Chapter Three
2068 Words
Elara had always loved mornings.
There was something comforting in the routine:
the scent of cappuccino from the little café on the first floor,
the soft chime of the elevator,
the brief nods from colleagues,
the familiar creak of the flooring as she walked to her desk.
There was something predictable in it. Something human—
a rhythm where she felt at home.
But that morning, the moment she stepped through the main entrance of Virexon, everything felt... different.
The receptionist's face was tight, her voice rigidly polite.
The glass walls looked too clean.
The lights felt a little colder, the floors too shiny.
And the air—
it felt thicker.
As if even the walls were holding their breath.
Inside the elevator, Elara was alone.
No one joined her.
There always was someone.
Now, it was just her, staring at her own stern reflection in the metallic walls.
She pressed the tenth floor instinctively,
but something shifted in her gut—
a quiet, small signal:
Today's going to be harder than you thought.
When she stepped out on the tenth floor, she stopped.
Her desk... was gone.
The carpet still showed the usual impressions where her chair used to sit,
and the neighboring desk was still there—Petra still hunched over, typing away.
But her spot was empty.
Like the cutout space of a missing photo in an album.
Her stomach clenched.
"Petra," she said quietly—sharper than she'd meant.
"Where... where's my desk?"
The woman looked up, something uneasy flickering in her eyes.
"They moved it overnight... I mean... they said it was part of a reorganization. Came from upstairs. The movers... relocated everything to the twelfth."
"To the twelfth?"
Elara's voice was thin. Not anxious—just... stunned.
Petra nodded.
"They said the owner requested it. That... he likes having his assistant nearby."
Elara didn't speak for a moment.
Then she turned and walked slowly toward the elevator.
The twelfth floor was always colder than the rest.
No hum of machines, no coffee-stained folders, no jackets slung over chairs.
Everything here was disciplined.
Too quiet.
Too... sterile.
At the door, she still hoped it was a mistake.
But when she pressed the handle—
it opened silently.
And she was inside.
The room was vast.
The dark gray paneling of the walls muted the light,
the windows large, overlooking the city.
At the center stood a black desk, and behind it sat Darethor Nyxar—
dressed in black, posture unyielding, flipping through a folder.
But Elara's eyes didn't seek him first.
They sought her desk.
There it stood—
on the opposite side of the office, just a few meters from his.
In perfect order.
Her monitor. Her pen holder.
Even the little flower pot she'd received for her birthday last year.
Everything.
There.
"They didn't tell you?" Dareth asked, his voice calm—
like ice dropped into boiling water.
"I prefer my assistant to be accessible. Transparent. Within reach."
Elara didn't answer immediately.
"And you thought this... didn't require prior discussion?"
"I thought efficiency wasn't a matter for debate," he replied coolly.
"But if it presents too great a problem, you may raise it.
Though I wouldn't recommend it."Elara took a deep breath.
She knew that if she let her anger explode now, she'd lose.
The power was on Dareth's side.
The decision had been made.
Her place had been marked.
"Thank you," she said at last, her face almost expressionless.
"Please let me know if you have any specific tasks for me. In the meantime, I'll begin preparing the agenda items."
Dareth looked up for half a second, as if he were either assessing her reaction—or simply recording it.
Then he returned to his documents.
Elara slowly stepped to her desk.
She sat down.
The chair slid across the floor without a sound.
Her fingers began typing immediately, but her mind was elsewhere.
This wasn't work.
This was surveillance.
This was a cage.
And now she was inside it.
The keyboard tapped softly beneath her fingers, but her focus had shifted.
The colorful blocks of calendars and documents on the screen blurred into the edge of her vision.
From the outside, it looked like she was concentrating.
In reality, all her senses zeroed in on a single point: Dareth.
Behind her, in the quiet of the office, his movements were nearly silent.
Files opened. Folders slid over the surface of the desk.
Occasionally the sound of a page turning or a pen clicking filled the air.
Then he spoke—without warning.
"Schedule a private meeting with the Regional Advisors for 6:00 p.m. tonight. The topic will be discussed verbally only. Participants: Marcus Weill, Nadine Hollow, Everett Kern. Location: Conference Room 14/B."
Elara was already typing the names and time.
She didn't ask questions.
Dareth's tone left no room for them.
She entered the names into the search, confirmed their availability, sent out the invitations.
Then came the next task:
"The venue for Monday's PR event has been changed. The new location is the Cirello Sky Hall. Contact management, request technical specifications, catering details, and press access protocol. Don't ask for a quote. Just tell them what I expect."
"Would you like me to represent you during the negotiations?" Elara asked.
"No. Only if they make a mistake," he answered—his voice devoid of color, only cold authority.
Elara tightened her shoulders.
A breath rose in her chest but never reached her lips.
She swallowed it instead.
The calendar was beginning to fill with chaos.
And she, like a machine, recorded, managed, organized—
but with each task Dareth handed her, it became clearer:
this was not a normal working relationship.
Not a partnership.
This was dominance.
The third task involved preparing a strategic report—
for a project Elara had never heard of.
She had no access.
No emails.
Just a name: "Saphir Logistics Acquisition."
"The project is classified," Dareth stated when Elara looked up.
"You'll receive the necessary access immediately.
Gather the documents, prepare a briefing for internal review by Friday morning, 9:00 a.m.
Use your own wording.
Don't copy from existing materials."
"Understood," Elara replied softly, turning back to the screen.
But she didn't understand.
Still, she didn't ask.
Because she knew—no questions were expected.
