#spend the rest of your life with me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

merakiui · 2 years

Text

yandere!Azul thought 3: the line between employer and employee blurs as an all-consuming infatuation spells trouble for you.

(cw: yandere, female reader, nsfw/suggestive themes, office au, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping/captivity, power imbalance, workplace misconduct/harassment, obsession, implied murder/death, brief descriptions of blood, suicide mention, pregnancy mentions, violence, thalassophobia, misogyny/sexism, alcohol consumption/intoxication, non-consensual photography, non-consensual touches/kisses)

Someone once compared you to a bird with splintered wings. Cowardly and flightless, yet uniquely intriguing nonetheless—an earthly specimen who remains caged by old, gnarled roots and a compliant temperament. Despite all of the darkness that has cropped up in your life, you try (and fail) and try again until, eventually, you succeed. And though you lack wings and may be fearful of every gruesome thing that lurks in both nightmares and reality, you find creative ways to work around the disturbances in your life. Some are easier to deal with than others, but you wish you wouldn’t have to endure a challenge every single day at work.

Though your job wouldn’t really qualify as ‘work’ if it was devoid of complications.

Exhibit A: Floyd Leech—your spontaneous coworker who can’t sit still for the life of him, always waltzing through the office in search of his next unfortunate plaything. It just so happens that he’s enjoyed using you as his means of entertainment for the past few weeks, for he always manages to find you even when it’s a busy day. No one can punish him for procrastination because, by some annoyingly consistent miracle, he always has his work finished before the deadline. Every spreadsheet analyzed, every paper filed, every client directed to Mr. Ashengrotto. He works in bursts of energy and will only ever complete his tasks for the day if he’s feeling it.

As a result of his unpredictability, you’ve had to plan around him, lest he interrupt your carefully crafted schedule with his antics. If only Jade would keep his brother on a tighter leash. If only your boss would take the time to properly scold him. If only he wasn’t so shameless when it came to pestering you. Everyone has some sort of persona they adopt while in a professional setting, but this doesn’t apply to Floyd. No matter what environment he’s placed in, he acts in the same noisy fashion, undeterred by the strange looks or annoyed huffs that are boldly directed his way.

“So you were in here after all.” He towers over you, nearly pinning you to the wall like a butterfly on an entomologist’s board. His expression may be dark, but there is light in his eyes. You know at once that he’s here to tease you, which eases some of the tension in your shoulders. At least he won’t threaten you today. Your salary and employment are always things he holds over your head despite not being your boss, and you’re inclined to bow to him because of the harsh reality that’s perpetuated the office for ages now. No one would believe you if you said anything, so why bother? “Aren’t you supposed to be working, shrimpy?”

Had this been your first day in the office, you might have shrunk in surprise, cowed into submission by his forthrightness. But you’re used to this behavior; it’s to be expected with the unpredictable force that is Floyd Leech. He says and does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and has no regard for those who receive his ridicule.

You indicate the tea you had prepared for your boss. “This was for Mr. Ashengrotto, but since you’re here you’re more than welcome to have it. I’ll just make another.”

Floyd takes the cup from you, removes the lid, and fixes the rosy liquid with an intense stare. You’re counting every second that passes, each moment so taut it seems to stretch into infinity. Eventually Floyd releases a disgruntled huff and takes a measured step away from you.

“Stupid.” The playground insult barely reaches your ears and you have no chance to react before he jerks his arm forward and the tepid beverage sloshes out of the paper cup, soaking into your white blouse and leaving a dark, tea-scented stain in the aftermath. “I’m not feeling tea today. You should’ve known that.”

He crushes the cup in a resolute fist and then tosses it into the trash, a victorious smirk adorning his face when he lands his shot. Then he glances back at you, drinking in your frozen stupor with childish glee.

“I... I’m sorry,” you mutter, touching the wet spot with a trembling hand. “I’ll do better next time.”

Floyd’s cruel chuckle breaks through the static of bygone memories, effectively halting any recollections of the past before they can tear into you with razored teeth. “No need to look so down, shrimpy. It’s not like it burned you. You’ll live.”

“You’re right.” You know you have to look at him, or else he’ll pick up on your apprehension and it’ll incite more trouble. So you lift your head like a robot on rusted hinges and grin through the shame. “I’ll live.”

“By the way, that bra you’re wearing is ugly. You should wear something sexier next time,” he calls out to you as he exits, humming an upbeat tune. “Otherwise no guy’s gonna wanna stick it in you.”

“Hah. Yeah...”

Brushing the offhand insult away, you grab at your shirt to analyze the damage. There’s an extra set of clothes in your car. Perhaps you can rush there, change, and then return before your boss realizes the delay. But will there be enough time? You were supposed to be back with his tea by now and he’s probably wondering what’s taking you so long.

The solution to Exhibit A: Accept everything that comes your way. And when a smile annoys him, don’t react at all. In the end, it looks like a lose-lose situation when you juggle his mood swings.

With a defeated sigh, you reach for a fistful of napkins and pat down your blouse in an effort to minimize the spreading liquid. Pathetic—that’s what the display is reminiscent of. A sad, feeble attempt of desperately trying and failing to pick up the pieces of your fractured morning.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, they do.

“Oh dear. What a waste of perfectly good tea.”

Exhibit B: Jade Leech—Floyd’s twin brother and Mr. Ashengrotto’s most trusted secretary. You take the title of second place and are only ever tasked with little things. It’s Jade who handles the bigger, more important aspects of secretary. If anything, you’ve been demoted from a diligent employee who actually completed real work to a mere errand runner for Mr. Ashengrotto and Jade. Not only does that twist the knife deeper into your pride, it forces you to come to terms with your own useless nature. Anyone can run errands. You’re just here because your boss chooses to keep you around due to your past achievements within the company, which have marked you as a shining example of an honest worker. If it weren’t for that, you’re certain he would have cast you aside the moment he took on the role of CEO.

Jade isn’t as bad as Floyd, but if you put both of them on a scale their peskiness would amount to equal weight. You hate Floyd’s degrading remarks, but you despise the pity in Jade’s voice more than anything else. You’ve never really cracked the code to dealing with Jade. Just how can you possibly interact with someone who only ever smiles and treats everyone with respect even if all of his words are secretly sharp? How do you combat faux kindness?

“I’m going to change, so please excuse me.” You try to move past him, but he remains in the doorway, casting an intimidating shadow over you. “If you would excuse me...”

He gazes down at you, eyes flicking from the stain to the outline of your now visible bra and then back up to your face. “Azul sent me to fetch you. You’ve yet to return with the tea he asked for—” Jade pauses to check the time on his luxury watch— “ten minutes ago. I believe it shouldn’t take that long to prepare a cup of tea.”

“I spilled it and was in the process of brewing another, but I’d like to change out of my blouse first. I don’t want Mr. Ashengrotto to see my mistake.”

“An unkempt appearance suggests an unprofessional mindset. You would indeed do well to change.” He finally steps to the side, allowing you passage. Before you leave, however, he shrugs his blazer off and holds it out to you. “I shall brew a new cup and bring it to him in your stead.”

You almost reach for the jacket, but you stop yourself when you remember what he’s like. As polite as he may seem, Jade will want something in return for aiding you. You’re already indebted to him for running the errand you were meant to complete, so having to owe him twice doesn’t sound very appealing.

“I’ll be okay. Thank you, though.”

“I insist,” he says with a patient smile. “You can return it to me once you’ve changed.”

“I appreciate it, but I don’t need it.”

“Then is it safe to assume you’re content with others looking at you in your current state?” He takes a step towards you, his body blocking the doorway once again. The light from the hallway frames his figure in an oversized halo, bright and overbearing. When he places his palm on the damp stain on your chest, you’re reminded that he is far from an angel. “It’s not very professional. Our boss would not approve of such...inappropriate distractions.”

Before he can grope you outright, you stumble away from him, disgust flashing in your disbelieving stare. “I didn’t do this on purpose!” you snap, snatching his blazer and stuffing your arms through the sleeves. You make sure to button it all the way until the stain and your bra are no longer visible. “There. I took it. Are you happy?”

“Immensely.” As you shuffle past him, Jade ventures deeper into the room and opens a cabinet containing various tins of tea. “Next time, do take caution not to spill.”

Your mouth twitches, but you keep your remarks to yourself as you depart. A creeping revulsion prickles your skin. Jade’s cologne clings to his blazer, a fine scent that reminds you of fancy dinners and glittering sports cars—materialistic opulence that whisks you into another world entirely. The thought of smelling like him for the rest of the day is unbearable, so you pick up your pace as you make a beeline for the elevator and, after descending the floors, the parking garage.

The solution to Exhibit B: It lies in your avoidance of Jade. If you happen to run into him, it’s best not to trap yourself in any strange situations.

But knowing that Jade is cut from the same cloth as Floyd, you’re certain his own unpredictability will sour that solution at once.

Your boss, the marvelous, hardworking, benevolent Azul Ashengrotto, does not spare you of the workload in the following weeks. The company has taken on another important project, which has proved to be a major monetary investment and a time commitment. Jade conveniently informed Mr. Ashengrotto of your willingness to sit in his place and take notes for every meeting.

At least this is one of the two favors you owe him and it isn’t even that difficult to complete. It’s tedious and you’d rather be on phone duty than suffer through boring meetings, but you’re relieved to be getting the first favor out of the way. When you had returned Jade’s blazer to him, he’d held it as if it was radioactive filth—as if the gentle wash cycle you put it through wasn’t enough to erase traces of you from the fabric. You’re not sure why you even bother sometimes. Jade isn’t your friend; you’re not sure you could consider him an acquaintance either. But you couldn’t just leave his blazer sitting in the back of your car, so you resolved to clean it so that he was spared of the chore.

Perhaps you should have returned it as it was. Or maybe, if you really wanted petty revenge, you could have dirtied it a little. Perhaps that would earn Jade’s ire, but it would satisfy your growing hatred of him and this horrible workplace. The more you consider it, the more you realize just how futile resistance and revenge are. If you offend Jade, you’ll be offending Floyd and then Mr. Ashengrotto, and then your entire employment will be on the line because you’re not a worthy pawn on your boss’s corporate chessboard. So you’ll just have to imagine these possibilities and enjoy all of the candy-coated revenge in your sweetest dreams.

“And that concludes my reading of the meeting minutes,” you announce, setting the stack of papers on Mr. Ashengrotto’s desk. “If Jade wishes to see them, please forward them to him for his perusal.”

“Will do.” He picks the stack up and rifles through a few sheets at random. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If that’s all, I’ll return to my—”

“One moment.” He withdraws a folder from the cabinet in his desk and opens it to reveal sheets of paper with colorful prints. “I’d like to ask your opinion on these logos. One of them will be used by our marketing team, but I’m not sure which is best.”

My opinion? Does it matter? you almost ask, but instead you say, “They look very nice. I like this one.”

“Why’s that?”

“The colors and composition are aesthetically pleasing and easy on the eyes.”

“Anyone can see that this logo is superior and will therefore sell. But what’s your honest opinion on it?”

You stare at the pale seashell with the word ‘Mostro’ spelled beneath it in dancing cursive and hum thoughtfully.

“The minimalistic design—”

“No.” His expression softens when you meet his gaze. “I’m referring to your thoughts. Not as an employee. Not as a consumer. I want to hear what (Name) thinks.”

Do people actually like these designs nowadays? If you were bold, you might have actually verbalized that question. But instead you can only offer your most intelligent, “Um,” and a weak shoulder shrug.

Mr. Ashengrotto leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “I’m curious and would like to hear your feedback.” He senses your apprehension and chuckles. “I won’t take any offense, so please feel free to be as brutally honest as you’d like. And while you’re at it, have a seat. I’m in no rush to send you away.”

You’re so used to balancing Floyd’s nonsense and being outshined by Jade’s brilliance that you often forget how kind your boss usually is. At least he’s not as vicious as the troublesome twins. Part of you wonders if he ever notices their treatment of you. Does anyone in the office notice it? Do they see how much you struggle to get by in this setting? Maybe they do and have chosen to keep their lips sealed. Why would they care anyway?

You pull a chair up to his desk and lower into it, awkwardly glancing at the octopus paperweight sitting atop a stack of files. Its tentacles writhe in a curling mass of obsidian, full of life and energy. Mr. Ashengrotto follows your wavering gaze and raises a brow.

“If I’m allowed to say anything,” you say slowly, testing the waters, “I think your paperweight is more appealing than the logo.”

An amused breath slips past his lips. “Is that so?”

“I think something’s lacking in the design. It just feels too plain and boring.”

“Do you have any suggestions that would make it more eye-catching?”

“What if there was an octopus living inside the shell? Most people look at shells and expect to see a snail or a crab or some other animal living inside it, right? What if the logo consisted of that same shell with an octopus emerging from the shadows and its tentacles were twisting into the letters to spell ‘Mostro’?”

“Hm.” He surveys the paperweight and then the design variations on the page, humming in contemplation. “It doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“Maybe it is,” you blurt. “A bad idea, I mean. It’s probably not the best. I don’t know. I just thought it would look cool…”

“You’re quick to invalidate your ideas.”

“I guess so.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. Your opinions are very valuable. Had it not been for your creative mind, I wouldn’t be considering these designs from another angle. There are no bad ideas here. Please take care to remember that.”

“I will.” You rise from your seat. “If that’s all you need, I’ll return to my work.”

He nods, shutting the folder and tucking it away in its rightful place. “That will be all.”

On your way to the door, you debate the pros and cons of telling your boss about the twins’ behavior. On one hand, you might be able to score some sort of change. On the other, you could just be making more trouble for yourself. The twins wouldn’t like it if you snitched and you’re certain they’d become even more of a nuisance than they already are if they learned of your loose lips.

Your mouth moves without meaning to and once the inquiry is out in the open there’s nothing you can do to take it back.

“If an employee was being harassed and they came to you about it, what would you do?”

You refuse to look at him, so you glare holes into an abstract painting of a warped clock-bird hybrid as you await his response. A low thrum starts in your chest, and you straighten your posture to regain some of your diminished confidence.

“Why do you ask?” And then he adds in a serious tone, “Is there someone you know of who’s currently being harassed?”

“N-No.” You swallow a lump of nerves, unable to spend another second in this stifling room. The walls are too small—too bland and unassuming. You’ve been shoved in a professional box and there’s no way out, and you can already imagine the twins’ mocking laughter as they stand on the other side, peering in to witness your struggle. “No one at all. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Ashengrotto.”

Before he can utter another word, you’re pushing the door open and slipping out into the serene hallway, greedily inhaling a mouthful of oxygen once the door shuts behind you. The familiar ringing from phones and the click-clacking of fingers on keyboards brings you back to reality. Those noises remind you of the busy atmosphere within the office—a place where you can lose yourself in the mundane hustle and bustle of work.

It isn’t until you sit at your desk and view your laptop’s motivational background that your heart finally ceases its frantic beating. You inhale a long breath, hold it, and then release it, vowing to focus on the list of tasks you’ve written up for the day. If you can direct all of your time and effort into that, you won’t have a chance to ruminate on the failed conversation in your boss’s office. You were almost there—had merely scraped the surface of the issue—but you had lost courage as fast as you’d gained it.

It’s not like telling him will do anything, you think as you begin your research for the spreadsheet your coworker sent to you. He’s close with the Leech brothers. I’m not part of their circle, so he’ll definitely side with them if I try to tell him the truth.

For the rest of the day you power through your checklist, shunning the gloom that hangs over you like an invisible rain cloud. You forward most of your completed work to Mr. Ashengrotto for his review and then you organize the contents of your desk during your break. Floyd doesn’t make an appearance at all while you pick at a salad and watch amusing cat videos online. That would normally fill you with joy, but you can’t help worrying that he’ll pop up eventually. Like some foreboding rash or a sudden sickness or ringworm.

The tension in your posture dissipates when a message brightens your phone screen. It’s from your boyfriend of two years; he wants to know what you’d like to eat for dinner. With a fond smile playing at your lips, you type your reply. Whenever he’s on your mind, all of the suffering you’ve endured at the office becomes meaningless and you’re able to think about every good thing that exists in your life: a loving boyfriend, a stable job, a comfortable home, and so many things that you deserve. Your therapist once said it wasn’t right to deny yourself of these things because you’re just as entitled to good fortune as everyone else. Briefly, you find yourself wondering if you’d benefit from seeing her again. Maybe it would help ease some of the anxieties that have begun persisting ever since the company found itself under new authority.

