Chapter Three: The Conference Call

Elena lasted exactly forty-seven minutes before she tried to hide. The penthouse had never felt so small. Every corridor seemed to dead-end into the study where Adrian had sequestered himself, every sound, his voice on a call, the creak of his chair, the click of his keyboard reached her like a tuning fork against her spine. She had retreated to the library, a room she had claimed as her own over the past two weeks, curling into the window seat with a book she did not read. She wore the only armor she had left: an oversized university hoodie she had stolen from her brother years ago, the hem frayed, the fabric soft from a thousand washes. It swallowed her whole. She had paired it with cotton shorts, telling herself it was practical, not defensive. She was lying. The library door opened without a knock. Adrian filled the frame. He had changed from the joggers into charcoal trousers and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms, the top button undone. He looked like a man who had been working. His hair was slightly mussed, as if he had run his hands through it in frustration, and his dark, sharp eyes found her immediately in the window seat. “There you are,” he said. Elena pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them through the hoodie. “I’m reading.” “You’re hiding.” He stepped inside. “And you’re wearing that again.” “It’s comfortable.”

“It’s a tent.” He crossed the room with long, unhurried strides, stopping just short of her window nook. He looked down at her, his shadow cutting across the pages of her unread book. “I told you I’m working from home today. That means you work from home too.” She blinked up at him. “I don’t work for you.” “You’re my wife. That’s a full-time position.” He held out his hand. “Come.” Elena stared at his palm. It was broad, veined, the same hand that had fed her eggs this morning and confiscated her toy last night. The hand of a man who took what he wanted and expected obedience. “I’ll be quiet here,” she whispered. “I won’t disturb you.” “You already disturb me.” His voice was flat, factual. “I can hear you breathing from two rooms away. I can smell your shampoo in the hallway. I spent the last hour staring at a spreadsheet and thinking about your braid.” His fingers flexed. “Come. Now.” She stood. Her legs felt unsteady. She left the book behind and placed her hand in his small, cold, trembling and he closed his fingers around hers with a grip that brooked no retreat. He led her through the penthouse like a warden escorting a prisoner, except his thumb kept tracing the inside of her wrist, a small, hypnotic gesture that made her stomach flutter with confusion.

The study was not what she expected. She had imagined a cold, glass-and-steel command center. Instead, it was warm, dark wood, leather, shelves of law books and biographies. The desk was enormous, antique, scarred with use. Two monitors glowed with charts and emails. A video camera sat atop the center screen, its red light blinking. Adrian pulled a leather armchair from the corner and positioned it directly beside his own chair. Not across the desk. Beside it. Close enough that their elbows would touch. “Sit,” he said. Elena sat. The leather creaked. She pulled the hoodie over her hands. Adrian lowered himself into his chair. He adjusted the camera angle, then turned to her. “I have a conference call in six minutes. A board presentation. Forty minutes long. You will sit here, silently, while I conduct it. You will not fidget. You will not leave. And you will not” his gaze dropped to her lap, where the hoodie had ridden up to reveal the edge of her cotton shorts “hide from me.” “I’m not...” “You are.” He reached over and tugged the hood down from where she had half-pulled it up. “No hiding, Elena. I want to see your face.” He turned back to his monitors. Typed something. Adjusted his collar. Elena sat perfectly still, her heart hammering. She watched him prepare, watched him become the CEO again, ice-cold, focused, terrifyingly competent. The transformation was instantaneous. The man who had whispered filthy threats in her ear over breakfast was gone, replaced by a shark in a white shirt.

The video call connected. “Gentlemen,” Adrian said, his voice dropping an octave into a register of polished authority. “Let’s begin. I want the Q3 numbers before lunch.” Elena flinched at the sound. She had never seen him work. She had imagined him cruel, distant, mechanical. But watching him now leaning forward, eyes sharp, dissecting quarterly reports with surgical precision, she felt something dangerous stir in her chest. He was magnificent. And he was hers, technically, even if he had never acted like it. For twenty minutes, she succeeded in being invisible. She stared at her lap, at the rug, at the spines of books on the shelves. She held her breath when he argued with a CFO in Singapore. She bit her lip when he shut down a proposal with a single, devastating sentence. Then his hand found her knee. Elena jolted. Her eyes snapped to his face, but he was looking at the screen, listening to a drone about supply chain logistics, his expression utterly neutral. His hand, however, was warm and heavy on her bare skin, just above the hem of her shorts.

She stared at it. He did not move it. He simply rested it there, possessive and casual, as if touching his wife’s knee during a board meeting was the most natural thing in the world. Elena stopped breathing. His thumb began to move. Slowly. Drawing small, idle circles on her inner knee. Up an inch. Down an inch. Up two inches. She pressed her lips together to keep from making a sound. Her hands fisted in the hoodie sleeves. On screen, a man in a suit asked, “Adrian, do we have your approval on the Tokyo severance package?” “No,” Adrian said smoothly. His thumb slid higher, tracing the sensitive seam where her thigh began. “It’s bloated. Cut it by thirty percent or find a new director. Next item.” Elena’s thighs trembled. She wanted to close them. She wanted to push his hand away. But she was frozen by shyness, by shock, by the terrifying knowledge that if she made a noise, twelve executives in four time zones would hear her. Adrian’s fingers drifted higher. His eyes never left the camera. “Margaret, run me the projections for the Dubai acquisition,” he said. His hand slipped beneath the hem of her shorts.