Only execution.
It was nearing noon, but Dareth hadn't hinted at taking a break.
No water.
No stretch.
Not even a glance out the window.
His presence was like static force—
heavy, unyielding, inescapable.
Elara's shoulders were tense, her neck beginning to stiffen—
but she kept working.
She didn't ask.
Didn't complain.
She just adapted to this new order.
Inside, one thought repeated like a whisper:
This isn't work. This is a trial.
And no one has told her what happens if she fails.
The day unraveled like a tightly wound thread—
each hour a new knot,
a new strain,
a new command.
By noon, Elara had already scheduled three meetings,
prepared a quarterly financial brief at Dareth's request,
and was responding non-stop to internal coordination emails.
Her calendar pulsed with entries,
each minute triggering a new notification.
Every task arrived with the same cold precision:
"Send the contract amendment drafts to Nadine. No duplicate clauses."
"The law firm's latest draft is incorrect—fix it before returning it."
"Take over management of next week's sponsor gala. PR is incompetent."
"Rewrite this week's corporate newsletter. It's impersonal. Weak."
At first, Elara still tried to ask.
A term.
A deadline.
But Dareth would only look up—
with that polished, mirror-smooth gaze that held no irritation,
no patience—
only expectation.
At one point, Elara stopped typing and spoke quietly:
"I'd like to understand the timeline expectations. For one person, the workload—"
"If you can't keep up, say so," Dareth cut in,
without even looking up from his screen.
"I still have time to find a replacement."
The sentence sliced through her like a blade.
Cold. Indifferent. Brutally efficient.
Elara swallowed her reply.
Tension rolled down her back, her nape tightening.
But she said nothing.
Just turned back to her monitor—
and kept going.
Functioning.
Like a perfectly tuned machine.
Calm on the outside.
But inside—
something was thundering louder.
Something that had been there a long time.
A voice she'd buried years ago.
A memory.
That same tight pressure.
Another man's shadow—
now in a more refined, polished form.
No yelling.
No public humiliation.
Just erasure.
Silent, precise.
Erased from decisions.
From space.
From the very air.
By five p.m., Elara had opened so many documents that a dull ache throbbed behind her eyes.
Her shoulders had locked, her back ached—
but Dareth still hadn't moved.
Hadn't looked at her.
Hadn't asked if she was tired.
Only the next command followed—
as if the day would never end:
"I want the board materials compiled by tonight.
Comprehensive reports from the last three months, with summaries."
"Understood," Elara replied—
but her voice was barely audible.
Her hands still moved without trembling.
Her gaze stayed sharp.
Her spine stayed straight.
But somewhere, deep inside,
a c***k was beginning to form in the shield she'd spent years building around herself.
And Dareth?
He just sat there.
Unmoving.
As if he knew neither time nor fatigue.
People believe power lies in words.
That control is in giving orders, declaring decisions, standing at the top of some grand hierarchy.
They're wrong.
True power is presence.
That quiet, inescapable force that's felt even when you don't speak.
Don't move.
You simply exist.
Dareth had always known this.
Today was no different.
Just another step in a strategy long in motion.
Arrive.
Claim space.
Make yourself known—without effort.
Body language said more than any formal announcement.
In the glances of the staff, there was retreat, curiosity—
and the subtle shadow of fear.
And then there was her.
Elara.
It wasn't her figure that caught his attention—though that too, was notable—
but the way she paused in the doorway when she saw where her desk had been moved.
That half-second of shock.
The caught breath.
And then—
the swift, disciplined re-alignment.
Flexibility.
Control.
No questions.
That was valuable.
And dangerous.
People like her know how to swallow rage.
And they also know when to release it.
He watched her all day.
Not overtly.
Not obviously.
He just... knew.
When her shoulder tensed.
When she swallowed a comeback.
When her fingers hit the keys a little harder.
When her breathing became too even.
Dareth didn't give tasks easily.
It was intentional.
He was testing her.
This wasn't a game.
It was filtering.
If Elara could handle it, she could stay.
If not, she wasn't worth keeping.
In a position like this, there was no room for weakness.
And certainly not for emotion.
But something...
something was there.
A tension.
Not just from her.
Something else.
Something familiar—yet long unseen.
A vibration in the air—
when he stood too close,
when her fingers shuffled folders,
or when she said that measured "understood" with more defiance than anyone else would have noticed.
That afternoon, after five hours of silent work side by side, Dareth noticed the first flicker.
The woman didn't complain.
Didn't ask.
But her body...
spoke another language.
Tensed shoulder blades.
Lowered gaze.
A strand of hair smoothed too precisely.
The thin vein pulsing at her temple.
Her body was beginning to tire.
But her heart—
still resisted.
And that...
was interesting.
He hadn't expected it.
Hadn't asked for it.
But it was there.
Uninvited.
And it annoyed him.
Dareth didn't understand weakness.
Nor unnecessary attachment.
But his instincts—
they were always sharp.
And they told him this woman wouldn't break easily.
And that...
awakened his appetite.
By six p.m., she had completed everything.
Precisely. On time. Flawlessly.
Even the structure of the presentation was better than what others built in days.
He didn't praise her.
He didn't plan to.
Praise weakened.
But when he left the office, he paused briefly in the doorway—and looked back.
He said nothing.
But he saw.
The woman hadn't moved.
She just sat there—
back perfectly straight,
as if refusing to let anyone see how close she was to the edge.
And he liked that.
Far too much.
And that—
was what he hated.
- Writer