Mr. Ashengrotto isn’t a bad boss. You like working for him, but you wish he’d reconsider the people he chooses to keep close. Perhaps one day he’ll realize this. You know it isn’t right to leave this up to chance or time, but they’re your only options. You can’t tell him directly or else you’d be catapulted into the twins’ radar. And if you attempted an anonymous confession, they might sniff you out regardless.

Either way, the scenario ends with humiliation and regret. Perhaps you lose your job and are labeled as the hateful woman with the insincere tongue.

You can’t allow that to happen, which is why you’ve decided that you’re willing to do whatever it takes to stay afloat in the corporate ocean. That’s why your smile is brighter than light itself when you’re called into Mr. Ashengrotto’s office later that evening. The sun is well below the horizon now, and the sky is stained in colors of orange and purple. Pleasant pinks and blues have faded away, stomped out by the encroaching sunset. The large windows behind your boss showcase a view of the glittering cityscape: skyscrapers with dozens of windows—all sturdy metal and reinforced glass. Buildings that most likely house people who are going through similar struggles. Workplace misconduct, harassment, weird and annoying coworkers…

Jade is standing beside you, a quiet presence you’re forcing yourself to ignore. As the silence mounts to an unbearable level, you sigh and open your mouth, allowing easy words to sprinkle out like a dusting of snow.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Ashengrotto?”

“Both of you, as a matter of fact.” He addresses you and Jade with a polite smile. “I’m certain we would all like to call it a night, so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve recently been invited to a luncheon with an important client and his associates. Seeing as the both of you act as my secretary, I would like to extend the invitation to you.”

“A luncheon?” you parrot, blinking owlishly. “Uh. Okay. Sure. When is this happening?”

“This Sunday at approximately three o’clock. If you’re able to join me, I expect you to dress appropriately and be prepared for business discussions.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I have dinner arrangements with my partner two hours after three. How long will the luncheon last?”

Mr. Ashengrotto stares at you for what feels like an eternity, his pale eyes boring into your flesh like maggots burrowing deeply in a rotting corpse. The look in his eyes is unnerving to say the least. It’s as if all color has drained from his pastel hues—as if something has died in his eyes and you’re observing a hollowed version of your usually charismatic boss.

It’s Jade who draws your attention when he clears his throat and says, “I’m certain your plans will not be affected in the slightest. Despite the leisurely circumstances in which we will be meeting, this is still an important occasion with plenty of potential for new partnerships and deals. Not only would it look acceptable if the both of us accompanied the boss, it makes it easier to network. Wolves hunt in packs, do they not? This is essentially the same.”

“Right…” His sharp smile drives a stake through your chest. You glance at Mr. Ashengrotto, whose gaze flicks between you and Jade, and his vacant eyes brighten when they settle on you. “I suppose I can make it.”

“Wonderful. I assume you’ll be joining us without issue, Jade?”

“I have no prior engagements.”

“Then it’s settled. The three of us will meet at the harbor thirty minutes beforehand and then we’ll—”

“Sorry. Did you say the harbor?”

“Is there a problem?”

“N-No. I was just clarifying, sir.” The rest of your sentence shrivels in your raw throat, dry and cowardly.

Mr. Ashengrotto nods slowly, as if your behaviors are an explosive he must handle with care. “As I was saying, we will meet at the harbor. I expect the both of you to be punctual and well-equipped to deal with the client and those he’s brought along. Jade will look into their background and anything else that might help establish rapport and he will forward his findings to you, (Name).”

“All right. Is there anything I should do?”

He pauses to consider your question. “You can continue to look your best. That’s all I require from you.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

I’ll do some of my own research so that I’m prepared.

A tiny voice in the back of your head says otherwise. You just want to seem useful.

“If you have any other questions, you’re more than welcome to email me.” He glances at the watch on his wrist, an expensive thing made of silver and chips of diamond or some other fancy stone—it’s hard to tell. You’ve never really gotten a good look at it, but you’ve heard it’s quite the rarity. “That’s all I wanted to say. Both of you are free to go.”

“See you Sunday, sir,” you say as you shuffle out of his office. Jade follows behind you and once the door closes the both of you are in the hall. Together. Alone. You force yourself to look up at him—to challenge him with an unyielding stare. “Have a pleasant evening, Jade.”

He smiles at you, but there’s a faint hint of amusement in his mismatched eyes. “You’ll have to excuse Floyd. He’s known to be very…enthusiastic around those he finds curious.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I took the liberty of keeping him occupied today, so I believe I am no longer indebted to you. If you attend this little retreat with Azul, I will consider it the second favor you owe.”

“Second favor? Oh, that’s right. Your blazer. Sorry, I completely forgot.”

“Well, if everything’s clear I shall be on my way.” He strides past you and you catch the cloying scent of sandalwood and some other delicious fragrance as he departs. “Enjoy your evening, (Name).”

He turns the corner and you’re left with your thoughts in the dimly lit hallway.

With a groan, you rub circles into your temples. I have got to stop apologizing for every little thing. Ugh… What a mess.

At least Jade is known to be a man of his word. Usually.

In hindsight, you should have declined the minute your brain registered the connection between harbor and luncheon. But that had been the least of your troubles as you looked into the client’s background and exchanged boring emails with Jade regarding extra information. The days went by in a blur and before you knew it you were donning your cutest spring dress and following the directions to the meeting place Mr. Ashengrotto had detailed in his email.

He’s sitting under an umbrella, separated from the crowds and focused entirely on his mobile phone. You weave through a group of tourists as you approach him, noting his black turtleneck and the pale jacket that hangs off of his shoulders in a way you’d never be able to pull off, lest it look uncomfortable and awkward. The distant shrieks of seagulls and the hush-hush of the waves unsettle you, but you force your fears to the side and keep your eyes firmly glued on your boss. You know that the moment you glance at the ocean beyond you’ll lose your nerve and someone will have to drag you to wherever this luncheon is taking place.

A harsh breeze rustles through the beach. You forgot how chilly it often gets near the shoreline, and you wrap your arms around yourself in an effort to stay warm.

“Good afternoon, sir!” You slip into the seat across from him and grin when he finally looks up to acknowledge you.

“Ah. Good afternoon to you, too.” He pockets his phone. “You look nice.”

“I’ve been waiting to wear this dress. I’m happy I can finally put it to good use.”

He chuckles airily. “I imagine it’s quite the excitement.”

“It is.” You scan the crowds and nearby storefronts. “Where’s Jade?”

“He couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. Something about a culinary disaster… I haven’t the faintest clue what he was going on about in his email. His hobbies are beyond me.”

“You don’t say…”

His words from a few days prior resurface: If you go on this little retreat with Azul… Of course he found a way to weasel out of this since you’re the one who’ll be doing all of the work in his place. This is your second favor, paid in full.

Thanks, Jade. Truly.

“Oh, it’s almost time to board. We should be on our way.”

“Board?” Your head snaps over to him. “Board what?”

“The boat, of course.”

“The… The boat. As in—” You turn to face the harbor and all of the vessels that are currently docked. Ice crackles through your bloodstream when you see it. A hulking cabin cruiser is sitting there in the water, awaiting passengers, and groups of people are already beginning to line up for entry. Beyond it, the expansive, glistening ocean lies. “N-No. No, no, no…”

“Is something the matter?” Mr. Ashengrotto’s face is a portrait of pure befuddlement.

“I can’t…” You swallow thickly, but the saliva does nothing to coat your sandpaper throat. “I can’t do boats. I really can’t. T-There’s no way—no. I can’t.” You grip the table with clammy hands, struggling to brace yourself as you attempt breathing exercises. The sea air invades your nostrils with its briny fingers and it reminds you of so many things—of the water that filled your mouth when your head was forced under, of the ocean that currently surrounds you, of the boat that will undoubtedly become your grave should it sink down, down, down into a blue abyss. “I… I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I—”

His hands move to cover yours, warm and soft. “You’re okay.” It’s all you can hear; every other noise has faded away into nothingness. You stare at him, unable to stop the tears that well in your eyes. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Y-You don’t understand… I can’t… I really—” You shake your head wildly. Everything is muffled, as if cotton has wound itself around the world, and your heart is gripped in Death’s clenched fist. There’s nothing you can do to escape the reaching ocean, the reaching hands, the reaching insults. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I don’t think I can do this...”

“Don’t look anywhere else,” Mr. Ashengrotto murmurs, smoothly redirecting your attention even though your pupils are flitting from him to the umbrella to the ground. His thumb strokes the top of your hand in what you assume is consolation. “What are your favorite things to do during winter?”

“W-Winter?” You pull your hands out from under his to wipe at your teary eyes, confusion overtaking fear. “I… Um. I like…to bake sugar cookies and drink hot chocolate. If it’s really snowy, I’ll w-watch movies and my boyfriend will drape a fluffy blanket over my shoulders and we’ll sit on the sofa together to watch them.”

“And what about autumn?”

“Autumn is… Well, I don’t know. I guess I like to take walks.” Your brain is whirring in an attempt to differentiate critical thinking and panic-induced nonsense. Suddenly, fight or flight doesn’t seem all that necessary when you’re looking into Mr. Ashengrotto’s sincere eyes, hearing his calm voice as he asks you simple questions.

This isn’t the end of the world. This is an easy-to-answer questionnaire from your boss.

“Walks are nice. I’m especially fond of the leaves.”

“M-Me too. They’re really pretty and crinkly.”

It’s okay. You’re okay, your mind repeats. It’s a newspaper’s headline, printed in big, reassuring letters. The ocean can’t get you. It’s not here. The boat can’t get you either, nor can the people from your past. You’re in the moment with Mr. Ashengrotto. You’re going to be okay. You’re safe.

Your boss is going on about autumn activities when the sound slowly starts to trickle in. You overhear nearby conversations. Everyone’s still here. The sea hasn’t swallowed them whole. And you’re still in one piece, too. You’re not in the jaws of a shark, you’re not drifting on a current, you’re not sinking into a deep, dark trench. You’re on the land, in your spring dress, talking to your boss on a sunny day. Another breeze combs its soothing fingers through your hair and you shiver involuntarily at the chill that settles under your skin.

I’m safe.

“Are you all right?”

“I…am. I think.” Your face scrunches into uncertainty. “I’m…sorry you had to witness all of that. Thinking about b-boats and the sea… It’s a lot.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” He sends a sympathetic smile your way. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“Thank you.” You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thank you so much. Your voice is really nice, Mr. Ashengrotto. It calmed me down faster than I thought it would.”

“Really? Then I’m pleased it could provide some comfort.” But then his expression hardens and he faces the cruiser in the distance. “Although this does put us at a slight disadvantage...”

“I can force myself to go. I should be okay as long as the boat doesn’t leave the harbor. M-Maybe.”

What am I saying? I can’t step foot on that thing.

He peers at his watch and frowns. “We haven’t got much time.”

“Sorry, I’ll think of something. Um...” You rise from your seat and gaze at the shops behind you, hoping their colorful window displays will provide you with a foolproof solution. Normally, you’d rely on your boyfriend to act as your shield if you had to get near the water. His presence is always enough to soothe you; you’d trust him with your life. But Mr. Ashengrotto isn’t your boyfriend and you don’t know him well enough to confirm whether or not your life is secure in his hands. “Uh...”

I can’t think of anything! This is the worst. What if he fires me over this? What if I can’t find another job after this one?

“I’ll go by myself.” He’s standing now, adjusting his jacket as the wind attempts to snatch it from him. “It wouldn’t be fair if you were uncomfortable during the luncheon.”

“No, I’ll go!”

If I don’t, I’ll still owe Jade a favor. And I don’t want this to be the reason I’m fired. I need to act professional. Get it together, (Name).

Mr. Ashengrotto studies the desperation painted on your face and sighs. He pushes his glasses up before they can slip down the bridge of his nose and says, “If you intend on accompanying me, I’d like to know what I can do to make this easier for you. I can’t guarantee whether the boat will remain docked, but I can assure you that it’s completely safe inside.”

You inhale sharply as a dark vision sparks to life within your head—one that consists of your own body filling with water until, eventually, you submit to the frigid depths; and they send search parties to look for you, but no one knows anything and they can’t locate your body. So your funeral is empty and there’s no corpse, and your boyfriend and your family—everyone you know and cherish—are all left to craft theories on your whereabouts. And when they remember you, they only ever think of death and the ocean and not the happy person you were in life. And your body remains on the sea floor, where the marine life feast on your flesh until each chunk is ripped away to reveal bloated organs and skeletal remains.

“I need to make a phone call!” you blurt, fumbling to withdraw your phone from your purse. “P-Please excuse me, sir.”

All it takes is a quick chat with your boyfriend, where his consoling voice validates every danger and fear that’s uttered and you’re feeling just slightly more confident than you were before. He offered to come down to the harbor to see you, but that would mean he’d have to leave work and you really don’t want to trouble him. So you promise him that it’ll be okay and that you’ll only focus on the fact that the boat isn’t to be feared—it’s what lurks beneath. But you won’t think about that.

And if you ignore the water and all of the creatures it houses, you can enjoy the luncheon and complete this task. After this, you’ll never come to the harbor again.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come down there?” your boyfriend asks just before you hang up. “I don’t want you to force yourself into a situation you can’t get out of.”

“I can do this,” you tell him, face set in grim determination. “I promise I’ll be fine. Boats are…safe. A-And I’ll be with my boss. It’s not like I’ll be alone.”

For a minute his silence scares you more than the vastness of the ocean and you trace a wobbly circle into the sand with the toe of your heel. “Okay then. I believe in you. Knock ‘em dead, my love.”

A bashful smile blossoms on your lips. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, okay? Don’t forget about the plans we made.”

After exchanging sweet farewells, you tuck your phone back into your purse and wander over to Mr. Ashengrotto, who’s gazing at you with good-natured admiration.

“Let’s start over.” You hold your hand out. “I’m looking forward to today’s meeting, sir.”

He smiles and fits his hand in yours. The handshake lasts longer than it should have, but you aren’t bothered by it.

“If at any point you feel unsafe or uncomfortable, please tell me and we can leave.”

“That won’t happen. I can do this, so don’t worry about me. Just focus on the meeting.”

His stare lingers on your face before he shrugs. “Very well. Then let’s be on our way. There’s no time to waste.”

There are many challenges that come with your job. Never in a million years did you think you’d ever board a boat in your time as a secretary. Yet here you are, climbing the ramp with stiff, brittle legs and a slowly crumbling resolve. Once you’re inside the vessel and Mr. Ashengrotto has notified the hostess of the name for the lunch reservation, you admire the bright interior. Tables dot the dining area, covered in crisp tablecloths and polished utensils. As you follow the woman leading you to your designated table, you notice the napkins have been folded into delicate shapes. This entire place feels like any other fancy restaurant on land and if you focus hard enough you might be able to con your brain into thinking so.

Unfortunately, your table is by a window and you have to look away in order to avoid peering at the sea.

You’re here for the meeting. Don’t look. Just focus, you remind yourself, wiping your sweaty palms on your dress.

“Who do we have here?” someone asks, his voice tinged with playful intrigue.

Mr. Ashengrotto pulls a chair out for you and you’re grateful he’s taking the window seat. There’s no way you could sit there, so close to doom. You sit down, acutely aware of the eyes plastered on you, and meet the stare of the only other woman at the table. She returns your shy smile with a curt nod.

“This is my secretary.” Mr. Ashengrotto lowers into the seat beside you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. My name is (Name).” As an afterthought, you add, “I’ve heard many things about you.”

“Only good things I hope,” the man says with a hearty chortle. You recognize him as the client and he’s just as piggish-looking as you imagined he’d be. The others are his associates, all of whom have yet to strike any deals with your boss. You’re certain that’s his goal. Luckily, you’re equipped with all the information in the world, which makes communication easy. “In any case, I haven’t heard anything about you, sweetheart.”

The pet name cuts into you like a hot knife through a block of butter and it takes all of your self-restraint not to openly cringe. Jade wasn’t kidding when he said this guy was fond of women, especially those who lack autonomy and power. You already hate him and his irritating ego, but your boss is observing and you mustn’t act out in his presence.

