**Chapter Twelve: The Things that almost happen**
1234 Words
Tuesday arrived quietly, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Moniq woke before dawn, the kind of wakefulness that came not from rest but from thoughts refusing to settle. Her body still carried the faint ache from the previous day’s ride — the hum of the motorbike beneath her thighs, the wind tugging at her jacket as she had left Jean’s home behind. Monday had been long, strange, and far too intimate for something that was not meant to matter.
She sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, rubbing her palms together.
Get it together, she told herself.
This was work. Nothing more.
She dressed simply — dark trousers, a fitted blouse, hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. No effort. No softness. She followed the 22-rule like a quiet oath: no emotions, no attachments, no fantasies. It had kept her safe long before she walked into Jean’s world, and it would keep her safe now.
Outside, the motorbike waited.
The engine roared to life, grounding her, and Moniq let herself breathe as she rode toward the company. The city blurred past her — vendors setting up stalls, boda bodas weaving through traffic, the smell of morning dust and fuel. This was her world. Not marble floors. Not glass offices. Not men like Jean.
Yet her mind betrayed her.
She remembered how Jean had looked yesterday, surprised to see her in his home, softer without the armor of authority. How his little sister had clung to her hand and called her Beauty with innocent certainty. How she herself had thought, This place is even more beautiful in daylight.
She shook her head hard.
Dangerous thoughts.
Fear That Lingers Elsewhere
At the Richards’ home, fear lingered like an unspoken guest.
Mrs. Richards moved through the house mechanically, her thoughts stuck in a loop she could not escape. Yesterday had nearly undone her. The near collision in the corridor — the scent, the voice, the unmistakable presence of Juliette — had dragged the past to the surface like a body pulled from water.
She had escaped.
Barely.
Now the fear lived in her chest, tight and watchful.
Aunt Amy noticed.
“You barely slept,” Amy said carefully, handing her a cup of tea.
Mrs. Richards nodded but did not drink. “I keep seeing her,” she admitted quietly. “Even when she’s not there.”
Amy sat beside her. “She didn’t see you.”
“She almost did.”
“That’s not the same.”
Mrs. Richards let out a bitter laugh. “For someone like Juliette, almost is enough to destroy lives.”
Amy reached for her hand. “Moniq doesn’t know.”
“And she mustn’t,” Mrs. Richards said sharply — then softened. “Not yet. Maybe never.”
She closed her eyes.
Please, she prayed silently, let yesterday be the end of it.
Back at the Company
Moniq arrived early, helmet tucked under her arm, unaware of the storm waiting later in the day.
The office buzzed with restrained energy. Oliver had returned from his short business trip that morning, and his presence shifted the atmosphere instantly. He walked in like a man who expected attention — tailored suit, confident smile, and in his hands, a bouquet of roses far too large for a professional setting.
Heads turned.
Moniq froze when she saw him approaching.
“For you,” Oliver said smoothly, extending the flowers.
Her expression barely changed.
“Thank you,” she replied politely, accepting them without enthusiasm.
Oliver studied her face, clearly disappointed by her lack of reaction. “I thought you might like them.”
“They’re nice,” she said honestly. “But unnecessary.”
Across the room, Jean watched.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He told himself it was irritation at Oliver’s lack of boundaries. Nothing more. Yet when Moniq thanked Oliver — calm, composed, distant — something sour twisted in his chest.
Later that morning, Clarisse was in a mood.
She stacked files on Moniq’s desk without mercy. “These need to be reviewed today.”
Moniq blinked. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
“That’s—”
“Work,” Clarisse snapped. “Unless that bike of yours made you think you’re special.”
Moniq swallowed her response and nodded. “I’ll handle it.”
Jean noticed.
He said nothing, but when evening crept in and the office emptied, he remained. Pretending to work. Watching her from the glass walls of his office like a man guarding a secret.
Heat, Fear, and Almost
Hours passed.
Moniq worked steadily, her focus sharp despite exhaustion. The office grew warmer as the night settled in, the air thick and stale. She tugged at her collar, then hesitated — before finally slipping off her blouse and draping it over the chair.
She remained in her bra — scarlet, fitted, hugging her like a second skin.
Unaware.
Jean looked up at the wrong moment.
His breath caught.
She was… unreal. Smooth skin catching the fluorescent light, shoulders relaxed in concentration, curves held with unconscious confidence. He looked away immediately, pulse racing, cursing himself.
Then she screamed.
A sharp, piercing sound that cut through the silence.
“Jean!” she cried, scrambling backward.
A small snake slithered near her feet.
Jean was out of his office in seconds.
“It’s okay,” he said firmly. “It’s harmless.”
“I don’t care!” Moniq sobbed. “Take it away!”
The snake moved suddenly — toward her.
She shrieked again, stumbling straight into Jean.
Their bodies collided, and for one suspended moment, chaos turned into stillness.
The snake reared.
Jean reached instinctively.
Moniq clutched his shirt.
And somehow — impossibly — her lips brushed his.
Not a kiss.
An accident.
But electric.
Her breath hitched. His hand tightened around her waist as he steadied her, the world narrowing to heat and pulse and shock.
Jean froze.
Moniq froze.
Then reality crashed back.
She pulled away, trembling. “I—I’m sorry. Boss. Jean. I didn’t—”
Jean swallowed hard. “You don’t need to apologize.”
His voice came out low. Too low.
She blinked. “Were you… talking to me?”
“No,” he lied, stepping back, forcing control. “I’ll handle the snake.”
He secured it quickly, placing it into a container. “Clarisse’s pet,” he muttered. “I don’t know how it got loose.”
Moniq wrapped her blouse around herself, heart pounding, face flushed.
She laughed shakily. “I’ve always hated them. At the farm, they killed old Bohens.”
Jean smirked. “You’re such a crybaby.”
She shot him a glare through wet lashes. “Say that again.”
He chuckled — then stopped, realizing how close they still were.
Dangerously close.
“I’ll help you finish the work,” he said abruptly.
They worked side by side in silence — thick, charged, restrained.
When she finally left, Moniq reminded herself of the rule.
Twenty-two. Always twenty-two.
And yet… her lips still burned.
After
At home, Moniq found her mother pale and quiet, Aunt Amy close beside her.
“What’s wrong?” Moniq asked, alarmed.
Mrs. Richards smiled weakly. “Just not feeling well.”
Moniq accepted it — but doubt lingered.
That night, none of them slept well.
Because some moments, once they happen, refuse to be undone.
- Writer
