The Want of You

CHAPTER 2: Fixation

Alexander Gates does not release my wrist

The music has not resumed and the silence stretches, awkward and thick, filled with the sound of my own breathing. I am aware of it in a way that makes my chest tighten, each inhale too loud, too visible

People are staring

Not openly, not boldly. But the way they always do when something interesting is happening to someone who does not matter. Eyes flick and slide away the moment I notice them, only to return a second later.

I try to step back again. His grip tightens, not painfully, just enough to remind me that movement is no longer my decision

“Let go,” I say

My voice sounds steadier than I feel. My stomach is coiled tight, like a fist

He does not respond

Instead, he turns slightly, angling his body so that I am shielded from the crowd and trapped at the same time. The shift is subtle, practiced. He has done this before. Controlled rooms. Controlled people.

“Clean this,” he says to someone behind me

A staff member appears almost instantly, eyes down, already kneeling to gather the broken glass. No questions. No hesitation.

I am still crouched, my knees aching against the marble. I push myself upright slowly, aware of how exposed I feel standing this close to him. His presence crowds my space, steals air from my lungs.

I am suddenly very aware of how small I am

“Sir,” I say, keeping my tone respectful, careful. “I need to return to my station.”

“You are finished for the night,” he replies

The certainty in his voice makes my chest constrict

“I cannot just leave,” I say. “I will be charged for the breakage. I will lose my pay”

His eyes flick down to the tray, to the empty space where the glasses once sat. Then back to my face.

“You will not,” he says

The words are simple. Final.

A flush creeps up my neck. “That is not your decision”

Something shifts again. Not anger,not amusement, Focus.

“It is,” he says quietly

He releases my wrist only to place his hand at the small of my back. The contact sends a jolt through me, sharp enough that my breath catches. His palm is warm, heavy, guiding rather than pushing

“Walk,” he says

My feet hesitate

Around us, the room breathes again. Conversations start up in fragments. Music stirs, cautious. The moment is passing for everyone else

Not for me

“I did nothing wrong,” I say as we move. Each step feels unsteady, like the floor might tilt again beneath me

“You broke something,” he replies. “In my house.”

My stomach tightens at the word house. The implication presses in on me from all sides.

We move toward the balcony doors. People part easily for him. I feel their curiosity brush against my skin like static

I hate it

Outside, the night air is cool, sharp against my flushed skin. The city stretches below us, lights blinking and distant, a reminder that there is a world beyond this room. One I belong to

He releases me once the doors slide shut behind us

I step away immediately, rubbing my wrist. A faint redness marks where his fingers were. The sight of it makes my throat tighten

“This is inappropriate,” I say. “You cannot just remove staff from an event”

“I can,” he says again

I cross my arms over my chest, more for myself than for him. My heart is still racing, uneven

“You do not know me,” I say. “You do not get to decide anything about me”

He studies me for a long moment. The city lights reflect faintly in his eyes, making them look darker.

“You should not have looked at me,” he says

The words send a chill through me

“I did not mean to,” I say

“Intent does not change outcome”

Anger flares, sudden and hot. “You are not the center of the world”

One corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. A reaction.

“No,” he agrees. “But I own the floor you are standing on”

My stomach drops

I turn toward the doors. “I am leaving”

He does not block me. He does not touch me

“Go,” he says

Relief rushes through me so fast it almost makes me dizzy. I take one step. Then another

“Your bag,” he adds

I freeze

“I do not have it,” I say slowly

“You left it by the service entrance,” he replies

A cold knot forms in my stomach. “How would you know that”

“I notice things,” he says

I turn back to face him, my pulse is loud in my ears. “Where is it?”

“In my office”

My fingers curl into my palms. “Then I need it”

“Yes,” he says. “You do”

Silence stretches between us. The city hums below, indifferent

I swallow. “I will retrieve it. And then I am leaving”

He inclines his head slightly. Agreement. Or allowance

He opens the door for me

We walk back through the ballroom together. This time, there is no pretending I am invisible. Eyes follow. Whispers bloom. I keep my gaze forward, jaw tight, spine straight.

I refuse to let them see me shrink

His office is not on the main floor. We take a private corridor, carpet muffling our steps. The quiet presses in, making every breath feel too loud again.

When the door closes behind us, the sound is soft

Final

The room is dim, lit by city glow and a single lamp. Clean. Minimal. Expensive in a way that does not try to impress

My bag sits on the desk

Relief flickers through me

I move toward it

“Stop,” he says

My body reacts before my mind does. I halt, heart slamming into my ribs

He steps closer. Slowly. Intentionally

“You are shaking,” he observes

“I am not,” I say

My hands betray me, trembling faintly at my sides

“You do not like being seen,” he says

I say nothing

“You work very hard not to be,” he continues

“And yet, you drew every eye in that room”

My throat tightens

“That will not happen again,” I say

His gaze sharpens “You do not know that”

I lift my chin. “Give me my bag”

He reaches past me, lifts it from the desk. For a moment, he does not hand it over

“You are afraid of me,” he says

“Yes,” I answer before I can stop myself

Something in his expression shifts Satisfaction.Not cruel. Certain

“Good,” he says. “That means you will be careful”

He places the bag into my hands. Our fingers brush. A spark jumps, sharp and unwanted

I pull back

“Tonight is not finished,” he says calmly

My stomach sinks

“I am,” I reply. “This ends now”

He looks at me as if weighing something invisible

“We will see,” he says

The door opens behind me

I do not wait for permission. I leave.

But even as I step back into the city night, my pulse still racing, one truth settles deep in my chest

He let me go

And men like Alexander Gates never do that without reason.