So you lean forwards, simpering, and say, “I’d be happy to talk about myself, but that’s not the reason we’re gathered here today.”

The man frowns. “How unfortunate.”

Once the others have introduced themselves and drinks have been ordered, Mr. Ashengrotto talks with the woman sitting across from him. She looks positively charmed as he slips a few smooth compliments into his speech. His client happens to be sitting across from you and, as he ogles at you, his foot moves to find yours under the table, cold leather tracing up the length of your leg.

Your smile tightens and a shudder electrifies your body. The man’s lips quirk upwards in a lazy smirk. Filled with disgust, you lift your leg and search for his foot. And once you’ve located it, you drive your heel into the expensive shoe, putting as much force and anger you can muster into it. From the way he grimaces, barely suppressing a pained grunt, you can tell you’ve hit your mark. His foot withdraws from your leg immediately and you catch yourself hoping he’ll leave here with a ghastly bruise or a broken toe.

“I‘ve heard that you and Mr. Ashengrotto have history,” you say in a tone that’s sickly sweet. “I’m happy to know that the two of you get along so well.”

His eyes narrow into a dark glower and it’s then when you realize they don’t quite fit on his face. It’s as if he’s been assembled from a mashup of spare doll parts, each limb forced on in an effort to dress a factory reject in sparkling silver.

“I don’t suppose he keeps you around for more than secretary work,” he grumbles. “Worthless bitch.”

What a child, you think. I’ve heard worse, old man. If you’re going to play in the sandbox, you’d better throw rocks, not sticks.

Before you can come up with a kind sentiment to combat the sour barb, the man sitting beside the client indicates the bottle of wine on the table. “Would you like another glass? I noticed you’re almost done with the first.”

You glance at your glass and marvel at how quickly it was drained. Perhaps drinking is all you can do in this situation. When faced with unfamiliar company, all you can do is down wine until the waiter returns to take everyone’s meal orders.

At this point, you almost wish Jade was here. You’d rather put up with him than the superficial people at this table.

“Oh, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

“Come on! Where’s the fun in a single glass?” The bottle is swiped from the table and your boss’s client is pouring a generous amount in your glass before you can voice another objection. You stare at the inky liquid with contempt brewing in your cold eyes. “Drink up, sweetheart.”

Your fingers curl around the thin handle. “Thank you.” Those words char your tongue, bitter and resentful.

For the rest of the luncheon, you speak with the others at the table while Mr. Ashengrotto makes conversation with the client. How he can tolerate him is beyond you, but that’s the beauty of a customer service smile and a confident attitude. You pick at your food, alcohol clouding your brain. You’re not sure how much you’ve had to drink, but it’s definitely enough to warm your entire body. At least the intoxication shoos your phobia to the outer edges of your mind.

By the end of it, it’s been an hour and thirty minutes of suffering and you’re clinging to your boss as he leads you off of the ship. He waves to the group as he departs with you in tow, promising to follow up with them through email. Through your tipsy haze, relief comes flooding in. You’re glad to have survived that, even if you’re coming out of it inebriated. It’s been a while since you’ve drank so much, and if you were sober you might have felt flustered when you abandon all thoughts of professionalism in favor of stumbling into the crisp, evening air, freed from the stuffy confines of the cruiser.

“Be careful. I don’t want you to slip.” Mr. Ashengrotto has hooked his arm around your waist as he aids you in your staggering, zombie-like stride.

You ignore the water that sloshes beneath the ramp and the boardwalk, not quite registering what would happen if you were to fall in.

“That stupid, piggish client… I hate him!” Your hands clutch Mr. Ashengrotto’s jacket, fingers curling into the fine material in clenched fists. “He’s gwoss.” Your brows knit together at the mispronunciation and you will your heavy tongue to try again. “Gross.”

Mr. Ashengrotto’s melodious chuckle has you staring up at his face, admiring his side profile with glazed eyes. “He’s unbearable, isn’t he? I can’t stand him either.”

“Azul.” Your serious tone catches him by surprise and his blue hues flick towards you. A giggle rises in your throat. “I just wanted to say it. Aaazul. Azuuul. It rhymes with jewel and cool and…mewl. It’s really cute.”

“I…” He clears his throat. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Hey, what time is it? Time… Right. Need to get going. I’ve got this thing planned.” The more you ramble, the more troubling it becomes to speak, and your sensible sentence structure soon falls apart. “Take me home, ‘Zul…”

“I don’t know where you live, (Name).”

“Your place. Take me there. Duh.” You break away from him to fish through your purse, clumsily searching for your phone amidst the other items inside. “I’ll text my boyfriend. He’ll understand. Or maybe he won’t. I dunno. Just need to go home.”

Your heels click along the wooden platform as you swipe through notifications, glaring at the too-bright screen. Just as you locate your boyfriend’s contact, your foot catches on a raised slat and the ground is suddenly approaching at a rapid speed. Before your face can kiss wood, Mr. Ashengrotto seizes your wrist and yanks you towards him. Unfortunately, the suave gesture doesn’t strike your drunken heart because the new weight is unaccounted for and he falls backwards. You go down with him, landing on top of him in a heap of sprawled limbs.

“Ow…” You place your hands on either side of his face to lift yourself off of him. Mr. Ashengrotto looks up at you with his eyes blown wide. “How’d you get below me?”

“We… Ahem. We fell.”

“In love?”

“Yes. Ah, wait. No. Just—” He breaks off with a loud sigh and pushes you away from him, cheeks burning brightly. He’s shoving your phone in your face before you can utter another embarrassing remark.

You take it from him and rise to your feet on shaky legs. There’s a crack running along the screen from top to bottom, evidence that it didn’t survive the tumble or the impact. “Home is…nearby. I think. Uh…” You’re struggling to see past the unsightly crack and with your unreliable sense of direction and spinning vision it makes it all the more difficult. “Damn it.”

“I can replace it,” your boss is saying, but you don’t hear him as nausea overtakes you.

You stumble towards the edge of the boardwalk and, dropping to your knees, empty the contents of your stomach in a mess of bile and wine. Your reflection warps in the murky water and you, throat burning, don’t recognize the ocean that’s haunted you your entire life.

Maybe that’s good because you also fail to notice your boss’s conflicted expression as he discards a grocery list of risqué ideas.

The jagged crack in your phone is, without a doubt, discomforting. When did it get there? How did it get there? More importantly, what were you doing that caused injury to your screen? These questions race through your brain as you make the short journey to your boss’s office. On the way, you cross paths with Jade and he acknowledges your existence with a close-lipped smile. If you could, you’d smack it off his face.

Memories of the luncheon are fuzzy and, like the strange sensation that twists your stomach into knots, outrageously tangled. You’ve tried and failed to unravel them, only to end up more confused than before. You remember that repulsive client, the bottle of wine, and the excessive drinking. You remember the abhorrence in his voice when he insulted you under his breath. You remember slamming your heel into his foot and feeling very satisfied with his pain.

And that’s as far as the timeline goes. It breaks off in a dizzying scribble and you can’t quite figure out when you left the boat or what happened after that. But the following morning, when you had woke from a deep slumber with a soul-crushing hangover, your boyfriend was there to scold you for skipping the plans he had made. You could recall the dinner you were meant to attend, but you couldn’t piece together how you managed to get home or where you had spent the rest of the evening.

“Where were you? You didn’t show up to dinner and I didn’t hear you come home last night,” he’d said when you stumbled into the bathroom to view your exhausted appearance in the mirror. “You didn’t answer any of my texts either. You left me on seen.”

“I don’t know,” you had told him, genuinely bewildered as you attempted to comb through the shoreline of your memory. “I really don’t know…”

So perhaps your fear of the crack in your screen isn’t so foolish after all. It’s been four days since the luncheon and you’ve only been able to come up with an innocent explanation for its existence. Short, sweet, and safe—you dropped your phone. But can a crack that big come from a simple fall? What if its origins are more violent? What if you did something despicable while drunk and that crack is proof of your potential crime?

What happened that evening?

“You wanted to speak with me, Mr. Ashengrotto?” You shut the door to his office, not at all ready to confront him. You’re too busy contemplating cracks and fragile screens to bother with a conversation. “If it’s about the monthly expenses in regards to the project, I’m working with Jade to—what’s that?”

You gaze at the rectangular box lying innocently on his desk.

“It’s for you. Go on. Open it.”

You approach his desk as if it’s a sleeping beast that will wake at the slightest sound and grab the box. You recognize it immediately.

“A phone?”

“A new phone,” he corrects you, pride dripping from every syllable. “It’s the latest model. I figured you were in need of an upgrade.”

“Is this coming out of my pay?” You slap a hand over your mouth to prevent anymore sudden accusations from slipping out.

It doesn’t seem to offend him because he laughs at your startled reaction, humor crinkling his eyes. “Not at all. Consider it a gift.”

“I can’t. I mean, it’s nice and I’m grateful you’d do this for me…”

“But?”

“But my phone still works perfectly fine.”

“You never know. It might be time to switch.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think it would be appropriate if I accepted this.”

“And why’s that?” He sounds more curious than betrayed by the suspicion in your voice as he leans forward, elbows propped on his desk. “Do tell me.”

“It doesn’t feel…fair. If I’m the only one getting this phone and the other employees find out, it wouldn’t look right. They might misinterpret your generosity for something else.”

“I see…” His gaze shifts, eyes darkening with a veiled emotion. “Very well.”

“Speaking of phones.” You withdraw yours from the pocket in your blazer. “I was wondering if you knew how my screen cracked. I’m pretty sure it was during the luncheon, but I can’t remember.” You recall your inebriation and frown. “And I apologize if I did anything inappropriate while intoxicated.”

“You fell.”

“I fell,” you repeat dumbly, not quite understanding what that means. And then horror strikes you across the face and you gasp. “I didn’t fall in the water, did I?”

He shakes his head. “You tripped on the boardwalk and dropped your phone in the process. That’s all.”

“Oh… That’s good.” You realize all of your worries have been for nothing and you heave a relieved sigh. “N-Not that it’s cracked. I’m glad it wasn’t anything life-threatening.”

“If you won’t accept this phone, please accept my thanks. The luncheon was a success and it’s all due to your courage in choosing to go through with it despite your apprehension.”

“It wasn’t a problem, sir. I’m still very sorry for the outburst. It won’t happen again.”

“Nonsense. Fear is a normal emotion, (Name). If I were to fault you for your fright, that would be like expecting you to be fearless. And you’re not. No one is, so don’t fret over it.”

You nod mechanically, still ashamed that you nearly lost it that day. Maybe you really should see your therapist again. “I was also wondering how I got home. I don’t remember that.”

“I drove you home.”

“You did?”

Great. Now I’m indebted to my boss.

“It was difficult learning the way because you were too far gone to articulate the directions.”

“I’m so sorry. I can pay for the gas fee or…something. I didn’t intend to drink so much, nor did I want you to become my babysitter for that evening.”

It was that idiotic client of yours who kept filling my glass! you think, scorning him with all of your fiery might.

He laughs as if he’s just read every thought that manifests. “It’s no trouble. I enjoyed seeing a new side to you. It was very entertaining.”

“It’s not a side you should have seen…” you mumble. “A-Anyway, thank you again for looking after me. If we’re done here, I’ll get back to my work now.”

As you head for the door, you spy the abstract painting again and you ponder its meaning. A woman who ran an art gallery gifted it to him a few years ago. You weren’t his secretary then. You weren’t even anyone important, but you had been the one tasked with delivering it to him. The woman had complained about it, claiming that she wanted to be the one to hand it to him in person. At that point, she might as well have wrapped herself along with the portrait if she was so desperate to see him.

You’d told her that, received a backhanded slap that stung like a wasp, and Mr. Azul Ashengrotto had seen it all. Apparently he wasn’t in his office like you’d thought. He’d been returning from a meeting, caught wind of the argument in the lobby, and had come down to view the spectacle. A few days later, he promoted you to secretary and that woman was never allowed to step foot inside the building again.

“I didn’t mind looking after you,” he whispers just as the door shuts behind you.

You’re thrown back into the fray and, unfortunately, Floyd just so happens to be there. Of all the people to run into in this office, he’s the last one you’d want to meet.

“Hello, Floyd…” Your dubious gaze trails down to the bag in his hands and the knots in your stomach tighten.

He grins at your unease and takes another step closer until he’s backed you against the wall. And then, without explanation, he’s grabbing at your blouse to undo the buttons.

“H-Hey!” You angle your body away from him, but he catches your arm before you can cover yourself. Your voice lowers nervously. “Whatever you want… Can you please not do it right outside Mr. Ashengrotto’s door? Please?”

“Relax, shrimpy. I’m just looking to see what color you’re wearing today.” He peers at the opening in your blouse with glee. “Do you think white suits you? Are you pure, shrimpy?”

“Are you?” you shoot back, irritated. “Now let me go. I have work to do.”

He laughs and pinches your cheek, nearly cooing at you in a high-pitched tone. If you could act without consequence, you’d whack him upside the head until he really sees white. “Aww. I wish I was your boss. Then I’d get to squeeze you all the time.” His fingertips brush along your chest, dangerously close to slipping under your bra. “Maybe it doesn’t matter if I’m your boss… Oh! But I did get you something special. Look here.”

He pulls away and shakes the bag, its contents rustling. You stare at it as if it’s a severed head, and the smirk grows on his face.

“Guess what it is.”

“I don’t know. Can we talk about this later? I really need to—”

“It’s…” He lifts a garment from the depths. “Ta-da! A new bra!”

Your hands shoot out to cover his mouth. “O-Okay! Okay! I get it. Please be quiet.”

The bra is hardly a bra. If anything, it’s two scraps of heart-shaped fabric held together by a flimsy string. Floyd chuckles and produces the other half of the lingerie set from the bag: a pair of violet panties with lace trimming.

His murmured words reach you, and for once you’re thankful he’s the only one nearby. At least no one else is subjected to his embarrassing statements. “And they’re crotchless for easy access. See? Isn’t this much better than that lame bra you’re always wearing? If you wore this, I could bend you over your desk and—”

The door swings open at that moment and you shrink away in alarm. Floyd, unfazed, continues to lean over you, the lingerie dangling in his grasp.

“Floyd!” Mr. Ashengrotto snaps, standing in the doorway and glaring. “I would appreciate it if you could be quiet when...” The rest of that sentence dies when he notices you and then the lingerie. “Am I interrupting something?”

“So boring,” he says with a pout. “I was in the middle of giving my shrimpy a gift.”

Your boss looks at you with a raised brow.

Heat claws up your face. “N-No, this isn’t what you think! I’m not accepting it and I don’t know why he thought to purchase this for me.”

Not good! Not good! you’re thinking, tearing up from the humiliation. Is he trying to get me fired?!

Mr. Ashengrotto analyzes your panicked expression for a moment longer before sighing. “What a shame. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to intervene.”

Floyd tilts his head, but the amusement radiating from him makes you think he knows more than you do. He probably does. “You’re in trouble now, shrimpy,” he sings, drawing out each syllable in an effort to sound menacing. “Good luck.”

And then he slinks away, taking the lingerie with him.

“S-Sir, I’m not sure I—”

Your boss holds the door open wider. “Step inside.”

A biting chill races up your spine when you walk into his office. Its bland walls and minimal decor remind you of a hospital room that’s carrying the bare essentials, and you feel as if you’ve just been admitted to it, diagnosed with some incurable illness you do not have. But if you could brave the terrors of boarding a boat for lunch, you can brave whatever mood your boss is in. And judging by the frown he’s wearing, it doesn’t seem to be a pleasant one.

“I was willing to overlook your misconduct during the luncheon for obvious reasons, but it appears my lenience was misplaced.”

“My misconduct? I’m not following. What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t have to spell out every rule you’re meant to follow. They should be common sense.” He fixes you with a disappointed stare. “You should know better than anyone else that it isn’t right to act salaciously around my clients or your coworkers.”

“But Floyd came to me first! I never approached him!”

“Distractions are similar to weeds. Once they’ve dug their roots into you, it’s nearly impossible to break away. If you continue to bother Jade and Floyd—and anyone else for that matter—I will have to eradicate the source of the problem. If weeds aren’t taken care of, they will spread their poison until everyone’s infected. You should know this.”

