Dark Desires

Chapter Four

Everything on her desk lay exactly as she had left it.

The folder to the left, the pen placed horizontally, the notes arranged in three perfectly even stacks.

The coffee—black, steaming—arrived precisely at 7:59 a.m.

The day began with precision.

That's how she liked it.

That's how she functioned.

But there was something... off in the morning silence.

In the invisible rhythm that everyone around her had unconsciously followed until now,

there was a new sound.

Quieter. Tighter.

And—infuriatingly—more stable.

Elara.

Dareth looked up with only one eye when the woman entered.

He didn't speak, didn't nod—

but he noticed.

Her steps were exact.

Not too fast, not too soft.

Her movements no longer sought their place—

they knew it.

Knew her new position.

The new rules.

And that... was unnatural.

People don't adapt that quickly under real pressure.

Not like this.

Not if you've literally dismantled them the day before.

Or at least... most people don't.

Elara placed the folder in front of him.

The project materials were already prepared.

The notes used an exact typeface, the colors deliberately muted.

The entire document didn't try to impress—

it meant to convince.

This wasn't an attempt.

It was a strategy.

Dareth opened it.

Scanned it—not hastily, but slowly, analytically.

The woman didn't speak.

Didn't begin to explain.

She just stood there, patiently, hands clasped behind her back—

like someone who knew exactly what she had delivered.

And that calm...

was beginning to irritate him.

"The structure of the Saphir project is unusual," Dareth finally remarked, his eyes still on the document.

"You compiled this?"

"Yes," Elara answered evenly.

"I structured the possible integration routes based on existing contracts. The figures have been validated. I included alternative risk scenarios at the end of the summary."

Dareth closed the folder.

His pen paused in his hand.

He couldn't find a flaw.

And that was the moment he hated most.

When his assumptions didn't hold.

When someone was precise, efficient, quiet—

and not weak.

When intellect didn't yield to fear—

but directed it.

He lifted his gaze.

Elara met his eyes.

There was no defiance.

No challenge.

Just... a stable presence.

Like someone who knew exactly what she was worth—

and didn't ask for recognition.

She simply did the work.

That was more dangerous than anything else.

The folder landed with a soft thud as Dareth pushed it aside.

Not to the edge of the desk.

Not calmly.

But to the side—where it slid straight into the trash.

Elara didn't move for a second.

The moment wasn't loud—

it was heavy.

The folder landed almost soundlessly at the bottom of the bin,

yet the air felt thicker than after a shout.

"This is weak," Dareth said, his voice neither shaking nor rising—

just turning cold.

"Too theoretical. Too predictable.

Like it was clipped from a textbook."

Elara didn't reply.

She just looked at him.

Her eyes didn't ask.

Didn't rebel.

They just... hurt.

But quietly.

"Rewrite it. I want the new version by nine tomorrow morning.

And don't try to think 'correctly,'" Dareth continued, leaning back in his chair.

"Try to be useful."

The chair creaked softly.

The air sharpened.

The moment slowly unraveled between them—

and something deep—something neither of them said—

still trembled there.

Elara simply nodded.

Slowly, but with dignity.

She didn't snap back.

Didn't ask, what was wrong? or what should I change?

She didn't beg.

Didn't explain.

She just accepted the task—

and withdrew.

Dareth was left alone in the office.

He glanced at the trash.

The folder lay there, spine almost perfectly straight—

as if it were still resisting the position it had been forced into.

And that...

tightened something in his gut.

Because he knew—

he hadn't thrown away the project.

He'd thrown away what he felt when he read it.

And that—he couldn't afford.

Not yet.

The folder landed with a soft thud in the bin.

Elara stood still—

like someone suddenly deprived of her center of gravity.

A brief, burning pain swept through her stomach,

like the flash that leaves a glowing imprint in your vision—

painful, but unavoidable.

Dareth had already turned away,

as if discarding the folder had been nothing more than an administrative gesture.

His voice was cold and firm, as always:

"I want it again. Tomorrow morning at nine.

More thoroughly."

The woman nodded.

Didn't speak.

Didn't argue.

It was just work.

Just work.

She returned to her seat. She took out the notepads again, but the letters were heavier than before.

Every line rolled onto the page with more weight, every keystroke was stiffer.

But she wrote.

Because she knew—

you have to write even when no one's listening.

From that moment on, the day showed no mercy.

At 11 a.m., Dareth found a typo in a document—something Elara had written before even saving the file.

"With this level of carelessness, you wouldn't even make it past the first round of an interview,"

he remarked coldly,

without looking at her, flipping to the next page.

At 11:30, she brought an email reply for approval, written in a diplomatic, clear tone.

"Too soft.

Partners aren't here to make friends—they expect profit. Rewrite it. Sharper."

By midday, her throat felt dry,

but she didn't want to leave her desk.

The atmosphere didn't allow it.

There was a water cooler in the hallway,

but every step away from her work felt like an unspoken judgment.

At 3 p.m., Dareth commented on the layout of a presentation draft.

"The margins are too tight.

You like having room to breathe, don't you?

Then give your text some air, too."

His voice wasn't harsher than usual—

but the emphasis... it cut.

