The next morning greets me with the kind of silence that feels intentional.
The elevator doors open to the top floor, and the air smells faintly of his cologne, dark, expensive, smug.
I tell myself that I don't care.
I tell myself this is just another day at work.
Then I step out, and the lie collapses instantly.
His office door is open. That never happens.
He's there, standing by the window, suit perfectly pressed, phone in hand, already commanding someone's morning like he owns the world — which, unfortunately, he kind of does.
"Good morning, sir," I say, keeping my voice even.
He doesn't turn. "You're late."
I glance at my watch. "It's 7:58."
"Exactly," he says. "You were early yesterday."
Unbelievable. "My mistake for setting the bar too high."
He turns then, slowly, the hint of something unreadable flickering across his face. "You learn fast."
"Survival skill," I mutter, heading to my desk before he can read more into my expression.
The computer hums to life. I check his schedule, confirm appointments, pretend not to be hyperaware of him moving behind that glass wall.
At exactly eight-thirty, the intercom buzzes.
"Miss Dawson."
"Yes, sir?"
"Coffee."
Of course. "Right away."
I grab his mug, the same black one that probably costs more than my monthly groceries, and head for the break station down the hall.
As I pour, I replay yesterday in my head, the tearing of my resignation letter, his voice, that flash of something almost human in his eyes.
He humiliated me, and yet here I am, making his coffee like it's a normal Tuesday.
I hate that I care. I hate that a part of me wants him to look at me again the way he did yesterday even though I haven't defined what it could mean yet.
When I return, I knock lightly. "Your coffee, sir."
He looks up. "Finally."
I set it down. "Would you like me to pour you an apology too?"
He leans back, studying me, that slow, deliberate gaze that always feels like it's peeling layers I didn't agree to shed. "Careful, Miss Dawson. You're developing confidence."
"Can't have that," I mutter under my breath.
He catches it. "I like it when you bite back. It hides your fear."
"I'm not afraid," I lie.
"You should be."
There's no bite in his tone this time, only quiet certainty.
He takes a sip of the coffee, eyes still on me. "Better."
"Of course. Because I brewed it with humiliation and despair."
That earns a faint huff of a laugh — the first genuine sound from him in two days.
The corners of his mouth lift, just slightly. "Maybe that's what it's been missing."
For one dangerous second, the tension between us softens. Then his phone buzzes, and the spell breaks.
He looks away, answering briskly, and I take the chance to retreat before I start confusing professional survival with flirtation.
Back at my desk, I bury myself in emails.
Half an hour later, he steps out. "Meeting with Collins. Conference room."
"Yes, sir." I stand, grabbing my tablet.
He walks past me, close enough that the brush of his sleeve against my arm sends a shiver straight through me.
The meeting lasts over an hour. I take notes, answer questions, and pretend I don't notice how his gaze flicks to me every time I speak. I
When Collins leaves, Xavier lingers.
"Good work," he says finally.
It takes me a second to register that compliment just escaped his mouth. "Thank you."
"Don't let it get to your head."
Ah! there it is -- the familiar sting wrapped in condescension. I couldn't miss it, even if I tried.
I nod, tight-lipped, and head back to my desk.
The rest of the morning unfolds in practiced silence.
At noon, another email lands in my inbox.
> "Lunch. Order for two."
I blink. Two?
I send a reply.
> "Not hungry."
His response arrives seconds later.
> "Not a question."
I sigh. This man treats conversation like a chess game he's already won.
When the food arrives, he just gestures for me to sit across from him while he continues typing on his laptop.
The smell of pasta fills the room and then my stomach decides to betray me with an audible growl.
He glances up briefly. "Thought you weren't hungry."
"I changed my mind," I mutter, stabbing a fork into my plate.
He nods, satisfied, as if feeding me were another form of control he gets to enjoy.
Halfway through the meal, he says quietly, "You did good work today."
I look up, startled. "You said that already."
"I'm saying it again."
I search his face for sarcasm but find none. Just calm, steady eyes and the faintest hint of something I can't name.
"Thank you sir" I say, voice softer than I mean it to be.
He doesn't answer. Just returns to his laptop like it never happened.
When lunch is over, I take the empty plates away. My chest feels tight, and I don't know if it's anger or confusion or both.
I sit back at my desk, staring at the screen, pretending to type.
Through the glass, I see him glance up once, before returning to his work.
And I realize the most frustrating thing a
bout Xavier Steele isn't that he tore my resignation letter.
It's that he makes it impossible to decide whether I want to slap him or thank him.