“But I wasn’t… I never…” You can’t think of a plausible explanation, especially not when he has the story completely twisted. What can you possibly say that will convince him otherwise? “Mr. Ashengrotto, I promise you that I’ve never once done anything to intentionally distract those around me. I’m here to work.”

“Are you? Because it certainly doesn’t seem like it.” He crosses the distance to his desk, opens a drawer, and withdraws an envelope. Before you can argue your innocence, he dumps its contents onto his desk and what you see tears your resolve in half. “I suggest you consider your next words very carefully, for they will determine whether you’re still worthy of your position.”

You stagger over to his desk, eyeing every photograph in silent horror. The gravity of the situation dawns on you when you spy yourself backed into a corner in the office kitchen, where Floyd’s towering form blocks your anxious expression from the camera’s red-eyed view. And then there’s a photo of you and Jade, where it looks like your hand is the one guiding his arm towards your chest—when in reality you had been trying to stop him from reaching further. There are other photos, too—past instances where the twins have cornered you or touched you or stood beside you and it all seems like you’re the catalyst. Like you’re the one to blame.

You commend yourself for staying composed even when the evidence indicates guilt, but you want nothing more than to disprove every photo with your own rationale. He watched the security footage. He must have in order to get these photos. So why isn’t he seeing that you were helpless to disobey? Why isn’t he seeing that the twins are the ones at fault here?

Why are you the bad one?

“I can understand if you meant no harm the first time, but to have testimonies from my client and your coworkers and photographic proof to back up such claims... Well, I’m sure you know that I can’t ignore this. What’s more is that my client personally reported your misbehavior during the luncheon and I was not impressed to hear it. Playing footsie under the table will not be tolerated. I’m lucky he’s an understanding and forgiving man, but not everyone is as saintly as he is. I expect better from you, (Name).”

“You’re lucky…” you mutter, allowing the information to sink in. Inside, you can hear strings snapping, ice breaking, glass shattering. “You’re lucky. You expect better from me. Is that right?”

“It is, and I hope that you’ll reflect on your behavior after this discussion.”

You’re kidding. You can’t be serious. Do you think I’d actually do any of that? Why would I endanger my job for something so stupid?!

“I’m...terribly sorry for all of the problems I’ve caused.” You lower your head in submission. Tears blur your vision and the urge to scream your hate at him claws at your throat, ripping it into bloody ribbons. Your next words are thick with grief. “It won’t happen again.”

But it will because they can get away with it.

Your boss has the gall to smile as if he didn’t just wrongfully accuse you. “I hope to see an improvement in the coming weeks. Now then, you’re free to go. Consider this a warning. I won’t be so lenient next time.”

You drag yourself out the door, feeling as heavy as an anchor. The conversation replays in your mind, over and over, until all you can hear is the same phrase as it’s nailed into your cortex. I’m lucky.

You’re lucky he didn’t fire you. You’re lucky Jade and Floyd have only gone as far as groping you. You’re lucky that disgusting man didn’t shove more false blame onto you.

The bathroom stall shuts and locks with a click, and the tears come falling shortly after.

More importantly, you’re lucky you’ve survived this long in the office.

The twins do not bother you for two weeks. In fact, they don’t even walk past your cubicle anymore. This would have been a blessing if it weren’t for what had transpired before they decided to stop interacting with you. This is unlike any sort of discomfort you’ve felt before; this is wrong and crooked and sickening, so much so that it unearths a slew of devastating memories. You want to scream, but your voice has been snatched and muted in a crowd of dozens. You want to tell someone, but you don’t want to drag them under the turbulent tide.

So you keep your mouth shut because it’s all you can do.

The gloomy sky is threatening to open up and spill its own doleful tears when you glance out the window. As you make your way to your floor, you debate the pros and cons of resigning. If you did that, you’d never have to deal with your boss or the twins or anyone else who may hide wicked intentions behind charismatic connections. But then you would be forced to search for another job and you’re not keen on throwing yourself into another new space when you’ve finally managed to grow accustomed to this one. And if you stayed, you’d remain miserable and meek, unable to fight for your own justice as it’s chipped away in bits.

It feels like you’re trying to battle fire with fuel—pointless and dangerous.

You sit at your desk with a grumble. Your night was spent in fictional hell, trapped in dreams that left you drowning in a bottomless sea—grasping for assistance, struggling to cling to your slowly draining life. Whenever someone did catch your hand and you were yanked from the cold depths, you’d lock eyes with Floyd and then it would be Jade and then it was your boss. Then it was his client, your boyfriend, and the people from your past. And they’d all tell you the same thing: “You’re lucky.”

You couldn’t stand your reality; it was unfair and unsafe, but your dreams were just as unfortunate. Perhaps the ocean was better, even if you were destined to sink to the same forgotten resting place many shipwrecks wind up. Alone, waterlogged, and broken. Accumulating grime and barnacles. Perhaps the crabs could make a home out of your rib cage and then you’d finally be useful.

In the end, you couldn’t get any proper sleep. You kept twisting and turning in bed, sweating buckets, until your boyfriend would shake you awake and insist that everything was okay. But that was a lie. Things weren’t okay; you weren’t okay.

Sliding your laptop out of your bag, you place it on your desk and stare at its sleek top. Maybe you could pull a Floyd and skip out on work for today. Maybe no one would notice your absence if you hid in the office kitchen or went down to the lobby. Besides, wouldn’t it be better if you isolated yourself? That way, your boss can’t fault you for seducing everyone with a pulse and you’d be free to do whatever you wanted.

It’s not worth it, you think and yank your desk drawer open to grab a pen. Your hand freezes when you spy the beige folder lying atop the scattered stationery.

Your full name is printed on the cover and in smaller letters the word Background rests beneath. Confusion ignites within you and you pry the folder open with bated breath. Part of you can already guess what you’ll find, but that doesn’t make it any less frightening when your suspicions are confirmed true. There are many documents paper-clipped to the file, some of which are photographs and others are prints from old newspaper articles. You take each page out and set it on your desk until it’s covered in a collage of your past, all intricate strings and traumatic recollections on display.

“No way...” you mutter, placing your palms on the desk to steady yourself.

Amidst the pile, one particular article stands out. There’s a photo of a familiar beach underneath the mouthful of a headline, which reads: Local Girl Found Unconscious Near Shoreline. Suspects Unidentified. A distinct cold washes over you—something akin to a bucket of ice spilling on you from above. Your blood freezes, your body grows stiff with shock, and a sick feeling travels up your throat.

You thought you’d left that mess in the past. Why has it come back now?

“The perpetrators were never apprehended.” Jade smiles comfortably, observing your trembling form from where he stands outside your cubicle. “That article is about you, is it not?”

“Why are you here?” you spit, venom staining your tone.

“Someone was thorough.” He nods towards the pile and you throw yourself onto the desk to obscure his view. “Perhaps an admirer? Perhaps a novice sleuth? What do you think?”

“This has nothing to do with you. Stay out of my life.” You crumple the article into a ball and glower. “You and your brother. All you’ve done is harass and antagonize me. I never did anything to you. Why can’t you let me work in peace? Why am I the scapegoat? I just want to do my job!”

Jade frowns at your rising tone. “Perhaps you should take a break. If you need any help—”

You slap his reaching hand away. “I don’t need your help! I just need you to leave me alone!”

A few heads pop up from their respective cubicles, their focus straying, but you could care less about how loud you’re getting. You don’t see Jade when you look through him, past his tall stature and mismatched eyes. You see all of the people from your childhood. People whose fingers had curled around your arms and forced your head into the ocean, leaving you to struggle against the push and pull of the current. People who thought leaving you to fight against the rolling surf would make for a wonderful joke. People who were never punished for their actions because no one would listen to you.

“I don’t know who’s responsible for this—” you gesture wildly to your desk, chest heaving as panic muddles your sensibility— “or why they think it’s necessary to dump it on me, but it’s not going to work. I’m not going to sit back and take it.”

“(Name), please calm down. I’m just as lost as you are in regards to the—”

“Calm down? Calm down? Why should I when you’ve done nothing but make my life difficult? I could’ve lost my job with those accusations!” You snatch up a handful of papers in a clenched fist and shake them. Jade steps back when you advance and you can see the gears turning in his gaze—can sense him trying to work out a suitable explanation for your meltdown. “And this—this isn’t helping!”

The first tear slips down your cheek and it isn’t long before more fall, cascading like spilled milk. Shouting at him doesn’t accomplish much, but it’s cathartic to say everything that crosses your mind, blissfully ignorant to the consequences that will surely follow. You shove the wrinkled documents at his chest as you stride past him.

“Fuck you and your brother. I hate you.”

He blinks at you, momentarily stunned. But as you’re departing, you catch his measured chuckle as he tells the onlookers, “It seems mornings are not for everyone. Please don’t worry and continue working as you normally would. I will sort this matter accordingly.”

You’ve never been known to break down at work. In past jobs, you’ve remained strong even when facing rude and entitled customers who’d hurl insults faster than you could keep up. But as of late, you’ve felt so drained and hollow as you drag yourself through the molasses that has become your daily life.

You really are a bird with fractured wings. They were ripped from your back long ago and you’ve been too cowardly to regrow them.

A quivering breath escapes your raw throat as you trudge to the bathroom, feeling your pocket for the outline of your cellphone. It’s not there and, with another fresh bout of tears, you lament having left it in your bag. So you continue your walk of shame, head lowered, and weep the rest of the way.

“(Name)?”

You look up to find Mr. Ashengrotto at the end of the hall. His phone is angled away from his ear, hand covering the microphone to muffle his voice. You’re not sure who’s on the other end, but you can’t be bothered to find out.

“Mr. Ashengrotto,” you say with a sniffle, wiping at the tears that seem to fall in endless, salty streams. You’re certain your mascara is running down your cheeks in dark streaks and your eyes are probably red and blotchy. “H-Have a good morning.” You turn to head in the other direction, deciding that it’s easier to deal with Jade and a room full of your coworkers than the one in charge of your employment status.

“Wait!” He bites his lip as he considers something and then addresses the caller. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to call you back. We’ll converse over email regarding the designs I submitted. Yes… Yes, okay. Thank you for your understanding. Goodbye.”

And after he’s hung up and has slipped his phone into his pocket, the both of you stand on opposite ends of an invisible line, not daring to cross the threshold.

You meet his eyes and regret slams into you like waves along a rocky shore. “I’m sorry…”

“What for?”

“Everything.”

He frowns. “I assume you have a specific destination in mind, yes? If you’d be willing to take a detour, would you be able to step inside my office for a brief moment?”

You don’t want to, but it’s not like you have a choice in the matter. So you nod, sniffling pathetically, and follow him back to his office like an animal being led to slaughter. He holds the door open for you and this time it’s a welcoming gesture. When you drag a chair over to his desk and sink into it, the consequences of your actions begin to surface. This is it, isn’t it? An emotional employee is not useful in an emotionless setting. The minute you prove your undesirable flaws is the minute you’re replaced.

Mr. Ashengrotto sits across from you at his desk, sympathy contorting his handsome features. “I’m not a therapist,” he begins, coughing awkwardly into his hand, “but I’d like to do my best to help you through…whatever it is you’re going through.”

“Don’t give me false hope. If you want to fire me, do it now.” Your eyes brim with fresh tears. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m not going to fire you. I’d never do such a thing.” His voice is uncharacteristically gentle. You recognize that soothing tone from when he helped you calm down when you were on the verge of a panic attack at the harbor. It doesn’t do much to ease your frazzled nerves now, not when you remember that that same voice harshly reprimanded you for something you didn’t do. “It’s obvious you’re struggling. If you’re comfortable telling me about the issue, please do so that I can work to resolve it.”

“I’ve just been stressed. It’s nothing you should worry about. I don’t want to trouble you, sir.” You swallow your rising sob and wring your hands together, hoping the movement will distract you enough to cease crying. “I’ll be okay.”

“That is the most obvious lie I’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing,” he says with a tut. “I want my employees to feel content here and as of now you’re not happy in this environment. Therefore, I want to do everything I can to remedy that.”

“You say that and yet…” You inhale another rattled breath. There’s so much you could say, but you know that verbalizing the problems wouldn’t make a difference. He’d just turn it on you, finding a clever way to frame you as the villain. “I mean nothing to this company. I’m only ever your secretary when there’s a lot of work that needs to be done. It’s Jade who handles the actual work. I’m just your errand runner.”

That’s a start, the tiny voice in your head pipes up encouragingly. You can do this. He’s not as scary as the ocean.

But when he holds full control over your corporate fate, he might as well be the monster dwelling in the darkest trench.

“And I… I can’t just nod my head and pretend like I’m fine with it. I want to be useful, but when you tell me to get you tea or to continue looking my best it feels like I can’t apply my skills at all. It feels like I just exist without any purpose.” The more you talk, the more distraught your voice sounds. Every strangled syllable reaches your ears and it hurts more than physical pain. “I’m lucky to even be in this position, but every day spent with this company feels more like misfortune.”

His hand twitches as if he intends to reach out and pat you. “I wasn’t aware you felt that way,” he admits. “For the record, I never saw you as my errand runner. You’re so much more than that and I should have made that clear from the very beginning. Secretary work should be split evenly between you and Jade, not skewed in the latter’s favor. From now on, I will ensure you’re given the recognition and respect you deserve.”

“Okay. Yeah. S-Sure…”

He slides a magazine across the desk and your eyes follow it. Home Decor is written on the cover in bubbly script.

“I’d like to give you your own office space and I want you to choose the furniture for it.”

The admission slaps you across the face, raw and real. “My own…office.”

“No strings attached. It will not come out of your pay.” He hazards a tiny smile. “If I’m to truly appreciate you and the work you do for this company, you should be given a space where you can work without interruption.”

Even if this revolutionary news implies you’ll never have to run into Jade or Floyd unless it’s absolutely necessary, the taste it leaves in your mouth is more bitter than sweet. You don’t want an office. You want a proper apology. You want Jade and Floyd to be punished for all that they’ve done. You want to be treated like a human being.

You want all of those papers detailing your past to shrivel into ash in a gruesome blaze.

“But I… I snapped at Jade this morning. I caused a scene. I’ve been a terrible employee. I don’t deserve a private office.”

“Who said one bad day was allowed to dictate what you deserve? We all have our fair share of rainy days.”

“This was more of a thunderstorm…”

“May I ask what prompted such a storm?”

I have to tell him my side of the story before Jade can twist it. I can do this. It’s just a conversation. I can handle a simple conversation.

“There was a folder in my desk. Its contents were…disturbing. Jade happened to be nearby. I sort of... Um. I sort of lost it when he offered to help.”

“Disturbing content?”

“It was… W-Well, it’s not important. It’s just stuff from my childhood. I thought I’d gotten away from it.”

“Would you mind elaborating? Only if you feel comfortable doing so.”

I don’t, but my job’s on the line right now.

Most of your tears have dried, but you still struggle against the lump in your throat. It’s been years since you last recalled that day, but it’s as fresh as bakery bread in your head.

“There was an incident,” you start, “w-when I was nine. I didn’t fit in at my school. I was bullied frequently. I…couldn’t tell anyone about it because no one wanted to listen. I guess they finally decided to listen when they found my unconscious body on the shore.”

Mr. Ashengrotto looks at you as if you’ve just sprouted ivory wings. "You were bullied, too?” It’s a murmur so soft it’s practically wrapped in clouds.

“The story was big news in my small town. Everyone wanted to know what happened.” You gaze at your lap, unable to bear the weight that’s been crushing you ever since you stepped into his office. Mr. Ashengrotto is not your therapist; you shouldn’t have to spill such a traumatic story to him solely because he’s curious. But if you don’t, your behaviors will be taken out of context and you’ll be branded with an unsavory label. “It’s not every day a little girl washes ashore, right?”

“I...” He clears his throat and suddenly he looks small in his leatherette chair, as if your retelling of the event has forced him into a box. As if the horror of it has struck a chord within him. “I suppose not.”

“A friend led me to the beach. He wanted to play and I trusted him.” Your hands curl into tight, trembling fists. If only you’d had the strength to use your fists back then—to defend yourself against everyone who ever threw an insult or a stone your way. “I couldn’t swim, but he and his friends still managed to convince me to get in the water. And once it was up to my waist... W-When I was deep enough...” You rub furiously at your eyes, shaking your head as the memory replays itself in horrifying detail. “I’m sorry. I can’t... I really can’t…”

“It’s all right.” His blue hues sparkle with understanding. “I can tell it’s a rough subject for you.”

