large enough to contain us, quiet but alive. A child laughing somewhere in the background, calling Clara “Mommy.” I am there, watching, and the ache in my chest is as sharp as any real wound.

Morning comes abruptly. Sunlight spills across the penthouse, hot and bright. And then she is there. Clara, bent over me, shaking my shoulder, trying to wake me.

I blink, groggy, disoriented. Desire, frustration, fascination — all at once crash into me. Her closeness, the faint scent of her hair, the warmth of her presence, makes everything I thought I knew about control and distance seem fragile.

I can feel it, now, undeniable and distracting: some things are not meant to be controlled.

And I realize, slowly, I might not want them to be.