The building was old, its windows streaked with dust from the main road outside. Inside, the air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and stale tea. It was the summer of 1997, and the heat pressed down on every office worker like a heavy hand.
An Ling wiped the sweat from her forehead as she typed another report. She was twenty-three, fresh out of university, working as a secretary for Director Chen. Her blouse clung to her skin, the cotton almost transparent after the long day. She glanced at the closed door of the inner office, where she knew Chen was smoking his third cigarette of the afternoon.
Everyone in the company knew Chen had a wife at home, but that never stopped the way his eyes lingered on the younger women in the office. When An Ling first joined, she thought his gaze was nothing more than habit. Now, after months of his late-night calls, small compliments, and the way his hand would brush her shoulder when he leaned over her desk, she could no longer lie to herself.
"An Ling," his voice called suddenly.
She jumped, standing quickly and smoothing her skirt. "Yes, Director?"
"Bring me the contract draft, and close the door."
Her heart beat faster. She gathered the papers with trembling hands and stepped into his office. The blinds were half drawn, the air thicker here, carrying the sharp mix of smoke and his cologne. He sat behind the heavy wooden desk, jacket off, shirt open at the collar. His eyes moved over her slowly, deliberately, as she placed the papers in front of him.
"Sit," he said.
She perched on the edge of the leather chair opposite him, the silence stretching long between them. He flipped through the pages of the draft but did not really read. Instead, he leaned back, watching her.
"You've been working hard these days," he said, his voice low.
An Ling lowered her eyes. "It's my job, Director Chen."
"Still," he said, tapping ash into the tray, "I notice things, you stay late and you don't complain. Most of the men here aren't half as dedicated."
The compliment should have made her smile, but the heat in his voice made her throat dry. She shifted, feeling the sweat dampen her back.
Chen leaned forward suddenly, elbows on the desk. "Do you know why I asked you to close the door?"
Her pulse quickened, she shook her head.
"Because I want to speak with you," he said, "without interruption." His gaze was steady, heavy, making her chest tighten.
For a moment neither of them moved. The ceiling fan creaked above, pushing the hot air in slow circles.
Then he stood, walking around the desk. She could smell his cologne stronger now, mixed with tobacco. He stopped beside her chair.
"You're nervous," he murmured.
An Ling looked down, her hands twisting in her lap. "Director Chen…"
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered, warm against her skin. She closed her eyes, torn between fear and the heat rising inside her.
"Don't call me Director," he whispered. "Not when it's just the two of us."
Her breath caught. She had thought of this moment before, late at night in her small rented apartment, ashamed of the way her body reacted to his attention. Now it was real, and every nerve in her skin seemed awake.
He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes, they were dark, filled with something hungry.
"An Ling," he said softly, "I've been thinking of you."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
The office outside was quiet because most workers had already left for the day. The world seemed reduced to the slow hum of the fan, the faint honking of traffic below, and the pounding of her heart.
When he bent closer, she did not pull away, his breath was warm against her ear.
"You're beautiful," he said.
Her body trembled. A single thought echoed in her mind: this was dangerous, if anyone found out... if his wife ever knew—her life would be ruined. Yet when his hand slid down her arm and rested against her wrist, she didn't move.
She whispered, almost without sound, "We shouldn't…"
But his lips brushed her temple, and her voice faded. An Ling's pulse hammered in her ears. She should have stood up, excused herself, escaped the office. But when Chen's hand slid from her wrist to her thigh, she stayed frozen, her breath shallow.
"Director Chen…" she whispered again, but his fingers pressed lightly against her skirt, silencing her with touch more than words.
"I told you," he said, voice low and rough, "just call me Chen."
His hand moved higher. The thin fabric of her skirt offered no protection, heat spread through her body in waves, shame tangled with an ache she couldn't deny.
Her mind raced: she was the youngest in the office, she had no family connections in the city. If she resisted, she might lose everything. If she gave in, she risked scandal, ruin. And yet, in the heavy silence, her body leaned toward him as though it had already chosen.
He bent lower, his lips grazing her cheek. "You've been in my thoughts for months," he murmured. "Do you know what that does to a man?"
Her voice came out small, trembling. "We shouldn't be doing this…"
"But we are," he said.
The words burned hotter than the cigarette smoke. His mouth pressed against hers, hard, claiming. She gasped, and in that gasp, he deepened the kiss, tasting her. She should have turned away, but her lips parted, welcoming him against all reason.
His hand slid further up her thigh. She gripped the edge of the chair, knuckles white, torn between pulling his hand away and guiding it higher. When his palm brushed against the thin lace hidden beneath her skirt, her body shivered violently.
"Already trembling," he whispered against her lips. "I knew you wanted this."