To give your hands something to do, you grab the magazine and open to a random page. The photographed display distracts you for a moment, replacing all images of the sprawling ocean with potted plants and comfortable cushions. Mr. Ashengrotto remains silent as he observes you. Eventually, you exhale slowly and force yourself to look at him.

“Do... Do you have a pen?”

“A pen? Yes. Yes, of course.” He’s quick to hand it to you, nearly fumbling in his hurry.

“If you really won’t fire me, I guess I’ll choose some stuff for the office.” A box of tissues is held out to you next and you pluck one from the opening. “Thank you, sir.”

He nods while you dab at your eyes and blow your nose. There’s a certain comfort that envelops his office while you sit there and mark the magazine pages in scribbles, circling various things that catch your eye. When you locate a glass paperweight in the shape of a bird, you glance at him.

“It’s like your paperweight, only it’s a bird.”

“Are you fond of birds?”

You shrug. “I think there’s more life in your paperweight. This bird paperweight looks...dead.”

“Is that so?” He lifts the octopus from the desk, tapping at one of its curling tentacles. “I suppose you’re right.”

Unable to continue the conversation, you say, “I think I’ve finished looking.” Setting the magazine and pen on his desk, you rise from your seat. “I don’t know if any of it is useful in an office and you don’t have to get any of it, but I’d like to thank you for giving me my own space. Even if it’s empty, I’ll still accept it. So thank you for giving me another chance, Mr. Ashengrotto.”

Adoration blossoms on his face, but you mistake it for sympathy. “I’ll always give you another chance, (Name). Please take the rest of today off. Use this as an opportunity to recuperate.”

“I couldn’t possibly—” you start to say before realizing something. Why are you going to stay here any longer if he’s allowing you to leave? “Then I’ll see you on Monday.”

Bright and early. A fresh start. A new week.

A knock at the door causes you to flinch and you turn to view Jade as he walks in, carrying your bag with a polite smile. You’ve had enough stress for the day, but seeing your things untouched and packed neatly provides some closure. Besides, you’re in the presence of your boss. Jade wouldn’t try anything unless he was a fool and he is anything but foolish.

“I’ve cleared your space of the offensive materials and will look into who was responsible for printing them and placing them inside your desk. As of now, no one else has received a copy of the documents.” He holds your bag out to you. “Your things.”

“Thank you. And… Um. I apologize.” You’re not actually sorry, but it feels like the proper thing to do in this moment. “For saying that to you. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s water under the bridge.”

As you drive back to your house, feeling both relieved and exhausted, you lean towards the passenger seat and pull your messenger bag onto your lap. With one hand on the wheel and your eyes glued to the road ahead, you reach into the cluttered confines in search of your phone. The only person you wish to hear from right now is your boyfriend, and as your fingers fish through the inside it dawns on you that it isn’t there at all.

“Don’t tell me I left it on my desk,” you mutter with a groan. “Seriously, where is it?”

By the time you’ve made it home and have emptied the contents of your bag onto the counter, you can firmly conclude that your phone is missing.

I guess I’ll have to get it next week, you think. I’m definitely not driving back there. Not after what happened. I’ll look like an idiot.

You trudge into your shared bedroom to change out of your work clothes, already having made up your mind to nap the day away until your boyfriend returns home and you can confide in him.

But as the hours drag on and the sun sinks into Earth’s pocket, your boyfriend does not arrive. You sit on the sofa, flicking through TV channels, when you’re hit with an intense feeling of loss. You know it’s not because you’ve misplaced your phone. There’s more to it than that. It feels like you’ve just lost the most important thing in your life and you’re not sure why.

Before you can spiral, the door knob rattles and your boyfriend enters, holding a bag of carry-out and wearing a proud smile.

“Work ran late, but I brought your favorite.” He shakes the bag. “So I hope I’m forgiven. You weren’t answering your phone. I thought you were mad at me.”

The sight of him pushes your anxieties away, and you jump up from the sofa to throw your arms around him.

“I could never be mad at you. I misplaced my phone, so I couldn’t read any of your texts. But thank you for getting food. I love you.”

“N-No problem, love.” His pride ebbs away until all that’s left is the bashful grin that stole your heart two years ago. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

You nod enthusiastically, ready to put this day behind you. “Let’s eat.”

“Your phone?” Jade seems to mull over its whereabouts for a few seconds before shaking his head in dismay. “I’m afraid I didn’t see it on your desk when I gathered your things. Perhaps you put it elsewhere and didn’t realize?”

“I looked at home, but it wasn’t there. I know I left it here. I’m positive.” You glance at Floyd, who’s rocking back and forth on his heels and licking at a peppermint-flavored lollipop. “You didn’t take it, did you?”

“Nah. You wouldn’t have anything interesting on it anyway,” he says and chomps down on the candy. It shatters from the force of his bite. “Besides, what am I gonna do with your phone?”

“Good point.” You’re still not over the lingerie incident or the fact that his childish mischief resulted in the harsh tongue-lashing from your cold-hearted boss, where your employment was severely threatened. But you have to ask both of them about it because they’re your top suspects. “Did anyone else come near my cubicle while I was gone? Was anyone here over the weekend?”

“Beats me. I never go over there unless you’re in.” Floyd bends the lollipop stick until it snaps and then tosses the pieces in the waste bin.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check the security footage,” Jade offers. “As of now, we have a few possibilities. One: Someone did indeed take it and there’s a chance the camera caught them in the act. Two: It could still be in your possession and you don’t know it. Three: Someone found it and turned it in for safekeeping until it’s claimed.”

“And where would they turn it in?” You hold your hand up to silence Jade’s response as the answer finally comes to you. “The place that’s most secure here—that would be Mr. Ashengrotto’s office, right? Either that or security.”

He nods. “If your phone isn’t with him, we can rule the third possibility out.”

“In that case, I’ll go see him now.”

“You can’t.” Floyd steps in front of you. “Azul’s in a meeting, so you’ll have to wait.”

“But my phone—”

“The world isn’t ending, shrimpy. Relax. You’re as spooked as a guppy caught in the midst of a feeding frenzy. Honestly, is your phone really that important?”

It’s not as if it connects me to my friends and family and emergency services. No, Floyd, it’s not important at all.

“I’ll wait until he’s finished with his meeting. Do you know how long he’ll be?”

“I’d say another thirty minutes or so,” Jade replies. “I do hope you’ll find it.”

“Me too. I’m not usually this forgetful.”

“Considering the meltdown you had last week, I’d say it’s not that surprising.” Floyd’s comment is met with a sharp glare from you and a disapproving tut from Jade. He snickers in response. “I bet it was a real sight.”

“I’ll just get some work done while I wait.” You snatch the coffee you had prepared from the counter and stride towards the door. “Please don’t bother me today.”

“You’re no fun,” Floyd mutters as he watches you go.

A few invasive stares follow you to your cubicle, but you do your best to ignore them. Once you’ve settled into your chair, you open your laptop to the document you started on last night. The cursor blinks back at you, awaiting more letters. Slowly, you tap each key until a sentence has been formed and then, with a dissatisfied huff, you delete it. Thirty minutes doesn’t feel like a lengthy wait, but sitting at your desk, lacking motivation, is all it takes for the seconds to feel longer than they actually are. You try to distract yourself by opening a new tab to play a game, hoping that the sight of the pixelated T-Rex jumping over cacti will cure your impatience.

Instead, you allow the poor dinosaur to run headfirst into a prickly cactus after reaching four-hundred points. Its eye widens in shock just as Game Over flashes on the screen. You glance at the time; only three minutes have passed since you left the office kitchen and sat down. Three measly minutes.

I can’t do this, you think, clicking out of the tab. I’ll just peek inside, look around for a bit, and then leave. Mr. Ashengrotto won’t even know I was there.

Content with your decision, you head for his office, careful to avoid crossing paths with the twins. It might not be the smartest thing to do, especially since you’ve been on thin ice ever since your boss called you into his office to scold you, but you need to find your phone. Who knows what someone might do if they have your password. The thought of a stranger peeking into your private life unsettles you more than being caught, so you reason that your decision isn’t entirely foolish.

Your hand closes around the door knob and you inhale a nervous breath before entering.

So much for a secure office...

After shutting the door, you analyze the empty room. The blinds are open, casting odd shadows along the floor, and you turn the light on to brighten the space. There’s a small aloe plant on his desk with a ribbon tied around the pot. You disregard the succulent and move to stand behind his desk. A stack of papers rests under the octopus paperweight, which is positioned beside a cup of pens and a stapler. Your gaze crawls to the cabinets and drawers and you reach for the nearest handle. It doesn’t budge no matter how much you pull.

Locked, huh? He probably has the key.

You take a few steps away from his desk until your legs bump into the swivel chair he always sits in.

“If I was my boss,” you mumble, brows knitting in concentration, “where would I keep the key? I’d keep it on me, but in the event that I left it somewhere... Or if I misplaced it... That’s it! A spare key!”

You snatch the cup and dump the pens onto the desk without ceremony. Unfortunately, a key doesn’t fall out amongst the pile, so you turn your attention on the aloe plant. Its verdant leaves seem innocent enough, as does the soil it’s growing out of. You doubt he’d bury the key, but you still lift the plant to check under it.

Sighing, you glance at the clock on the wall. Nine minutes have gone by since you left your cubicle.

Maybe there isn’t a spare key after all.

But just as that thought occurs to you, you glimpse the paperweight again and something clicks within you. When he had picked it up that day and tapped on it, it made a hollow sound. Again, your eyes dart towards the door and then the clock before falling on the paperweight once more. You test its weight in your palm before giving it a gentle shake. Something rattles inside, bouncing around within the ceramic walls, and your chest fills with hope. There’s a rubber stopper in the bottom and you force your fingernails under it. Unfortunately, the stopper won’t come free from the ceramic as easily as you had hoped and you struggle to yank it out for a few minutes.

Eventually, it becomes clear that you’re only wasting time, so you give up on the stopper altogether and resolve to use another method of extraction. Drawing your arm back, you move away from his desk until you’re a considerable distance. And then you pitch it directly at the opposite wall, watching with great pleasure as it shatters into shards of black and purple ceramic.

“I’ll buy you a replacement,” you tell the air as you rush over to the debris, sifting through it for the object that was inside. It fits into your hand, small and cold. A brass key. “Yes! I knew you’d have a spare!”

Ignoring the ticking clock, you turn towards the cabinets and begin the tedious process of fitting the key into every hole until one of them unlocks. You find where it goes after a few tries, but to your surprise it doesn’t unlock any of the filing cabinets. It unlocks his desk drawer, which is a slim space that houses more papers, file folders, an unopened package of pens, and a tape dispenser. You grab the files and set them on his desk before peering inside, desperate to find any hint as to where your phone might be.

Did someone actually take it? Why? It’s cracked. The battery is going bad. It’s not even a good phone.

Frowning, you lift the file folder and are about to slip it back into the drawer when the word scribbled onto the tab catches your eye. In elegant cursive, your name meets your puzzled stare. For a moment you stand there, stunned, as your brain attempts to comprehend your discovery.

“Shouldn’t this be filed in one of the cabinets?” You flinch at your timid tone, having been so lost in the moment that the quiet began to feel pleasant.

You’ve snooped through his things, damaged his paperweight, and broke into his desk. What’s one more offense added to the list? Although as soon as you open the folder, you wish you hadn’t. The article about the incident from your past is at the very top, as are some of the other documents that were part of the file you received, and as you flick through each of them trepidation crawls up your spine.

A sheet of lined paper rests under everything else and you set the other documents down. Your name has been written in the center, circled in black ink that bleeds onto the page, and an entire network of lines extend outwards. The diagram reminds you of something you’d see in a biology class, where students would label parts of the body and its functions. Notes about you clutter the margins and some of the writing has been scratched out and corrected. You read assumptions and facts about your fears, your boyfriend, your personal life. Even the color of your underwear has been catalogued: White, according to Floyd. Black, according to Jade. The back of the page is just as alarming. He’s compared himself to you, marking every similarity and difference in an effort to determine overall compatibility.

The realization digs into you like a shovel cutting through soil to hollow a grave.

“He’s obsessed,” you whisper, horrified. “He knows all of this information. Hell, I don’t even remember my meals and yet he’s... He’s documented all of them for every single day, down to the total caloric intake.”

You’re quick to pocket the evidence before turning your attention on the last two pages in the file, both of which have been stapled together. You separate them with trembling hands, desperately wishing for a sign that all of this is just one terrible joke and nothing more. But when you read his detailed plan on how he intends to kidnap you, where he’ll potentially keep you at various locations, and what your future will look like you can’t help the bile that rises in your throat. He wants to marry you, start a family with you, live with you for many years to come. He never saw you as his secretary to begin with, and he’s been planning to make you his for a while now. Years, as the writing suggests.

Years of a secret love that spiraled out of control, growing rapidly and stifling all forms of reason and logic. A sick obsession he’s managed to hide under many meticulously crafted layers. Layers you never thought to peel back and question.

The gross feeling only persists when you read the plan he’s penned for your boyfriend. In his usual curling script, he’s listed ways in which he can dispose of him and each one is more terrifying than the last.

Apparent suicide - Gunshot to the head (too messy; traumatic for angelfish should she discover his corpse).

Apparent suicide - Hanging (also traumatic, but not as bloody). Will need suicide note.

Kidnapped and killed elsewhere - Lost at sea? Drowned? Reported missing but never found? May need electric saw to scatter remains. Will have to separate him from angelfish.

Suddenly, as you stand in the silence of your boss’s office, finding your missing phone isn’t your top priority.

This can’t be real, you think, shaking your head in disbelief as you read over the words once more. Mr. Ashengrotto is so upstanding. He’s not like this. He’s running a business. He doesn’t have time for…whatever this is. There’s just no way.

You hazard a glance at the clock and gasp. Fifteen minutes have passed, and you scramble to put everything back where it was before you’re caught. If you can scurry back to your cubicle, Mr. Ashengrotto will never know you trespassed and you can take your evidence to anyone who’ll listen. Because they definitely will. It doesn’t matter if the world is his oyster; these receipts will prove his danger level and then you and your boyfriend will be safe once he’s locked in a cold, dark prison cell. Someone will hear your desperate voice.

You gather the ceramic shards in your hands and throw them in the rubbish bin beside his desk. It’s impossible to put the key back in its original place, so you stuff it in your pocket. It’s practically burning a hole through the fabric of your blazer as it rests alongside the folded papers. After arranging the top of his desk to resemble how it looked when you first walked in, you smooth the nonexistent wrinkles in your pencil skirt and stride towards the door. Inhaling a sharp, anxious breath, you will your nerves to relax and then you reach for the door.

It opens and your entire body stills when you make eye contact with your boss, who looks equal parts surprised and confused to see you.

“Can I help you, (Name)?” he eventually asks, brows quirked. “Are you looking for something?”

“A-Ah. Um. I am. Well, I was a minute ago. I mean—” You swallow thickly as your composure cracks.

Shit. I can’t let him know that I saw everything. He can’t know. If he knows…

“I… I was looking for—um—for you!” You’re wrapping your arms around his neck in a hug that’s much too tight before you can stop yourself. He stiffens in your hold and you take this as your opportunity to pull him into the office, kicking the door shut with the tip of your toe. “Because I’m so grateful. I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, so I waited for you in your office. I know that probably wasn’t professional or polite, but I just couldn’t wait to see you.”

“R-Really?” His arms snake awkwardly around you.

“Yes! I feel so ashamed for my behavior that I wanted to take the time to let you know that I’m really happy to have you as my boss. You’re so forgiving and kind. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You pull away from him and force as much gratitude into your wide grin as possible. Mr. Ashengrotto’s hands linger on your waist for a mere moment before he allows them to fall to his sides. You’re ready to excuse yourself and run as far from his office as you can get when he suddenly steps forward, arms darting out to seize your wrists. Before you can register what’s happening, he’s pushed you down onto his desk.

“I hate to sour such a genuine moment, but snooping is not something I can forgive so easily.” He gazes past you at the empty space where his paperweight once sat and breathes a hollow chuckle. “I see. So that’s how it is.” When he peers down at you, there is darkness in his eyes—pure, unbridled darkness. You lose yourself in the abyss that is his gaze, failing to sense his tightening grip or the way his lip curls in annoyance.

