I stared at the numbers on the screen until they blurred, the endless cascade of digits merging into a shimmering, meaningless white noise. My head throbbed, a dull, rhythmic ache behind my eyes. I convinced myself to focus, to claw my way back to the mundane reality of quarterly reports and budget forecasts. But the words of the old woman, whispered in the cold, wet dark, kept circling my head like a persistent, buzzing swarm of trapped bees:
No desire shall be denied.
It was childish, wasn't it? A flimsy fantasy. A fairytale I'd desperately held onto because my life, here in this cramped cubicle, under the sickly, persistent glow of the fluorescent lights, was too ordinary to be anything else. Still, the thought lingered, a stubborn, glittering splinter under my skin. What if… what if that chaotic, impossible encounter in the rain wasn't a hallucination, but the single most significant event of my entire twenty-two years?
"Hey."
The sudden voice cut through the heavy blanket of my spiraling thoughts, sharp and grating. Mark. He rolled his chair over with an arrogant, spinning glide, as if the cheap carpet of the office was his personal ballroom floor. His shirt was immaculately crisp, sleeves rolled neatly to show strong, tanned forearms, and his cologne—something sharp, expensive, and far too heavy for a Tuesday afternoon—carried itself like he was advertising it on a billboard. He was older than me by just a year, but he always acted like a mentor I never asked for, a smug, irritating big brother the universe had saddled me with.
"You were staring at her again, weren't you?" Mark smirked, leaning closer, a smug, knowing glint in his eyes. His voice carried enough amusement to sting, each syllable laced with effortless superiority.
"Anna. Those curves. Man, you're hopeless. You can drool all you want, but you'll never get a taste. She's too high up the food chain for a glorified spreadsheet jockey like you, Luke."
I felt the heat rush to my ears, a tell-tale sign of my shame. I forced a weak, strained smile, my facial muscles tight, pretending his comment was a friendly jab, not a precise diagnosis of my pathetic desire.
"You're right," I muttered, keeping my voice flat. "Neither will you."
He raised his eyebrows at my unexpected bite, a flash of surprise crossing his face, but he laughed it off almost immediately, a short, dismissive bark, and rolled back toward his desk. My jaw tightened so hard I felt a dull ache in my temples. I hated how he always looked down on me, like I was some bland, easily forgettable rookie who'd never grow into anything more than a shadow. I was the background character in my own life, and he was the one pointing it out.
The tension in my chest wouldn't leave, a tight band constricting my breathing, so I stood up, desperate for a physical break from the oppressive space, pretending I needed a stretch. My steps, however, took me deliberately toward the washroom, a route that fate, in its cruel way dictated would take me past Anna's desk.
She was there, already a masterpiece of composed indifference. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, typing with practiced speed. The slit in her black pencil skirt rode higher than I'd ever seen, a deliberate or accidental statement, revealing a glimpse of her thigh, impossibly smooth and pale under the brutal intensity of the office lights. It was a flash of forbidden luxury. My throat went instantly dry, my heart giving a violent, disorienting lurch. I felt the immediate, sickening surge of adrenaline mixed with pure, animalistic attraction.
I hurried into the bathroom, my hands sweating, my vision tunneled. I slammed the door to the stall, not daring to look anyone in the eye, and gripped the edge of the sink as though it was the only thing holding my crumbling composure together. I twisted the tap violently. Cold water rushed over my face, the icy shock a painful, momentary distraction, but my mind betrayed me. It immediately began replaying the crisp line of her skirt, the effortless grace of her hips swaying when she'd walked away earlier, the forbidden curve of her thigh. My body reacted before my rational mind could fight it. The shame was a hot wave that washed over the physical response. Disgusted at myself, I pressed my palms hard against the sanitary, unforgiving porcelain, willing the surge of lust and self-hatred to die down.
"Pathetic," I whispered to my reflection, my voice strained and reedy. My reflection stared back: a tired, ordinary young man with shadows under his eyes.
"Get a grip, Luke. She's a fantasy built out of spite and desire. She's the boss's niece."
I stayed there longer than I should have, until the cold water had calmed my face and my breathing slowed to a manageable rate, until I could step out without the cringing, raw emotion written all over me.
Back at my desk, Mark was waiting. He grinned, sensing the lingering awkwardness.
"What took so long? Don't tell me you weren't taking a dump. Wait—" He leaned forward dramatically, his voice conspiratorial, but loud enough for nearby cubes to hear. "You were beating your meat in there, weren't you? Thinking about the ice princess?"
