༻ 05 ༺

That evening, Ateala sat alone at the small dining table in her apartment, a plate of half-eaten food growing cold in front of her. Lately, she hadn't had much of an appetite, food often turned against her halfway through a meal.

Her stomach churning unpredictably as if it couldn't decide what it would tolerate. Tonight was no different. She pushed the plate away slightly, appetite gone, discomfort settling in its place. She hadn't bothered turning on the television-the quiet felt necessary, a space to think, even if her thoughts refused to stay orderly.

Mr. Peterson. No-Trevin. She hadn't even realized she'd started using his first name in her head until it startled her. She shook her head slightly and stared at the far wall, eyes unfocused, replaying the moment over and over as if it might make sense the second time around. The way he'd sat at her desk like it belonged to him. The way her fingers had frozen over the keyboard. That first, impossible question-How are you doing?-as if he were just another colleague and not a man who radiated authority without effort.

In the two years she'd worked at the firm, Mr. Peterson had always been a presence rather than a fixture. He came and went, usually with purpose, usually with Mr. Drayton. Their offices shared the same gravity-two men cut from similar cloth: confident, successful, unattached. And yes, if she were being honest with herself, both undeniably attractive.

But where Mr. Drayton was warm, almost disarming in his charm, Trevin Peterson unsettled her. Being around him felt like standing too close to heat. Not uncomfortable exactly-just... consuming. He didn't flirt openly. He didn't try. He simply noticed, and that awareness had a way of sliding under her skin and staying there long after he'd left the room.

She'd felt it from the very beginning. From her first month at the company, when he'd passed her desk and nodded politely, his eyes lingering just long enough to make her wonder if she'd imagined it. She hadn't. She knew that now. He affected women, she was sure of it. Probably all of them. And yet, sitting across from him in his office that afternoon, she'd felt as though his attention had narrowed, focused solely on her-and that was what overwhelmed her most.

Ateala leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. What he'd told her replayed next-the hotel room, the missing memories, waking up stripped of everything but questions. She tried to imagine how terrifying that must have been, how violating it would feel to realize pieces of your life had simply been... taken. No wonder he'd been so controlled. So careful.

And then there was what he'd asked of her. To listen. To observe. To snoop-quietly.

It wasn't entirely new territory. Her role in the company placed her at the center of its daily rhythm. People stopped at her desk constantly-dropping files, asking questions, venting frustrations. She was approachable, non-threatening. The kind of person people talked around, forgetting she was there until the words were already out.

She remembered birthdays. Asked after spouses. Kept secrets without making a show of it. That trust had been built over time, brick by brick. If anyone could overhear something without raising suspicion, it would be her.

Still, the weight of it settled heavily on her shoulders. If she did find something-what then? Her gaze drifted to the window, the city lights blinking lazily outside. What would Trevin do once he had answers. Would he want justice... or something more personal. Was the calm control he'd shown restraint-or preparation. Ateala exhaled slowly.

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