You’ve never seen your boss look anything less than perfect, but in this moment his expression is fraught with an anger that doesn’t quite fit on his handsome face. He looks monstrous in the light.

“Whatever you think I saw, I didn’t see it,” you say, but the obvious fright in your tone betrays you. “I promise…”

He scrutinizes you for what feels like forever until, eventually, he releases you and steps back to straighten his tie. “If that’s the truth, then I’ll have to kindly ask that you leave. I’m very busy at the moment.”

“R-Right! Of course!” You peel yourself off of his desk, heart beating so fast it’s gone into overdrive, and beeline for the door.

“Before you go, I would like you to empty your pockets.”

“My pockets?” You pivot slowly. “I don’t have anything in my pockets.”

“I’d rather not dig it out myself. I’m not a barbarian, so spare us both the trouble.”

“Mr. Ashengrotto, I really don’t have—”

“Your pockets, (Name).”

For a minute you hold his glower before promptly surrendering. Exhaling a defeated sigh, you reach into your blazer and withdraw the papers and key, sheepishly offering them to him like a kid whose hand was caught in the candy jar.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“If I were you, I would be conscious of the mistakes you make from now on. Curiosity is known to kill pesky felines who can’t keep their noses out of other people’s business.”

“O-Of course. It won’t happen again.”

“I know.” An easy smile tugs at his lips as he gestures to the door. “Now get out.”

You don’t have to be told twice.

The rest of the week passes in a blur of sleepless nights and tiresome workdays. Your boss carries on as if nothing ever transpired in his office, even going so far as to leave the new phone he bought you on your desk with a note that read: I’m sorry you couldn’t find your old phone. Please accept this one as a replacement. Part of you expects Mr. Ashengrotto’s plans to come to fruition the moment you lower your guard, so you’ve started reading up on self-defense techniques and how to fend off a stalker. Because that’s what he is, right? A stalker. Or maybe a pervert. Perhaps he’s both and you’ve been doomed from the very beginning.

He’s definitely going to kill us, you had caught yourself thinking when you woke at midnight and glanced at your sleeping boyfriend, who was wrapped up in a peaceful dream. One day he’ll break into our house, chop us into pieces, and cover everything up like an expert killer. He has the resources and money to get away with it. We’d end up as another murdered couple who fell victim to an unknown killer. Would anyone even bat an eye?

As a result of your constant overthinking, old nightmares have started to resurface and, in order to fight the clutches of sleep, you’ve resorted to drinking more coffee than you normally would. Your boyfriend thinks you’re being overly paranoid, but you know your fears are justified. If your boss has been hiding this side for a while, it’s only a matter of time before he reaches his breaking point. The same goes for you. You can only lose so much sleep before exhaustion pulls you under and you falter.

But what can you do to stop him? What are you supposed to do in this situation? You can’t go to the police without solid evidence. They’ll just assume you’re a scorned woman trying to dirty her boss’s promising reputation and then no one would take you seriously. You can’t tell your boyfriend about it either because you don’t want him to complicate this matter more than it already is. As of now, you’re stuck harboring this soul-crushing secret, witnessing the weeks fly by as your sanity thins.

When the plans he’s painstakingly orchestrated bloom, what will become of your current life? What happens when he kills your boyfriend and then sets his sights on you? He has so much to lose. Surely he wouldn’t risk his life just to make a mess of yours.

Maybe he isn’t serious. Maybe those documents weren’t written by him and were instead created by the same person who shoved them in your desk. You highly doubt that’s the case, but you want to hope that that’s all this is—that he’s just holding it as evidence. That he’s not actually obsessed with every aspect of your life.

Despite your boyfriend’s reassurance, you feel so small and alone in his house—a mere ant cut off from its underground civilization. A bird that has fallen from its nest. A human on a desert island. And Mr. Ashengrotto is the foot who will crush the anthill, the hands that will pluck the bird’s feathers individually, and the creature who lurks in the ocean, meters from the shoreline. And when you drag yourself into work, you feel like the world’s going to collapse on you.

You rub at your eyes and take another gulp from your bitter, lukewarm coffee. Your laptop screen blinds you when you stare at it, but you continue to work in spite of the brightness. You’re not sure if the office is the safest place to be at night, but at the very least the security cameras will serve as your witness should anything happen. As wearisome as it is, you’ve been spending most of your evenings in the office under the pretense of working overtime. And even though that’s partially true, you’ve been wanting to find a way back into Mr. Ashengrotto’s office so that you can secure the evidence and be on your way. Then you’ll show it to the authorities and they’ll have no choice but to turn their attention on your boss. If he hasn’t destroyed those papers yet—and you’re truly praying he hasn’t—you might have a chance at bringing him down. Maybe. You have no idea whether your idea will work or if it’s any good. You’ve never had to deal with a creep like him before.

But the odds are in your favor. He’s left for a business trip in the next few cities over and he won’t be back until tomorrow. You couldn’t get into his office yesterday because Jade had stayed late to finish some paperwork, but tonight the coast is clear. You have a chance; you can do this.

Your phone brightens in the dimly lit room and you glance at the pristine screen. You almost miss your old phone and its dwindling battery life and ugly crack. Leaning back in your chair, you snatch your phone from the desk and unlock it to view the text. The message doesn’t quite register at first until you read it again and the breath sticks in your throat.

we need to talk.

There’s a picture that accompanies the sentence. In it, you’re sprawled on a bed in a dark room, illuminated by the phone’s flash, and your dress has been hiked up to reveal your underwear and thighs. You look completely out of it in the crisp image, eyes screwed shut and lips parted in a daze. You zoom in on the photo and your heart plummets into your stomach. The spring dress you’re wearing is the same one you wore to the luncheon, and its straps hang loose on your shoulders, nearly exposing your chest to the camera. You can’t understand why or how this picture came into your boyfriend’s possession and you don’t want to know the explanation for its existence.

Another message pops up under the image: where is this picture from? have u been cheating on me?

That evening flashes through your mind in a whirlwind of sound and color until it all circles back to when you asked Mr. Ashengrotto how you managed to get home. He claimed he had driven you back, but that’s not true. He’d taken you to another location before that, and as the photo suggests he brought you to his place and then he...

With a hammering heart, your fingers type out a rapid reply: that’s not what it looks like I promise!! I would never cheat on you. Never.

The ellipsis pops up, an indication that he’s writing a reply, and it remains like that for eternity until it disappears altogether. Without wasting another second, you slam your laptop shut, stuff it into your bag, and sling it over your shoulder.

I was drunk!!! you’re typing, fighting the urge to cry. Eventually you delete your message and call him instead. The phone rings twice before he answers and you don’t give him any time to respond before diving into a hasty clarification.

“That’s me in the picture, yes, but I was drunk. I was passed out! I don’t have any memories of that night. You have to believe me. I’d never dream of cheating on you. I love you!”

You stumble in your heels as you click down the halls, no longer interested in breaking into your boss’s office. You finger taps impatiently at the elevator’s call button and once the doors part you throw yourself in, press the button for the parking garage, and wait in silence as you descend. Your boyfriend doesn’t say anything while you rant about your innocence, and it doesn’t occur to you that he hung up until you move your phone from your ear and stare at your background instead of the outgoing call screen. When you attempt to call back, it directs you to voicemail.

Gritting your teeth, you lurch out of the lift, listening to the automated message as it plays. And then you break into a run as you make your way through the parking garage, stumbling under the sickly glow of a yellow light. Your steps echo in the shadows and as you talk into your phone your voice comes back to you in a distorted waver.

“I... I’m sorry. Please just call me back. I really need to talk to you.”

Shoving your phone into your pocket, you dig through your bag for your keys and search through the gloom for your car. It lights up when you unlock it, emitting a faint beep to help guide you. Your brain is whirring with thoughts as you walk, heart pounding out a terrifying rhythm.

Is this his plan? the tiny voice muses. To make you seem unfaithful so that your boyfriend abandons you?

What could he possibly gain from all of this madness?

You.

Just as you reach your car, your fingers curling around the handle, someone’s strong arms emerge from the darkness to wrap around your waist. Your mouth opens to scream, but someone claps their hand over your lips to muffle all sound as they yank you against them. You thrash wildly, kicking out in a blind panic, and attempt to recall the few self-defense tips you read online. But everything turns up blank as the primal urge to survive overrides all coherent thoughts and it’s impossible to remember every step one must take in subduing an opponent. Your elbow digs into your assailant’s stomach and their hold loosens for just a moment, but it’s all you need to wriggle out of their arms.

With a shuddering gasp, you stumble away from them, feeling around for your car. Your heels skid against the concrete, sending you tumbling to the ground. Everything is happening so fast and you hardly have time to react when someone kicks you back down, digging their foot into your backside.

“P-Please!” you hear yourself cry out, voice thick with terror. “Take my money o-or my car. I’ll give you my keys! Please just let me live.” You drag yourself as far from their foot as you can manage, squinting up at them in the darkness. Their tall figure looms over you, silently watching.

“Do you want more? You... You can take my laptop and my bag! Everything’s yours! I promise I’ll hand all of it over without a fight!”

Their leg retreats into the shadows and you heave a relieved sigh. You feel around for your bag and its spilled contents, and when you grab your phone you hold it out to the stranger. The screen brightens with another message and it bathes their face in a fluorescent glow.

You recognize him at once.

“W-Wait. What are you—”

That’s as far as you get because he brings his foot down on your ankle with so much force that you hear the bone splinter and crack. The howling comes next. It’s a sound that shreds your throat, so foreign and riddled with agony that you hardly recognize it as yours.

Floyd glares down at you. “You’re really annoying, you know that? Just shut up and—” another cruel stomp— “fall asleep!”

When he gathers you in his arms and lifts you from the cold concrete, your consciousness soon starts to fade away. You’re certain it’s because of the sharp pain that races up your leg and the anxiety that has thrown you into survival mode. Floyd sets you down in the backseat of a vehicle that smells too sterile for your liking, but you don’t have any energy to fight back. Tears stream down your cheeks and you reach out for him, hoping he’ll reconsider.

The door slams shut and a few moments later he returns with all of your belongings, which he drops haphazardly onto the passenger seat. Floyd slips into the driver’s seat, buckles in, and turns the key in the ignition.

“You ready for a road trip, shrimpy?”

The half-whimper, half-groan you grind out is the only reply he receives, and once he’s exited the parking garage you’re sinking into an ocean of unconsciousness. And this time no one’s there to rescue you from the depths.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest when you sit up in bed, but nothing smarts more than your leg. It’s unbearably sore and the slightest movement has you grimacing. When you pull the blanket off of you, you find that it’s been bandaged tightly. That’s not the only befuddling thing. The bedroom you’re in isn’t yours, and the king-sized bed is far too big for one person. You swing your legs over the edge, mindful of your ankle, and slither off of the bed. Pain seizes your ankle when you put your weight on it and you flop onto the mattress with a hiss.

“Okay, take it slow,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Slow and careful. You can do this.”

You lift yourself from the bed and limp towards the door, only pausing to grip onto the bedpost to steady yourself. As you catch your breath, you observe the sparsely furnished bedroom. Despite the grand vanity and its matching stool, you recognize some of the other decorations strewn about. When you approach the desk, you find something peculiar. The glass bird paperweight from the home decor magazine you looked through is there. That feels like such a distant memory now, even if it’s only been a few weeks since. A houseplant sits on the windowsill, where the sun shines through in bright rays, and you hobble over to the window. It doesn’t budge when you try to force it open, so you peer outside at the lush lawn that seems to go on forever.

“Where am I?” you ask the houseplant, running your finger over one of its leaves.

It takes a few minutes, but you manage to drag yourself out of the bedroom and into the hall, which stretches onwards and breaks off into multiple rooms. The path dizzies you as you travel down it, counting every door you come across. You emerge in a monochrome kitchen, complete with a granite island and a hanging light fixture, and continue through the doorway into what you assume is the sitting room. The man lounging on the L-shaped sofa catches your attention, framed by the morning light that spills in from the expansive windows behind him. He’s focused on a tablet screen, feet propped up on a fluffy pillow, and is dressed in an oversized sweater and a pair of sweatpants.

“Mr. Ashengrotto?” You lean against the wall, half expecting him to vanish if you blink hard enough.

His gaze snaps up to meet yours. “How’re you feeling?” He sets the tablet down on a circular coffee table before coming over to assist you. “It’s best that you avoid putting weight on that leg.” His narrowed eyes and furrowed brow match his aggravated tone when he adds, “That brute. What am I to do with him? I made it very clear that you weren’t to be injured. My deepest apologies, dear.”

As soon as his fingertips brush your arm, you stagger away. Last night comes back to you in a flash—the messages, the struggle with Floyd, and the sickening crack of bone. All of it comes crashing down on you like a massive tidal wave.

“D-Don’t come any closer!”

Mr. Ashengrotto rolls his eyes. “Be reasonable, (Name). If I wished to harm you, I would have done so already. You’re safe here.”

“No… No, you kidnapped me. You—you’re crazy!”

“Right.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Okay. Since I’m so ‘crazy,’ I won’t move from this spot. Does that make you feel better?”

“What do you want from me? I… I’m not someone worth kidnapping… Please think about this, sir.”

Abhorrence twists his deadpanned expression into something frightening. “Azul. That’s my name. Use it.”

Your back connects with the island and you realize he’s been advancing while you retreat towards the kitchen with slow, cautious steps.

“A-Azul...”

His first name feels far too casual in your mouth. Awkward and not right, like a shirt that just barely fits. If you were back at the office and you’d addressed him in such a way, you’d feel so unprofessional. After all, you’ve been calling him ‘Mr. Ashengrotto’ and ‘sir’ for so long now. Anything other than that is difficult to stomach. But you’ve already crossed the line of a healthy employee-employer relationship and have fallen off the precipice into a perilous pit.

“I don’t expect you to understand or accept my reasoning, but I hope you’ll listen to me.” He counts the years on his fingers with a delighted hum. “It’s been five years since I took on the role of CEO, hasn’t it? I believe I met you a few months after that. Do you remember that day?”

You muster the courage to nod. “T-The painting. I was supposed to bring it to you.”

“If I’m being honest, I didn’t think you were all that spectacular. You didn’t stand up for yourself, you let that woman raise a hand to you, and you were the one to apologize in the end. Truly pathetic.” He sighs and his voice takes on a dreamy undertone. “We’re the same, you and I.”

“We are most certainly not.” You glare at him. “I don’t care what you wrote on that stupid chart. We have no similarities at all!”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He takes a bold step towards you and grabs your hands. “You’re not made of steel. You were bullied. You cry. You make mistakes. You’re so naturally vulnerable. And I… I can relate to that sort of helplessness.”

“I’m human. Those are human traits.”

“And that’s what makes you so fascinating! Even when Jade and Floyd pushed you to breaking, you picked up every piece and continued on as if it didn’t bother you. Even when I brought you into my office and scolded you for such obvious lies, you still apologized and went on with your day. I really wondered how far I could push you until you cracked. Perhaps it was a little mean to subject you to so much stress, but these tests were all necessary stepping stones.”

“Hold on. You knew I was innocent?” When he doesn’t answer, you rip your hands from his grasp. “Are you serious? Do you know how shitty I felt afterwards? Do you know how much I suffered while your lapdogs got off on it? How much they touched me. Harassed me. You don’t, do you? Because you were too busy writing an entire thesis paper on my meals!”

“Speaking of that, your diet will change to accommodate mine. If we’re going to be compatible—”

“We’re not compatible! Mr. Ashengrotto, you can’t act like all of this is okay. You put me through hell. You let me get drunk at that luncheon—that same luncheon that I hated because every minute was horrible and I was so scared, but I endured it for the company’s sake—and then you took advantage of me! You sent that picture to my boyfriend and now he thinks I’m a lying cheat!”

He scoffs. “I only positioned you for the camera. I’m not a monster who preys on incapacitated drunks.” He frowns when he notices the disbelief etched on your face. “That’s the truth. I needed a prop for the final act and at the time it felt reasonable. A young couple, divided by damning evidence, and the heartbroken boyfriend disappears shortly after his devastating discovery. It’s a little cliché, but you have to work with what you’re given.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Consider yourself lucky I deviated from my original plan.”