Elena’s back arched off the chair. She clamped her jaw shut, her eyes wide, her face burning. His touch was feather-light, teasing, tracing the edge of her underwear with a patience that was diabolical. He was not rushing. He was not even looking at her. He was conducting business and exploring her body with the same ruthless multitasking. She made a tiny, involuntary sound a whimper caught behind her teeth. On screen, Margaret paused. “Sir, did you say something?” “No,” Adrian said calmly. His fingers pressed firmer, sliding along the center seam of her underwear, feeling the heat he had stoked. “Continue.” Elena dug her nails into the leather armrests. She was going to die. She was going to combust in his office chair while he discussed EBITDA margins. Her body, traitorous and hungry, responded to him with a rush of wetness that she knew he could feel. Adrian’s jaw tightened. Just a fraction. The only sign that he was affected. He continued the meeting. He argued. He commanded. He destroyed a marketing director’s campaign with three sentences. And all the while, his hand worked beneath her shorts, slow, maddening, relentless. He never pushed past the fabric. He simply mapped her, tormented her, proved that he could reduce her to a panting mess without breaking his professional composure. By the time the call hit the thirty-minute mark, Elena was shaking. Her vision had narrowed to the wood grain of the desk. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper. She was close, horrifyingly, humiliatingly close...to coming apart in his chair while he discussed fiscal policy.

“Gentlemen,” Adrian said, his voice still perfectly level, though she noticed his breathing had gone shallow. “I think we’ve covered enough for today. I want the revised proposals by end of day. Margaret, hold my calls.” He ended the call. The red light on the camera went dark. Elena gasped a ragged, desperate sound and tried to scramble back in the chair, to escape his hand, to hide her face. But Adrian turned to her fully for the first time in forty minutes, and the mask had slipped. His eyes were wild. His chest heaved. The CEO was gone, and the predator from last night was back, starving and barely leashed. He withdrew his hand slowly, deliberately, and held up two fingers glistening with the evidence of her arousal. Elena made a broken sound and looked away, tears of shame pricking her eyes. “Look at me,” he commanded. She shook her head. She could not. She was too exposed, too undone, too seen. Adrian caught her chin with his clean hand and forced her face toward him. His grip was firm but not cruel. His thumb swiped at the tear that had escaped down her cheek. “You sat there like a good girl,” he murmured. “You didn’t make a sound. You didn’t close your legs. You took everything I gave you during that call.” His eyes burned. “But you were going to come, weren’t you? Right there. In my chair. While I was working.”

Elena’s voice was a thread. “I couldn’t help it.” “You could have.” His grip tightened. “You could have pushed me away. You could have safe worded out. But you didn’t, Elena. You liked it. You liked being touched while I was in control. You liked knowing I could ruin you and no one would know.” She sobbed a single, quiet hitch of breath. “Please...” “Please what?” He leaned in, his mouth inches from hers. “Please stop? Please let you come? Or please tell you what your punishment is for nearly moaning on a live video call?” Elena’s eyes fluttered shut. She was overwhelmed. The smell of him, the heat of him, the sheer dominance of his presence in the enclosed space. She had no defenses left. The shy, quiet girl from the courthouse was gone, stripped away by a man who refused to let her hide. Adrian released her chin. He stood.

He walked to the desk and leaned against it, facing her, his arms crossed. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable, heavy and straining, but he ignored it. His focus was entirely on her. “Stand up,” he said. She stood. Her legs were jelly. The hoodie had fallen off one shoulder, revealing the strap of her camisole underneath. “Take off the shorts.” Elena’s eyes went wide. “Adria-” “Now.” His voice cracked like a whip. “You wore them to hide from me. I want them off. Then I want you back in that chair, legs apart, while I decide if you’ve earned relief or if I should leave you like this all afternoon.” Elena’s hands shook so violently she could barely grip the elastic waistband. She looked at the door closed, locked, safe from the world but not from him. She looked at Adrian, who watched her with the patience of a man who had waited years for this moment and was willing to wait another hour. She pushed the shorts down. They pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of them, trembling, wearing only the hoodie that fell to mid-thigh and her underwear.

“Sit,” he said. She sat. The leather was cool against her overheated skin. Adrian pushed off the desk. He walked to her slowly, stopping between her knees. He placed his hands on the armrests again, caging her, exactly as he had in the kitchen. “You’re going to stay here,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a threat and a promise. “No touching yourself. No closing your legs. No coming. I’m going to sit at that desk and finish my emails, and you’re going to sit here and think about what happens tonight when I finally stop being patient.” He leaned down. His mouth brushed her ear. “And if you disobey me,” he breathed, “if you so much as rock your hips against this chair to get friction, I will tie you to the bed and edge you until sunrise. No release. Only tears. Do you understand?” Elena nodded frantically. “I understand. I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. I promise.” “Good girl.” He pressed a kiss to her temple a chaste, burning brand then straightened. He walked back to his desk. Sat down. Adjusted his collar. Opened his laptop. And he began to type.

Elena sat in the leather chair, legs parted slightly, shorts gone, her body throbbing with an ache so sharp it bordered on pain. She could smell herself in the air. She knew he could too. She knew he was pretending to work, just as she was pretending to be calm. Every few minutes, his eyes flicked to her. Dark. Hungry. Approving. She did not move. She did not touch herself. She sat there, burning, waiting, her hands gripping the armrests until her knuckles turned white. And somewhere in the quiet, suffocating space of his study, Elena realized that the man who had abandoned her for two weeks had not been running from work. He had been running from this from the terrifying, perfect knowledge that once he started, he would never stop.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***