Dylan Garcia

The office smelled faintly of burnt coffee and printer ink. Phones rang, keyboards clattered, and someone was coughing in the cubicle across from me, but all of it blurred into background noise. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making the paper on my desk look washed out, clinical.

I sat at my desk, staring blankly at my monitor, the spreadsheet in front of me nothing more than a smear of numbers I couldn’t focus on. My mind kept circling back to last night.

“Then why haven’t you fucked me yet?”

The words echoed in my skull like a curse. My own voice, trembling, needy, betraying me. Charles’s reaction had been… unreadable. His gaze had hardened, his jaw set. And instead of an answer, all I’d gotten was that maddeningly vague murmur:

“You’ll find out when I decide you’re ready.”

No punishment. No reassurance. Just those words, flat and final, leaving me suspended in a purgatory of doubt.

Now, twelve hours later, the silence felt like suffocation. No messages. No orders. Not even the usual subtle acknowledgment that I existed in his orbit.

I tapped nervously at my keyboard, fighting the urge to check my phone again. What if I’d ruined everything? What if I’d overstepped too far, made myself less than desirable? He’d warned me not to confuse pleasure with romance. He’d warned me about crossing lines. I had begged him to fuck me. Like a desperate virgin throwing all self-respect to the wind.

Idiot.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, sighing.

“Rough night?” My coworker from accounting leaned over the partition, holding a mug that smelled far too sweet, his tie already loosened like he’d been fighting with it since morning.

“You could say that,” I muttered, forcing a weak smile.

“Don’t tell me you were gaming again. You’ve got that ‘I stayed up till three a.m. and hate myself’ look.”

“Something like that,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you need a girlfriend. Or at least a hobby that doesn’t involve staring at a screen all night.”

I barked a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Yeah. Sure.”

He went back to his desk, thankfully sparing me from more small talk. My stomach twisted, knotted tight with regret.

I knew Charles. He wasn’t the type to forgive easily. He would let me stew in silence, remind me of my place by absence alone. Maybe I didn’t deserve another chance.

The rest of the morning dragged like wet cement. Meetings blurred together. Someone asked for a report I didn’t even remember drafting. I caught myself typing his name into my search bar, ‘Charles’, before quickly deleting it, pulse hammering.

And then fate laughed in my face.

The sliding glass doors at the entrance hissed open, and a ripple of attention moved across the office. Heads turned, whispers sparked, the natural current of workplace chatter shifting instantly. I looked up and froze.

Charles Johnson.

Tall, composed, dressed in a suit that fit his body like sin itself. His presence bent the air around him, commanding, magnetic, impossible to ignore. He didn’t belong here, among gray walls and ergonomic chairs. He looked like he’d stepped out of a different world, his world, and dragged a piece of it into mine.

My mouth went dry, my pulse spiking. He was supposed to be my secret. My Master. Not standing here, in the middle of my fluorescent-lit workplace, where anyone could see him.

People were already murmuring. 

“Is that the new client?” 

“God, look at that suit.”

“He’s hot, right?”

Our eyes met across the office floor.

For the briefest moment, his expression didn’t change, cold, professional, unreadable. But I felt it. A flicker of recognition, a current of intensity that only I could feel. A reminder that no matter how much he pretended otherwise, he knew exactly what I was to him. And worse—so did I.

I swallowed hard, fingers frozen over my keyboard, as if moving would give me away. His gaze slid past me like I was nothing more than another anonymous employee. But the weight of it lingered, coiled tight in my chest.

“Team,” my manager’s voice cut through the whispers, louder than usual. Mr. Reynolds had stepped out of his office, wearing the fakest smile in his arsenal—the one reserved for people who mattered. “I’d like everyone to welcome Charles Johnson, our new Regional Strategy Director. He’ll be working closely with this department for the next few months.”

My blood ran cold.

Regional Strategy Director. Which meant he wasn’t just passing through, he’d be here. He’d be here every day.

“And this,” Reynolds continued, gesturing directly at me, “is Dylan Garcia, one of our best analysts. Garcia, why don’t you come over and introduce yourself?”

Every set of eyes in the office turned to me. My stomach dropped.

Charles. Meeting me. Formally.

I forced my body to move, my legs stiff as I crossed the short distance. My coworkers craned their necks, watching like it was some drama unfolding just for them.

Charles extended his hand, professional to the point of insult. “Mr. Garcia.”

His grip was firm, steady. Too steady.

“Mr. Johnson,” I managed, my voice paper-thin. “What… brings you here?”

A flicker of amusement touched his lips. “Company business. I’ll be collaborating with your department manager.”

Relief washed over me until he leaned in, his words brushing against my ear like a blade against skin.

“And you, Luna, will behave.”

My knees nearly buckled. My cheeks burned, and I prayed no one around us noticed the way my body jolted at that single word.

Charles straightened again, smooth as ever, his professional smile returning.

“Shall we?” He gestured toward the glass conference room, the one that left every meeting visible to the rest of the floor.