The craziness of this entire situation has yet to truly land. You’re unable to absorb everything he’s saying and all you can gather is that he’s been obsessed this whole time, so much so that he’s gone to insane lengths just to get to this moment. You’re moving on autopilot when you pull the largest blade from the knife block, brandishing it before you as if it’s a sword and you’re a valiant knight ready to slay the dragon.

“Let me go. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

He gazes at the blade, unflinching. “You’re shaking.”

“I’ll still kill you.”

“Angelfish, think logically. Who else will be here to ferry you on and off the island if you kill me? Who will feed you? Who will care for you? You’ll rot in here alongside me if you bury that blade in my heart. I imagine the sight and the smell won’t be very pleasant.”

“The…island?”

“That’s right.” His lips twist into a smirk so sharp it rivals your blade.

Still gripping it in a resolute fist, you limp past him. He trails after you. When you make it to the window, you stare out at the sprawling landscape, searching for any indication that this house rests on a strip of land in the middle of the ocean. It’s hard to believe, but knowing how wealthy Mr. Ashengrotto is you’re certain he can afford it.

“Allow me.” He opens the door and offers his arm. You push past him, hissing with every step. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

“Don’t care,” you snap. Your legs carry you across the lawn and down a steep slope, where a dreadful seascape awaits you.

“At first I thought you were fearful of ships,” he says, stepping into your line of sight with the grace of a cat. “But then I truly considered it. You’re scared of the ocean, aren’t you? I came to that conclusion once I learned of your past. Your thalassophobia is not ideal for you, but it benefits me greatly.”

The wind grabs at you with cold fingers, threatening to drag you down the hill and into the yawning mouth of the water. You swallow around a lump of nerves. “Why would you… I… The ocean…” You sink to your knees in the grass, staring at your lap and the knife in order to dispel the sea from your mind. “I’m on land. There isn’t any ocean. It’s not here. I’m…here. Land. G-Grass and dirt. This isn’t the ocean.”

No matter how much you repeat those lines, they don’t stick. You can’t fool yourself this time and the same voice that was once so comforting has become an unsettling horror.

“And to think I considered selling this property…” He bends down to your height and places his hand on your shoulder. “You won’t have to lift a finger while you’re here. I won’t force secretary work on you either. We can live in peace together. Just you and me. No one will disturb us. No bullies. No troublesome clients. No distractions.”

You heave a shuddering breath just as the tears start falling. The thought of being confined to a chunk of land with no means of escape is downright terrifying. But what’s scarier is the ocean that surrounds you, its deceptive depths calling to you—reminding you of your childhood and the days spent cooped up in a humid classroom, too nervous to leave in fear of the bullies lingering in the courtyard.

And the only connection you’ll ever have is with your boss—the only one who knows you exist here.

“Why?” you’re whispering, voice snatched by the greedy sea breeze. “Why are you doing this to me? I… I can’t live here. N-Not if the ocean is… No. No, no, no! I can’t! Please take me back to the mainland! I need to be on r-real land. Please, I’ll do anything.”

He pulls you in for an embrace despite your initial aversion. His hand rubs soothing circles into your back while you remain still, glassy eyes confronting the sea. The waves roll in from afar, smashing against the rocks below in a spray of surf and salt.

“‘Anything’ is a strong word, angelfish. Be mindful of the things you say while wrapped up in your emotions. If you aren’t, I might just take advantage of your willingness to do anything.”

“P-Please.” You clutch his sweater with shaking hands. “It’s too close. If I’m in the house and the tide rises… If it swallows me—” You break off with a gasp, shoulders shaking. “I can’t swim. I’ll drown. I—”

The first few drops of rain land on the tip of your nose. Slowly, you pull away from him to peer up at the cumulus-spotted sky. Despite the drizzle, the sun remains bright, mocking you with its happy shine.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Will I?” Just as he opens his mouth to respond, you shove him away, overcome with a sudden, adrenaline-fueled frustration. He stumbles on the too-perfect grass. “Because I don’t think it’s possible to ‘get used to it’ when the one responsible for this is my fucking boss! I trusted you and you let all of this happen to me! And why? Because you think I’ll fall for you if I’m shoved into an expensive house? Is that it? Do you think I’ll like you if you swoop in like a prince and admit that everything was done for my sake? To protect me? Am I supposed to accept that?”

Mr. Ashengrotto’s eyes travel to the knife and, though you’re trembling and crying and sucking in breath after breath, he doesn’t move, mindful of the threat.

“I’ll never love you. I have a boyfriend.”

“Not anymore.”

“What?” Once you comprehend the meaning of those chilly words, the breath sticks in your throat. “W-What do you mean?”

“You read my notes. I’m certain you can guess.” He holds his hand out to you, tutting. “You’re in no state to be wielding a knife. Hand it to me and we’ll head inside before it starts raining harder.”

But you’re not listening. You’ve buried your face in your arms and pulled your knees up to your chest as countless sobs rack your body. The knife is still gripped in your hand, but it’s trembling along with your cowering form. That intense feeling of loss returns, an old sensation you thought you’d buried, and all you can picture is your boyfriend as he’s held under the water just like you were. And all of the demons from your past did to him what they couldn’t do to you: They killed him.

You’re not sure what you can do anymore. It’s too late to act on any plan you might have been formulating whilst still on the mainland, and you certainly can’t play hero to a corpse.

Mr. Ashengrotto lets out an impatient huff. “Two years are not that remarkable.” When that fails to get through to you, he risks moving closer, still conscious of the hysteric wails coming from you and the weapon in your possession. “You’ll be happier here. Once you overcome your thalassophobia, I’ll move you to a new location. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? If anything, I’m doing you a favor.”

There are so many emotions swirling within you that you’re not sure how you’re meant to feel anymore. Most of all, you’re filled with grief as you mourn all of the mistakes that led up to this point. If you stayed home, perhaps Floyd wouldn’t have kidnapped you. If you found some way to schedule another group of meetings right after he returned from the short-lived business trip, perhaps you wouldn’t have woken up in this hollow house on this strange slice of earth.

What’s worse is that the ocean surrounds you, a deadly reminder that there won’t be any escape unless you find a way to cross it. And you have no idea how far the mainland is or if you’re even still near the city. Although it’s not like you could ever hope to leave this place via the water. You can’t swim and you have no idea how to pilot a boat—if one even exists on this island. Just how big is it anyway?

You lift your head to view him through tear-filled eyes. He smiles at you and it’s so lovesick that it twists your insides.

“Please let me go.”

“Begging won’t serve any purpose here, and there will be no negotiation on that subject either. This will be your life now.”

He reaches out to wipe your tears away with his thumb and you react on impulse, instinctively swiping at him with the knife. It almost happens too fast, for you’re unprepared to confront the slash on his palm or the cyan blood that rises to the surface. You freeze when you see it.

It’s blue.

“Angelfish...”

“H-Hey…” You scoot away from him while he observes the laceration in disapproval. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. It was just… Just a reaction.”

Why is it blue?

His fingers close into a tight fist and he inhales a steadying breath. “Of course. A reaction. Right.”

You can’t tell if he’s angry or genuinely accepting of it, but when he towers over you and holds his other hand out with the same expectance of a schoolteacher admonishing a student for stealing you have no choice but to relinquish the knife. Some of his blood has gotten on the blade and you stare at the foreign hue in awe. The sun shower is quick to wash it away, and you force yourself onto your legs, avoiding the ocean and focusing solely on the house. It’s a typical modern design you’d expect from someone with Mr. Ashengrotto’s wealthy tastes: all glass and wood, bathed in colors of white and black and brown. If anything, it looks like the houses you used to see whenever you searched for ‘fancy homes’ online.

“I’ll…go back inside.” You suppose the house is better than the ocean. It’s your only other choice and as of now it’s the lesser of two evils. “C-Can you help me walk? My ankle really hurts…”

Wordlessly, he sidles up to you and wraps his arm around your waist. You grab onto him, relieved that you’re no longer putting your broken ankle through a world of agony. He climbs the hill with you, and the only sounds that follow are the crying seagulls circling above, the fierce howling of the wind, and the crashing of waves along the rocky shore. You catch sight of a boardwalk once you’ve made it to the top, partially hidden by the trees.

With Mr. Ashengrotto’s support, you manage to make it inside before crumpling on the sofa, heaving exhausted breaths as your ankle tingles painfully. He disappears into the kitchen and it’s a while before he returns, but when he does his hand is wrapped in bandages.

After draping a blanket over you, he holds it up for you to see, a delighted glint in his stormy blues. “Now we match.”

Your nose wrinkles and you curl into yourself on the sofa, gaze shifting to the wide aquarium in place of where a TV ought to be. Fish of all sizes and colors swim within, ignorant to your predicament but just as caged. Your heart won’t stop its frenzied beats and, beneath all of the hopeless sadness, an underlying fear remains. You’re not sure if you’re more scared of the ocean or your boss, but when he sits beside you on the sofa and pats your head you think it’s the latter.

No sane man could act this way in a situation that’s far from normal.

“I should let you know that if you try anything that may cause harm to either of us you will find yourself restrained. I’d rather not treat you like an animal, so please don’t make this harder on yourself.” He curls a lock of your hair around his finger, toying with it as if the two of you are actually lovers relaxing on a rainy morning. “It hurts to see you so distraught, dearest, but you must realize that I’m doing this for us. I’m protecting you.”

“You k-killed my boyfriend. You kidnapped me. You’re sick.”

“I didn’t kill him.” Mr. Ashengrotto tucks the strand behind your ear, still smiling down at you like you’re the most precious thing in his world. “Although I might as well have the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Oh,” you mumble brokenly, and it sounds more like a defeated sigh than an actual word. “I don’t know what else to say. You’re so…” Whatever hateful adjective you intended to verbalize dies on your tongue.

Your thoughts are dyed in a blue so deep it calls forth the surging tide, washing over your emotions and swallowing what’s left of your tears. You want to think this is a dream and that when you fall asleep you’ll wake up in the office, in front of your gleaming laptop, at the crack of dawn. But even the dream world you slip into is not as promising as your current reality, for it is tinged in the same blue that colors Mr. Ashengrotto’s blood.

“Get some rest, my dear.” He presses his lips against your forehead and you don’t have any energy to retaliate.

There is no boat by the dock, but there is an office that overlooks the empty space where it ought to be. Out of the many rooms in the house, this is the one that has been furnished according to the scribbles you made on the magazine. The tall windows lack curtains and the desk faces them, so you’re forced to confront the ocean through the trees. It’s a room you refuse to enter, even if Mr. Ashengrotto has told you it’s yours to use however you’d like. But there’s not much you can do with it when it’s lacking all forms of technology. Does he expect you to doodle on sheets of paper with crayon? Does he want you to sit in there and contemplate the benefits of reciprocation? Now that you’re no longer his secretary, that room is about as useful as your ankle right now.

Maybe you’ll storm in there and break things in a fit of rage. One day. It won’t be today, but you’re certain it’ll happen the longer you spend trapped inside, allowing frustrations to build and swell. Once your ankle heals and you’re no longer stuck under the soothing thumb of painkillers and stacked pillows, you’ll utilize your newfound mobility to scope out the rest of the property—should you manage the courage to do so—and conjure ways to escape.

You’re secretly happy there isn’t a boat. It means Mr. Ashengrotto is just as stuck as you are and that fact satisfies you. Neither of you can leave.

You’re not sure how long it’s been since you woke in this abstract house, where your daily routine consists mainly of bedridden boredom, in which Mr. Ashengrotto dutifully brings your meals to you on a tray and insists you maintain a balanced diet while you bicker with him and ignore your hunger cramps. He’ll read from books, newspapers, and magazines while you fix your stare on the houseplants in the bedroom (He adds a new one with each passing day, and you haven’t the faintest clue where they’re coming from). You never listen to any of the stories he relays, but he still tries. He still reads on. You hate that about him—his persistence. He’ll hum a soothing melody while he changes your bandages, pressing kiss after kiss upon your slowly healing ankle as if that’ll speed up the process.

And then he’ll help you walk around the house, allowing you to lean on him and the cane he’s provided for you. It’s supposed to be exercise or something akin to very early physical therapy, but it just succeeds in hollowing your soul. Mr. Ashengrotto likes these walks the most because he gets to hold you, guide you, praise you. You’ve observed him in this private setting long enough to realize the Mr. Ashengrotto you interacted with at the office is so very different from the Azul who’s patient, tender, and loving.

When you began to show some progress with your scheduled walks, he put a record on and offered his hand to you. For a slow dance, of all things. You don’t want slow dances and sugared soirées. You want your freedom. But you’d accepted his invitation, unable to do much aside from rest your head on his chest and sway with him in the emptiness of the living room, basking in soft, crackling jazz. You never knew he had a penchant for collecting antique records.

And you hate to admit it, but Mr. Ashengrotto is a good dancer.

The more time you spend examining the house when you aren’t resting in the bedroom, the stranger its design becomes. Doors open to cold, slanted rooms—most barely furnished—and the halls are thin and lengthy, stretching like taffy. There are hardly any decorations on the walls, so it feels more like you’ve stumbled into a house that’s been put up for sale rather than something inhabited by another person. Then again, Mr. Ashengrotto did mention something about his considerations for selling the property. Oh, how you wish he would’ve gone through with it.

Instead, he reassures you that he’ll do all that he can to make this place more cozy for you and him.

You’ve seen your fair share of thrillers, and kidnapping is always a terrifying what-if that would have you sitting as far from the TV as possible. Your boyfriend used to comfort you—tell you that he’d never allow any of that to happen to you. It feels like an empty promise now. But all this time spent in captivity isn’t as bad as you thought it’d be. Perhaps it’s because you know Mr. Ashengrotto doesn’t intend to hurt you. Even so, you hate thinking that this situation is boring when you ought to be relieved it’s not worse. At least he keeps you fed, washed, and clothed. He could very well do whatever he wanted and you’d have no choice but to obey out of fear and the animalistic instinct to survive.

Instead, he’s tending to a bird’s broken wing, nursing it back to health until it’s ready to fly again. And when that happens, he’ll clip its wings and the cycle will repeat.

Sighing, you shake your head to dispel those thoughts and continue hobbling through the main living room with Mr. Ashengrotto in tow. You’ve only traversed the first floor. Mr. Ashengrotto told you he doesn’t want you climbing the stairs unless he’s there to help you, and since you want to ease the pressures applied to your ankle you’ve settled on investigating the floor you’re currently confined to. Everything about this house feels so vacant and lonesome. There is no personal touch. There isn’t even evidence that it’s been thoroughly lived in. The master bedroom, which is where you’ve slept for the past however many days, is the only room that has a semblance of life to it, but that could just be due to the abundance of plants spilling out the door. Mr. Ashengrotto has resolved to sleep on a futon beside the bed, insisting that he’ll only sleep with you when you’re comfortable.

Comfortable. Right. Like you’ll ever find comfort in this situation. You hate that he’s genuinely trying to acclimate you to this new environment. Most of all, you hate that it’s slowly starting to work. You hate that you’ve begun enjoying sitting at the dinner table with him because he’s the only one who will indulge you in lighthearted chatter, as one-sided as it usually becomes. You hate it when he reads fairytales before bed, hoping that by providing you with enough candied fantasy your dreams will be just as sweet. (And, much to your displeasure, they usually are.) You hate how careful he is with you. You hate his eyes and the love that threatens to spill out when he admires you. You hate his warm lips. You hate his smile. You hate him.

Do you really?

There’s one room on the ground floor that you’ve yet to peer into. Its door is unlike anything you’ve ever seen: a solid hunk of metal with an accompanying keypad and a retinal scanner. You’re not sure what he’d need to hide that would warrant such drastic security measures. Just thinking of all the possibilities is enough to root you to the floor. Your boyfriend could be in there, just barely clinging to life. That could be your prison within a prison when you act out of line. He could have corpses piled high behind the door. Or maybe not. You haven’t smelled anything. This house is always so clean and crisp, reeking of the sea (a constant reminder that dredges up old memories and fears), and you’ve worked with Mr. Ashengrotto long enough to know how much he values tidy spaces.

A hand on your shoulder shatters your train of thought, and then his smooth voice invades your ears.

“You’ve been admiring this door for quite some time now.”

