Melt His Walls

Chapter Three: Lines I Can’t Cross

I barely slept that night. My mind kept replaying the day in vivid loops—the way Callum Blackwood had looked at me, the subtle smirk he gave when I corrected those contracts, the sharp weight of his gaze that seemed to follow me even when he wasn’t around. I told myself it was just nerves, that it was only my first week. But a small voice inside whispered the truth: it wasn’t just nerves. It was something else. Something dangerous.

By the time morning came, I was already awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the faint sounds of traffic outside my window. The city never slept, and apparently neither did Callum Blackwood. Or at least, neither did the office that revolved entirely around him. I shoved the thoughts aside, forcing myself to get ready, telling myself that today I would prove I belonged here.

When I stepped into the lobby, the cold marble floors gleaming beneath the overhead lights, I felt my stomach tighten. The elevator ride to the top floor was mercifully quiet, but the silence made my nerves worse. I rehearsed what I would say, how I would act, what mistakes I couldn’t afford to make.

The doors opened, and there he was. Callum Blackwood. Leaning against his desk, arms crossed, gray eyes sharp, unreadable. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just regarded me as though I were a puzzle he was studying.

“You’re early,” he said finally.

“I prefer to be prepared,” I answered, lifting my chin even though my heart threatened to betray me.

A corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. That smirk had a way of making my chest tighten, my stomach flutter. I hated how much I noticed. I hated that I noticed at all.

“Good,” he said. “Because today, I’m going to see what you’re really made of.”

He handed me a stack of documents, thicker than any I’d seen before, and gestured to my desk. “Errors are not tolerated. Nor are excuses. You have until three o’clock.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, my hands from trembling.

As I returned to my desk, I felt the office watching me in a way I hadn’t before. Whispers floated just beyond my hearing. Eyes darted to me and then quickly away. I felt like I’d stepped onto a battlefield dressed in nothing but a thin suit of confidence. Every step I took, every action, felt magnified, measured.

I sorted through the contracts, double-checked every calculation, scrutinized every clause. Sweat prickled my brow, my fingers ached from the meticulous work. And yet, I couldn’t stop glancing toward his office. Callum Blackwood didn’t need to speak to control the room. His presence alone was enough to make people hesitate, falter.

By lunch, I had eaten nothing, my thoughts too tangled to even notice my own hunger. My phone buzzed a few times, innocuous office emails, nothing threatening. But I couldn’t help glancing at it every time. My nerves had me keyed up like I’d swallowed a storm.

The afternoon stretched endlessly. I corrected minor errors, adjusted margins, rechecked footnotes, and triple-checked figures. Each time I thought I was finished, I noticed another discrepancy, a tiny detail that might be wrong. I felt the weight of expectation pressing on my shoulders. This wasn’t just about completing a task—it was about surviving Callum’s scrutiny.

Finally, at two thirty, I thought I was done. I gathered the documents, careful not to crease the edges, and walked toward his office. My heart hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it through the walls.

He didn’t look up when I entered. He simply took the folder, flipping through it with a methodical precision that made my stomach twist.

“Not bad,” he said at last, gray eyes locking on mine. Relief surged through me… followed almost immediately by unease.

“But one mistake,” he continued, tapping the folder, “and this will be the least of your problems.”

I swallowed hard. His words weren’t a warning. They were a challenge.

Before I could respond, he leaned back, steepling his fingers, and added, “Also, understand this: I don’t like surprises. And I don’t like anyone watching me—except when I allow it.”

A chill ran down my spine. Watching him? What did that mean?

I wanted to ask. I wanted to demand clarity. But his silence said more than words ever could. He didn’t elaborate. He simply returned to his desk, leaving me standing there, heart hammering, thoughts spiraling.

By the time I left for the day, my head was buzzing. Every interaction, every glance, every word from him felt like walking a tightrope over a pit I couldn’t see. I had survived. Barely. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Not just by him, but someone else.

When I reached my desk to grab my bag, I noticed an envelope tucked under the corner. My name was on it: Bella Hart.

Hands trembling, I opened it. Inside was a photograph—me, at my desk, working, oblivious to the camera that had captured me.

And beneath it, scrawled in sharp black ink:

"I see you."

My breath caught.

Who was watching me? And why?

Tomorrow, I realized, wouldn’t just be another day at Blackwood Holdings.

It would be a test I didn’t know the rules to.