The heat rose in my cheeks again, a painful, throbbing flush. I ignored him completely, the words bouncing off a sudden wall of numb exhaustion, and sank into my chair. He laughed to himself, spinning away, the sound high-pitched and utterly lacking in genuine humor, like nails against glass.
***
By lunchtime, the air in the office felt poisonous. I needed distance, desperately. I walked alone to the small café across the street, a place with stale coffee and plastic tables. I ordered a sandwich I barely tasted, focusing instead on the grainy texture of the bread. I sat scrolling meaninglessly on my phone, just to fill the deafening silence of my own head. My thoughts, however, pulled me somewhere else, to the messy, familiar comfort of home.
I called my mother.
"Junior!" she answered with a bright, welcoming laugh. She always called me that, even though I'd left home and tried to outgrow it.
"I miss you, Mom," I said softly, the words carrying more weight than I intended.
"You miss me? Hah. You don't even send me gifts. That's not missing, that's being cheap!" she teased, her laughter warm and enveloping, like a balm against the icy heaviness inside me.
I chuckled, shaking my head. "You'll never change."
"And you," she continued, her voice softening slightly with that knowing motherly concern, "you're still shy, aren't you? No girlfriend yet? Twenty-two and still hiding from girls?"
"Mom—" I cut in, feeling the immediate flush of self-consciousness even a hundred miles away.
She cackled at my awkwardness, and I quickly switched the topic to her prized rose garden, the conversation flowing into a safe, familiar rhythm. She always had jokes, but beneath them was the hard truth—she had thrown me out after university, told me to sink or swim, to build my life like my brother and sister had done. It had been harsh, a necessary cruelty, but it forced me here, into this small apartment, this tedious job, this fragile version of independence.
After lunch, back at my desk, the stodgy, bland food weighing me down, I succumbed to the post-lunch fatigue. I dozed off, my head dropping almost instantly.
The dream came fast, unbidden and searingly vivid. Anna. Her laugh, a sound I'd never heard in reality, was intoxicating. Her lips were closer than they should be, and then the warmth of her hand sliding across my cheek, a phantom touch that felt shockingly real. I stirred, a low, uncomfortable sound escaping my throat, almost embarrassing myself in front of the entire office. I jolted awake, wiping the sudden, clammy sweat from my brow, my pulse jackhammering against my ribs.
The memory of the old woman, suddenly potent and inescapable, returned. The whisper. No desire shall be denied.
I swallowed hard, the adrenaline burning under my skin, banishing all thoughts of sleep and sanity. The wish felt real now, a powerful, dark temptation. I saw Anna at her desk, the cold, perfect reality of her, and the voice of the old woman was loud in my head.
"I'll do it," I muttered to myself, the words barely audible, yet definitive. "Just once. Just to see if I'm insane, or if my life is about to change."
My hands trembled violently as I grabbed a random handful of papers, forming a pathetic, flimsy excuse. I forced my legs to move. Each step toward Anna's desk felt heavier, like my shoes were made of lead, my rational mind screaming a torrent of warnings:
Am I really doing this? This is self-destruction.I'll lose my job. She'll have me fired before I finish the sentence.This is stupid. She'll laugh in my face. You'll be the office joke forever.
And then—suddenly—I was standing before her. The smell of her perfume, light and complex, reached me.
She looked up, her beautiful eyes narrowing, instantly assessing my panicked state. "Luke? You look pale. Is something wrong?"
I panicked, holding the papers like a shield. "Uh, yeah, I didn't understand some of this. Could you… explain?" The lie tasted like ash.
She took the papers, her slender fingers brushing mine—a small electric shock—and scanned through them. Her voice was calm, professional, explaining each line, but I barely heard her. My mind was miles away, a frantic, caged bird. My heart hammered in my chest, a deafening drumbeat drowning out her words.
And then, fueled by shame, desire, and pure, reckless desperation, it slipped out. It wasn't a question, but a raw, clumsy command disguised as one.
"Would you… sleep with me?"
Silence. The sound of the office—the keyboards, the phones, the hum of the air conditioning—all vanished instantly.
Her head lifted slowly, her sharp sapphire eyes locking with mine. I braced myself for a slap, for the sharp, humiliating edge of her laughter, for the end of everything I'd clumsily built.
But instead, her lips curved. It wasn't the professional, icy smile I was used to; it was slow, considering, and devastatingly intimate.
"Sure."
The air left my lungs all at once. The world tilted. The fear became a wild, terrifying exhilaration.