At 4 p.m., Elara organized a meeting with three participants.

All confirmations were in.

The schedule was updated.

"And if someone suddenly can't make it?

Will you host a warm-seat showcase instead?"

"According to the confirmation, everyone will be there,"

Elara replied softly, controlled.

"Don't count on 'according to'.

Think more steps ahead—

not just one.

If I made this many mistakes, I wouldn't be sitting here."

A jab.

Another.

And another.

Elara didn't shake.

She didn't cry.

She didn't collapse.

She just... went quiet.

Her movements slowed.

Her answers became terse.

Her eyes occasionally lingered on the reflection in the dark screen—

as if searching for the woman

who, that very morning, still believed maybe today would be different.

But it wasn't different.

Today simply continued what the morning had begun.

It took everything—

and gave nothing back.

At 6 p.m., when all tasks were complete,

every paper on the desk,

every response sent,

every spreadsheet accurate,

every deadline met—

Dareth still didn't look at her.

He only said, while scanning another folder:

"Don't be late tomorrow.

Punctuality is the least that's expected."

The sentence was simple.

But the timing—intentional.

Elara didn't answer.

Didn't nod.

She just quietly packed her things.

And as she zipped her bag shut,

only one word echoed in her mind over and over,

buzzing through every nerve:

Why?

And the answer...

no one gave it.

⸻

The apartment door closed silently behind her.

Elara just stood there for a long moment,

gripping the handle as if her hand refused to let go—

as if letting go would shatter something.

Maybe herself.

Taking off her shoes,

hanging her coat,

dropping her bag by the bar stool—

it was all automatic.

She didn't think.

The body just performed its routine,

but her soul... was somewhere else.

Maybe still in that office.

In that sterile, frozen space

where her words meant nothing

and her efforts crumpled like paper into a trash bin.

She didn't turn on the lights.

Only the city's glow filtered through the blinds.

The streetlamps cast golden streaks across the floor,

furniture blurred in the dusk.

The apartment used to be a refuge.

Now it was a reminder.

That she was alone.

In the kitchen, she stopped by the glass she'd left the night before.

Half-full of water.

She didn't touch it.

Just stared.

The light broke on the water's surface,

casting a faint, trembling line across her fingers.

This day...

had reopened every wound inside her.

Dareth's voice still echoed in her ears—

he hadn't yelled.

Hadn't humiliated her loudly.

He had simply watched.

Broken every word she spoke

with razor-edged indifference.

And something inside her—

something she'd tried to bury for years—

woke up again today.

She slowly made her way toward the bedroom.

She meant to review her notes for tomorrow,

but her body was heavy.

Her eyes burned from exhaustion.

There was no energy left in her.

Only a deep, relentless tension.

In the bedroom, she didn't turn on the main light.

Just the bedside lamp.

Its glow was warm, amber—

as if trying to protect her from whatever this night had brought.

But it was too late.

Elara sat on the edge of the bed.

Removed her blouse, folded it carefully over the chair's arm.

Then slowly slipped out of her skirt.

Every movement was measured.

Her nightgown slid over her with ease—

but still she felt the day's weight clinging to her—

the glances,

the words,

the rejection.

She lay down, pulled the blanket up to her shoulders,

and turned to her side.

A long, drawn-out sigh escaped her lips.

She didn't cry.

There were no tears.

But her throat tightened—

as if something was trapped inside her body,

something she couldn't—

or wouldn't—say aloud.

"Just fall asleep,"

she whispered to herself.

But sleep wasn't merciful.

At first, just blurred shapes appeared.

Gray walls.

A closed door.

Light from the kitchen.

Muted sounds—

a dripping tap,

a footstep on the floor,

a glass hitting the counter.

Then the voice.

Familiar.

Low, angry, wrapped in whispered rage.

"How many times have I told you—don't look at me like that?"

Elara froze in her sleep.

But her body didn't move.

The present was no longer within reach.

She had fallen back into the past.

The old apartment.

The narrow room,

the worn gray sofa,

the coffee table he always shoved aside when he...

when he came too close.

Leonardo.

He stood in the doorway,

shirt half unbuttoned,

his words laced with wine—the wine he always hid on top of the fridge.

His voice no longer questioned.

Didn't threaten.

It decided.

"You think you're better than me?

That you can make it without me?"

Elara backed away.

In the dream, everything moved slowly—

like underwater.

Her legs wouldn't obey.

The room wasn't big enough.

The hit never landed—just the wall.

The fall.

The dull thud of a body hitting the bookshelf.

Wine glass shards on the floor.

The silence that followed—

the loudest silence in the world.

In her dream, her scream stayed inside.

Didn't escape her throat.

The body trembled.

The heart pounded.

The world spun—

but no one heard.

No one came.

And then—she woke up.

Air was suddenly not enough.

She sat up in bed, gasping,

the blanket half-fallen.

Her nightgown clung to her back,

sweat dripping from her hair.

The room was quiet.

But the fear—was alive.

The past had returned.

And when her trembling hand touched her face,

only one thought thundered louder than the nightmare:

The same look. The same feeling.

Dareth... didn't hit me.

Didn't threaten me.

But his voice... hurt just the same.