The silence on this floor feels louder after you've been humiliated in it.
I shut the door to his office quietly, like if it closes too loud, it'll bruise my pride even more. My heels click once, twice, then fall quiet against the soft carpet until I reach my desk.
I sit. I breathe. I pretend I'm not on the verge of combusting.
My resignation or rather, what's left of it sits in the trash behind his desk.
I want to walk back in, demand respect, shove another letter in his arrogant face, and tell him I'm not a puppet.
But my rent's due next week.
So instead, I open my laptop and act like I'm busy.
The hum of the air conditioner fills the silence. My fingers hover over the keyboard, typing nothing, deleting nothing. Just… hovering.
A soft chime breaks the quiet... It's an email.
Subject: Schedule for the Week
From: Xavier Steele
I blink. He sent me an email. From ten steps away.
I open it. It's short, straight to the point — just like him.
> "New appointments have been added. Ensure they are confirmed by noon. Don't be late again."
I clench my jaw. Don't be late again? I've been early every day except today which was supposed to be me resigning!
I start typing before my brain can stop me.
> "Understood. And for the record, I came in to resign."
I hit send.
Five seconds later, a reply.
> "Then you'll have no excuse next time."
I almost slam my laptop shut. The man doesn't even need to raise his voice to make me feel like screaming.
My eyes drift to his door again. It's slightly ajar, just enough that I can see him moving behind his desk. The tilt of his head, the way his fingers drag through his hair when he's thinking, all calm precision and control.
He's a man who tears up people's resignations for sport.
I drop my gaze to my screen and mutter, "Coffee bastard."
The intercom buzzes.
"Miss Dawson?"
I freeze. "Sir?"
"Are you planning to insult me all morning, or do you actually have work to do?"
My head jerks up.
He wouldn't have heard that. He couldn't have.
I press the button on the intercom. "Work. Definitely work."
"Good. Bring in the files I asked for."
I glance at my screen, no such request exists. "Which files, sir?"
"The ones you should've already known I'd need after a meeting like that."
I grit my teeth. "Right. Of course."
I grab the nearest stack of folders, half of them probably unrelated and head into his office.
He's seated, back straight, eyes locked on his computer screen and like always he doesn't look up when I enter.
I place the folders on his desk. "Here."
He lifts one brow, eyes flicking briefly to the pile. "You brought half the department's archives."
I bite back the retort and smooth my skirt. "I like to be thorough."
"You like to panic."
"Only around you."
That makes him glance up, a small smirk coming to lie at the tip of his upper lip. The air between us tightens.
"Then stop being dramatic and do your job."
"Right. Because you make that so easy."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but something dangerously close. "You'd prefer I made it hard?"
My breath hitches before I can stop it.
His gaze lingers for a fraction too long,.steady, probing, frustratingly unreadable. Then he turns back to his screen. "Close the door on your way out, Miss Dawson."
I stand frozen for a second, torn between irritation and something else I refuse to name.
"Yes, sir."
I step out and shut the door.
My pulse is ridiculous. My pride is bruised. My job is intact.
I sink into my chair, press my palms to my cheeks, and whisper to myself, "You're an idiot, Hazel. He may be painfully attractive, but he's still a Coffee bastard."
But as the day drags on, the tension in my chest refuses to leave. Every time the intercom buzzes, my heart jumps. Every time I catch a glimpse of him through the glass, it feels like being burned alive by curiosity I didn't ask for.
By late afternoon, I've answered all his emails, arranged three meetings, and managed not to throw my stapler at the intercom.
The phone rings.
"Miss Dawson. Cancel my dinner with Dunn. Move it to next week."
"Yes, sir."
"And order food for yourself too. You haven't eaten since morning."
I freeze. That tone. It's not his usual sharp command. It's … weirdly softer.
"I— I'm fine, sir."
"Didn't ask if you were fine. I said order food."
I bite my lip. "Yes, sir."
The line clicks dead.
For a man who tore my resignation letter in my face, he sure has an odd way of pretending not to ca
re.
I open the food delivery app, shaking my head.
Because apparently, humiliation tastes better with lunch on the CEO's tab.