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Julie
"Come in, Miss Goodacre."
His voice, low and quiet, filters through the door, sending a shiver down my spine. The way he said my name felt different, a tone I haven’t heard before. It's enough to heighten the tension that's been building since I stepped off the elevator.
Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and step inside, closing it softly behind me. The familiar surroundings of Ivan's office offer no comfort today; instead, they feel like the setting of an interrogation room, every item a potential witness to my impending professional doom.
His back is to me, he’s focused on his computer screen. I take the few steps to stand before his desk, feeling like a defendant awaiting a verdict.
The silence stretches, filled only with the soft clicks of his keyboard. The waiting is agonizing, it’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether I'll be pushed or pulled back to safety.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, I part my lips to speak. But he beats me to it before a single word can escape.
"Thank you for your promptness." His tone is calm, almost amused, and I get the distinct impression he's enjoying this, feeling me squirm under the weight of my own embarrassment.
When he finally swivels around to face me, I muster the courage to meet his gaze, and it's like looking into the eye of a storm—dark, deep, and tumultuous.
He looks at me, his eyes searching, probing. The intensity of his stare is unnerving, and I feel the heat rising in my cheeks, a telltale sign of discomfort. There's something in his gaze that's both unsettling and compelling, a depth I've never seen before.
My voice, when it finally shows up, is a mixture of defiance and vulnerability. "Mr. Stepanov, I…"
I can’t seem to find the right words. The tension between us, the unspoken source of it, feels like it’s eating me up whole. It's a standoff, a silent battle of wills, and for the first time, I'm unsure of my footing.
The familiar dynamics of boss and assistant have shifted, leaving us in uncharted territory.
Apology hanging in the air between us, I clamp my lips shut, resisting the urge to fill the silence with babbling explanations and excuses.
My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, scenarios playing out in rapid succession, each more mortifying than the last. But outwardly I stand my ground, a statue of composure.
Finally, he mercifully breaks the silence, his voice cutting through the heavy air in the room.
"Do you find me attractive?" The question is so unexpected, so surprising, that it takes a moment for it to fully register. My heart stutters as my brain fumbles for a response. This isn't the conversation I anticipated, not by a long shot.
I stammer, a garbled mess of syllables that makes no sense. I stop, clear my throat, and force myself to start again.
"You are a handsome man," I admit, because denying it would be like denying the sky is blue. "But that's no excuse for what I've done." The words feel inadequate, a weak explanation for something that's far too complicated. For what we’ve done. That might’ve sounded fairer, but I’m the one who started this. I’m the one who set the fire, and boy, he only made it burn brighter.
The admission leaves me feeling exposed, like I've given him more ammunition, revealed another chink in my armor. But there's truth in it, an acknowledgment of the physical attraction that I've tried so hard to ignore, to bury under layers of professionalism and propriety.
My honesty hangs between us, a new variable in the complex equation of our relationship.
Ivan looks at me with a gaze that feels like it's trying to peer straight into my soul. "Tell me, Julie," he begins, his voice deceptively calm, using my first name in a way that feels entirely too intimate. "Was last night the first time you thought of me?"
I steady myself, meeting his probing eyes with a resolve I don’t feel. "Yes," I reply, my voice as even as I can manage. "It was the first time."
Ivan's eyes narrow slightly, a hint of skepticism in his expression. "You expect me to believe that?" he asks.
His accusation of being deceptive slices through the air, sharp and unexpected. I stay silent, my brain racing. Where is this conversation going? Is this some sort of test, a game to gauge my honesty?
I clench my jaw, fighting the instinct to defend myself further. I choose silence instead, a refusal to engage in his game.
I begin to realize this is about more than just a text message; it's about maintaining control over my personal life, over the parts of me that aren't up for scrutiny or discussion.
The room seems to shrink when he stands. Ivan is an imposing figure, his presence overwhelming in the confines of his office. He moves around his desk, and as he towers over me, a rush of arousal hits me, unexpected and unwelcome. I fight to tamp it down, to maintain my composure under his scrutiny.
I don't step back as he approaches. Instead, I turn to face him, meeting his gaze head-on. I refuse to be intimidated, to show any weakness. But the proximity, the sheer physicality of him, is disconcerting.
I'm acutely aware of every inch of him, the power and strength that emanates from his frame. My mind can't help but to wander, remembering what it was like to be enveloped in those arms, to be the focus of all that intensity. It's a thought I quickly squash, but not before it sends a thrill through me.
