Chapter 2- The first glitch
1301 Words
The hallway glowed in amber hues, basking in the warmth of Zarun Bram’s preferred aesthetic, muted, controlled, deliberate. He was a man of order. A fortress in a tailored suit. At forty, he was built like stone, disciplined, imposing, unmoved. But even stone… cracks under enough pressure, doesn’t it?
Ayra walked through that golden-lit corridor, her pace unhurried, the scent of aged paper and burning wood wrapping around her like a second skin. She wanted him to feel her leave, every single step, not just as movement, but as an echo. She didn’t need to slam doors to leave an impact; she was the impact. And though he dismissed her with words, the smirk brushing her lips said otherwise.
She had left a mark.
The elevator dinged, breaking her thoughts. As the steel doors closed behind her, her phone buzzed inside her coat pocket. She pulled it out.
Uncle Zarun
“Some lessons are best left unlearned. "Don’t push your luck, Ayra.”
A grin bloomed on her lips. She leaned back against the cold metal wall, eyes fluttering shut, a satisfied exhalation slipping past her lips.
So… he was already in.
Perfect.
Ayra Baldwin, fierce and burning, had always been fire-wrapped in a silk glove. Tonight, she was fully ignited. Ambition, curiosity, a dash of chaos, she was everything the quiet feared. Irresistible. Unstoppable.
Meanwhile, Zarun sat buried in the leather of his chair like a man weighed down by something far heavier than regret. His palms still pressed against the desk, knuckles taut, tension thrumming beneath skin and bone.
He regretted the text.
He should never have sent it.
It wasn’t him. He didn’t play games. Especially not childish ones, especially not with her. But what was done… was done.
The phone felt heavier now, like a truth he wasn’t ready to carry. His eyes wandered to the armchair across from him, where Ayra had sat only minutes ago. Her scent lingered, soft vanilla and danger, memories clinging to the air like perfume in a confession booth.
She had spoken with innocence, but every word was calculated. She had chosen her tone, her questions, her silences. He had watched her bloom right there in his office, but this was no child’s game.
She wanted him to react.
And he had.
This had to stop.
But how do you stop a game after you’ve made your move?
How do you undo a thread that’s already fraying?
Ayra lay sprawled on her bed, the glow of her phone lighting her cheekbones. The silence in the room was thick, like velvet pressed against her ears. She didn’t expect him to reply again. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t afford to. So… she would give him a reason.
Ayra:
“Then let’s hope I don’t enjoy breaking the rules, Zarun.”
Sent.
Read.
Her smirk widened.
Control was slipping.
And she was the one pulling the thread.
She knew men like him. She had studied their silence. Understood how they resisted what they wanted most. Zarun was a fortress, yes, but even fortresses had doors. And cracks. Tiny ones, invisible to most. But not to her.
Zarun stared at the message, his chest rising slowly as if exhaling history. He hated how she made him feel. Unsettled. Watched. Known. She walked into his office and made the room hers without lifting a single finger. He had spent decades mastering restraint, and now a 23-year-old girl had found the loose thread he didn’t know existed.
His phone buzzed again, and he flinched as though it had bitten him.
He didn’t reply.
He didn’t have the strength to.
Not now.
Night deepened. The city outside slept, but Ayra didn’t. Her mind buzzed like neon at midnight, flickering with voices she had tried to bury.
“You’re too intense.”
“Why are you always so much?”
“You were never enough.”
She turned restlessly on her bed, heart folding inward. The weight of old rejection pressed against her lungs. Her breaths got shorter. Her throat tightened. Pain was flooding back, the kind she didn’t know how to cry out of.
She clutched her chest, staggering toward her nightstand. Pills. Water. Her fingers trembled. She barely managed to swallow one.
She almost tripped on her way back to bed when the door opened.
“Ayra?”
Her mother stood there, wrapped in a floral robe, her brows drawn in concern. Ms. Celine Wood composed even in her worry.
“Just a bad dream, Mom,” Ayra said, curling beneath the covers like a child.
Celine stepped in, brushing a hand over Ayra’s head. “You’re not alone, sweetheart,” she whispered, then quietly left, switching off the light behind her.
Ayra stared at the ceiling, the darkness echoing her thoughts.
A past that haunted.
A present that trembled.
A future she hadn’t written yet.
Buzz.
Kia.
“Hey,” Ayra answered with a ghost in her voice.
“Ayra?” Kia’s voice was sun-warmed and full of worry. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Ayra tilted the phone, so the ceiling showed instead of her face. “I’m fine. Just tired. Bad dream.”
“Let me see your face, Ari.”
A second later, Kia’s daughter appeared on the screen, curly-haired, cheeks pink like rose petals. “Say hiiii to Ayra!”
Ayra’s entire energy shifted. “Hey, my baby girl! Missed Aiaaa?”
Her voice lit up. Kia laughed. Ayra did too. For a while, they forgot what time it was. They talked about nothing and everything.
Kia, her sister by heart, her vault, her reality check, lived oceans away but knew every fragment of her soul. By the time they hung up, Ayra felt alive again.
Buzz.
Zarun:
“You like playing with fire, don’t you?”
Ayra stretched like a cat, grinning.
The dance had resumed.
She’d spent weeks, no, months, planting seeds into his silence. Tonight, one had bloomed.
She replied instantly.
Ayra:
“Only if the fire plays back.”
Pause.
Three dots appeared. Vanished. Returned. Vanished again.
Hesitation.
Her favourite foreplay.
She imagined him, sleeves rolled, glasses low, veins lining his forearms. Brows furrowed. Fingers poised above his phone.
He was thinking too much.
He always did.
Zarun:
“You assume too much.”
She chuckled.
Ayra:
“Do I? Or are you just bad at pretending?”
Delivered. Read. Silence.
Ah. Now she had hit a nerve.
She stared at the screen, waiting. Imagining his reaction. Jaw clenched. Muscles taut. A man wrestling a war he wasn’t prepared to fight.
Then;
Zarun:
“Go to sleep, Ayra.”
She laughed out loud this time. The kind of laugh that starts in your chest and ends in your throat. Mockery and delight in one breath.
He was trying to regain control. How charming.
She tossed her phone to the side, smiling, satisfied.
Control had shifted.
And Mr. Bram… knew it.
Zarun stared at the glowing screen, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
This was a mistake.
Every reply, a misstep.
He buried his face in his hands, dragging them down in slow frustration. She had slipped into his bloodstream like a slow poison and he let her.
She wasn’t just a complication.
She was a catastrophe dressed in soft silk.
And he was playing with her like a fool.
The way she looked at him, curious, calculating, hungry, it made his skin crawl. And burn. And want.
Buzz.
Ayra:
“Sweet dreams, Zarun.”
He stared at it.
Sweet dreams.
There was nothing sweet about her.
He rose abruptly, grabbing his coat, keys, and silence. He needed to breathe. To walk. To get away from the glowing screen that spoke her name.
Because if he didn’t?
She would win.
She would consume.
And Zarun Bram…
doesn’t lose.
- Writer