Your ankle has improved over the course of a few weeks—has it already been weeks? It’s still awkward to walk on, but you’re no longer in need of Mr. Ashengrotto’s shoulder to lean on. You suspect he dislikes this newfound freedom of yours, for he always frowns when you avoid the arm he offers.

“I’d like to know what’s inside.”

“Someone’s curiosity is getting the better of them.” He chuckles, but the circumstances are far from humorous. “Are you that desperate to know?”

“Not desperate,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. “But knowing would ease some of my anxiety. I walk past this door every day and I’m worried that…”

“That…” he prompts with a sly smile. “That something terrible lies within?”

You nod and chew your lip.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to show you. They say transparency is important in relationships. Although I would’ve preferred to unveil this when you need it most.”

Where was this transparency when you let me suffer at work? you think, glaring at him as he moves over to the door.

He bends down to meet the retinal scanner, briefly removing his glasses so that his eyeball can be analyzed by the red beam of light produced by the scanner. After it flashes green, he fits his glasses back onto his face and types a code into the keypad, which releases a soft beep and grants him the access he requires. The door slides into a thin crevice in the wall on automatic hinges, humming with hidden machinery, and you don’t have any time to prepare yourself for the sight that burns itself into your brain. Light illuminates a padded room that’s been furnished to look like a nursery, complete with a small bed, a crib and its matching mobile, and all of the essentials a pregnant mother and her child might need. Boxes of diapers, empty milk bottles, breast pumps, stocks of baby food in glass jars, vitamins, towels, a first aid kit, and more line the bookshelves that stretch up to the ceiling, arranged with such precision you’d think this was a display for a magazine.

“This once functioned as a panic room,” Mr. Ashengrotto says as he strides inside, ever so nonchalant. You watch him in horrified silence. “But, as you can see, I’ve converted it into a nursery. It’s fully soundproofed and there’s no way to truly hurt yourself in here.” He glances at you. “So in the event that postpartum depression strikes you, your environment can’t be weaponized.”

“W-Why?”

It’s a foolish question. You know why, but you don’t want to confront the answer.

He smiles shyly and you wish you had the courage to lunge at him. But fighting won’t accomplish anything, and if you seriously injure him—if you kill him—you’ll be all alone, forced to turn to the sea for a way out. So you wrap your arms around yourself and inhale a deep, shuddering breath.

“I’d like to start a family with you.”

“A… A family.” Your nails dig into your sides. “Mr. A-Ashengrotto, I’m not—”

“Azul,” he corrects.

“I’m not…” Not your lover. “I don’t want to start a family with you.”

“I figured you might say that, and that’s all right. Love takes time and creating a family is a big commitment. We won’t rush into it right away.”

“But this isn’t love.”

It will never be love.

“Don’t say that, my dear. You know very well how much I treasure you. You’ll come around eventually. We’ve been making progress so far.” His hands are clutching yours moments later and he pulls you into the nursery. You gaze at the empty crib. “You’ve complained about how desolate the house feels and I agree. It’s much too bland. Wouldn’t a child liven the atmosphere? I’ve already penned dozens of names. We can look at them during breakfast.”

His hand trails along the length of your arm until it gravitates towards your stomach, where he rests his palm against it. You stiffen under his touch. You’d read his note about his wishes to have children with you, but you never thought such a desire consumed his every thought. To go through all the trouble of creating a nursery, of gathering every supply needed for a healthy pregnancy, of contemplating possible names for a child that doesn’t even exist yet (and will never exist, so long as you have anything to say about it)… His dream is your encroaching nightmare.

“It’s a thought that’s lingered in the back of my mind for a while now. I’ve always wondered how you’d look with my child growing inside of you.” His finger traces a heart into your clothed stomach and you shiver in disgust. “You’d look so pretty. So round and sweet and domestic... We’ll build such a happy family together. Just you and me.”

“I don’t want that. I’ll never want that,” you whisper and take a wobbling step away from him. His hand pursues you.

“You will. We just need more time.”

“You’re delusional if you think I’d willingly have your child.” You swat at his reaching arm. “I’d rather die.”

“Surely you don’t mean that.” The vitriol burning in your fierce glower has him sighing. “Angelfish, stop avoiding me. Let me hold you.”

“No!” You stumble backwards, grabbing onto the doorframe for support. “Get away from me! I’m not having your kid and that’s final!”

“But you’ll be so much happier!” he insists, spreading his arms, palms up, as if he intends to show you a materialization of such joy. The desperately hopeful look in his eyes births raw unease within you. “Think of how wonderful it’ll be! If it’s the nursery you’re worried about, I can always allow you time outside—like how we’ve been doing our walks through the house. We can make this work. Just consider it for a moment and then you might—”

“I don’t want that! Mr. Ashengrotto—”

“Azul.”

“Mr. Ashengrotto, I don’t want any of this! I just want to go back to the mainland!” Frustrated tears gather in your eyes. “I never did anything to deserve this. I put up with the unfairness at the office. I sucked it up and smiled and worked because that was my job. I never misspoke or caused any trouble. I’ve never once complained. So what did I do to offend you? What did I do to you that would make you want to do any of this to me? If all of this is just some crazy form of revenge, then please tell me what I did and I’ll apologize.”

“Angelfish, you didn’t do anything wrong.” His features soften despite the abhorrence shimmering in your glassy eyes. “I’m aware that this situation isn’t ideal, but you’ll find comfort in it eventually. You’ll love me soon enough, and when you do we can finally start a family. Then it’ll be as if all this strife never occurred!”

“That’s never going to happen! Do you honestly think I’d ever want to spend the rest of my life locked up in this stupid house with a stupid criminal?! You can’t act like this is a normal relationship when you kidnapped me and killed my boyfriend. You took me away from my life. You ruined it. I’ll never love you. Not even a little bit. Not in a million years.”

“You’re just speaking out of anger, darling. You don’t mean these things.”

But you do, and that much is obvious in the way you clench your jaw and tighten your hands into fists. Everything about this situation is unfair and sickening. Mr. Ashengrotto’s true colors are much darker than you would have ever imagined. But you couldn’t imagine—not when you were busy fighting humiliation at the hands of the twins. You’ve spent so many years of your life working in misery, but now that you’ve made it to this point all of that suffering feels meaningless when compared to this twisted arrangement.

“And what about work? You’re the CEO. You don’t have time for family or me or...any of this.”

“That’s nothing you should concern yourself with.”

“But people will have definitely noticed we’re not showing up to work. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, sir.”

“Ah, so you think someone’s reported us missing? The truth is that we let you go. Your behaviors haven’t been very collaborative or appropriate in recent months, and since I have the final say in these kinds of decisions... Well, no one’s going to question the word of the CEO, right?”

A proud smirk sprawls on his lips. Of course he’d have this planned out, you think as you recall the notes he kept hidden in his desk. He’s had this excuse tucked away since the very beginning. Everything has always been in his favor. It’s because of his status and power that he’s able to get away with such a terrible thing. It’s because no one bothers to question him. It’s because you mean so little when pitted against him—an insignificant, flightless bird versus the vast sky that houses it.

“Besides, it’s not that challenging to leave this island. I can come and go as I please, but you, my dear, cannot. I hate to break such tragic news to you, but your absence doesn’t impact the company in the slightest. A shame, considering you’ve always done such good work. But that’s expected of the spineless yes-man. Would you have eaten glass if I had told you that doing so would earn you a raise? Would you let Jade and Floyd go further in their exploratory touches if your employment status was threatened? Would you have gotten on your knees for me if it meant you could continue to work as my secretary?” He chuckles, cold and cruel. “That’s all right, though. I love every side of you, even the most troublesome ones.”

His every word is as grating as nails on a chalkboard, and the last fraction of your contented soul disintegrates when he paints your nature in harsh wording. You are a yes-man. You’ve always been a yes-man, even when you were a child. You’d willingly agreed to meet up with your bullies because you didn’t want them to hurt you if you’d said no instead. You willingly apologized to the gallerist and accepted her slap without standing up for yourself. You’ve been submissive to Jade and Floyd, fearing termination should you speak out, and it’s allowed them to harass you for so long now. Even if it was an elaborate act orchestrated by your boss—a scheme meant to snuff your spirit and drive you into his waiting, outstretched arms—that doesn’t excuse the fact that you never did anything to change their treatment. You took it all as you’ve always done.

You feel so filthy listening to him as you stand just before the threshold of the nursery, not daring to cross it and get closer to the monster who lingers within. Under the too-bright light, in a room meant for permanent captivity, he looks...

“Ugly.”

The smug glint in Mr. Ashengrotto’s pale eyes drains at once, and his posture stiffens as the word digs into his composure, cracking it slowly like a stone that’s been dropped in still water, ripples expanding on the surface of faux tranquility.

“(Name), sweetheart, what do you mean by—”

“You’ve always been ugly.” You wipe furiously at your eyes as the haunted admission hangs heavy in the air, filling the space with its toxicity, like the poisonous spines on a pufferfish. Expanding, expanding more, until it pops and catches you in the fatal undertow. “You lie and you cheat and you put others below you so that you can stay on top. I can’t believe I actually thought you were nice.”

I can’t believe I thought your voice was calming.

He grits his teeth. “I am nice,” he declares, but the way he practically hisses it says otherwise. “I’ve always been nice to you, haven’t I?”

“Last time I checked, doing all of this for the sake of ‘love’ isn’t nice. Pushing me to breaking isn’t nice. Accusing me of things I didn’t do isn’t nice.” You cross your arms and fix him with a nasty scowl. “You’re mean and ugly.”

It feels childish to insult him, but it’s all you can do. You can’t fight him. You can’t run from him. Your only weapon is your tongue, sharp and malicious. His features sour—almost unnaturally, as if he’s a creature testing various expressions in order to pass as human and dissatisfaction is one that can’t fit on his face—and there’s a broken tremble in his intonation when he speaks next.

“Don’t… Don’t say that. I’m not those things.” An unsteady laugh rises from the depths of his throat, but it doesn’t sound right. It sounds strangled, as if he’s trying to get past the object lodged in his throat and can’t quite force the sound out clearly. “T-Tell me I’m nice. Please, angelfish… Please take it back.”

“Why should I? I’m not going to sugarcoat an obvious lie, but you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Lies are easier to stomach.”

“I’ve done all of this for you, so why must you be so ungrateful? I’ve shown you immense kindness. I’ve cared for you, I’ve fed you, I’ve helped you. I only want to protect you. I just want to love you. There’s nothing ugly about that,” he rants, and the sudden uptick in volume alarms you. Before you can react, he’s seized your wrist and yanked you into the room. He shoves you so hard the breath is nearly knocked from your lungs, and you’re sent tumbling into the bed. “But if I’m as ugly as you say, then you can stay here and reflect on your own undesirable qualities!”

You hardly register the sting in your ankle or the fact that he’s moved swiftly to the other side of the threshold when you catch sight of the door as it slides shut, and the last thing you see before you’re locked inside is the grieving countenance of Mr. Ashengrotto. The sorrow he wears fits perfectly on his face, and you wonder if he’s always looked so...sad. So lonesome and small. Perhaps you’ve never noticed it because of the lofty grandeur that drapes itself over him in the forms of expensive suits, luxury colognes, and money-making smirk-grins.

As soon as you’re on your feet, you throw yourself at the door, bringing your fists down upon the metallic surface with panicked haste.

“Wait, don’t go! Don’t leave me here! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Mr. Ashen—no, Azul, I didn’t mean any of that. I… I’ll love you from now on, so please open the door!”

Ironic as it is, he doesn’t answer those ugly lies.

Your frantic cries are met with silence, and you press your ear against the door in hopes of hearing something. But this room is soundproofed. No one could hear you even if you screamed your throat raw. Your panting breaths fog the reflective surface and you peel yourself from off of it.

You’re alone in the nursery.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, shuffling over to the bed and lowering onto it. “I’ll be okay. He… He’ll come back. He has to. T-To feed me. To change my bandages. He’ll come back.”

He doesn’t.

You remain on the bed, sometimes lying down and staring up at the ceiling, sometimes sitting up and counting the many items he’s stocked the shelves with, and Mr. Ashengrotto does not return. That door remains closed, trapping you inside as if you’re nothing more than a bad memory he’s chosen to seal within his panic room-turned-nursery. Hunger descends upon you and it only grows more insatiable as the hours pass. You’re not sure how much time you’ve lost while stuck here and you’ve resorted to snacking on the baby food he’s kept on the shelves, if only to give yourself false hope and a momentary respite from the horrors of isolation. At least you had some form of freedom in the bedroom. Now you’re successfully stuck, enclosed on all sides, and it doesn’t seem like your captor is going to rescue you from this room anytime soon.

Despairing, you curl into yourself on the bed and allow fresh tears to fall. The salty liquid follows you into your dreams, and this time you can’t fall asleep to Mr. Ashengrotto’s melodic voice as he reads from a page in a book of fairytales. You drift in a dark sea while the waves wash over you, cradling you, before swallowing you. You’re held just above the surface by a lurking beast, your nose and lips inhaling brief quantities of oxygen, and then the water sloshes over your face again. It’s like you’re a boat being rocked to and fro, just barely drowning.

You wake to the jarring crash of glass upon a tiled floor. It almost sounds like it’s come from your own dreamscape, a muffled sort of note that electrifies your every nerve. Snapping your eyes open, the lights are dimmed and the door that was once fastened shut is now opened wide, revealing the darkness that presses in on the windows outside, painting the hall in grey shadows. Another sound pierces the air—this one distinctly moist. Like a lump of tongue spattering on the floor, cold and wet and slippery. You almost expect the door to slam and lock you in when you get off of the bed, gathering bits of your bravery as you step out into the hall. There’s the faint glow of light at the very end, spilling out into the empty corridor from the kitchen.

Something else smashes to the floor. More shattering glass, which is then succeeded by a slew of unhappy curses, and you feel along the walls as you guide yourself through the dark. You’re not sure what sight awaits you when you peer into the kitchen, but the mass of writhing tentacles, sleek obsidian appendages that wind and curl, unfurling from a well-built form to reveal dozens of suckers lining the violet-hued underside, momentarily stuns you into a frozen stupor. A single, choked breath sticks in your throat and the creature’s head snaps towards you—so inhumanly fast that you don’t even realize you’re backing away until one strong tentacle shoots out to twine itself around your waist.

He’s trembling as he grips you firmly, not hard enough to splinter your skeleton—though you’re certain a creature of his size and strength could easily do so if he wished—and you shiver in his unyielding grasp, unable to pinpoint whether it’s a byproduct of your fear or his shaking frame. You realize two things in that moment. One: This is unmistakably Mr. Ashengrotto. His icy eyes cut through the dimness in the kitchen and his glasses have been crushed under a thick tentacle, one that writhes uncomfortably on the floor, twitching bonelessly. And two: He’s crying. Muted sniffles wrack through his body, tears slipping in salty globs. You’re not sure if you’re more terrified of his emotional state or this new form or the fact that you have no idea what to do or how to act. You’re helpless as you gawk at him, opening and closing your mouth as the words wither on your tongue.

“I’m sorry,” he finally admits, forcing it out like it’s an impossible phrase. But you can hear the anguish that thickens his voice, and he raises a tentacle over your eyes, blocking your view of him. “I’m so sorry... I... I pushed you and...locked you away. I could have—no, I did hurt you. I’m very sorry, angelfish…”

“It’s… It’s okay,” you whisper, though somehow your voice comes out louder than intended.

His suckers brush your face, not quite affixing themselves. Now you understand what must be done to placate him. You can deny and fight and cry all you want, but it won’t sway Mr. Ashengrotto. It won’t change the fact that you are, undeniably, permanently, trapped. But you can at least change what lies ahead with honeyed half-truths. You’re downright terrified of him in this moment—that’s a feeling you can’t choke down no matter how hard you attempt to do so. Still, you try because it’s all you know how to do. It’s all you’ve ever done.

Slowly, your hand searches for part of him. It isn’t a difficult task, for he’s everywhere. Your fingers brush slick skin, and the picture paints itself in your mind. Glasses of water, tipped over to provide just enough wetness to keep the gills along his sides from drying out. He’s almost…clumsy in this form. Your boss, the always perfect, never faltering Azul Ashengrotto, is struggling. It would have satisfied you if you weren’t so gripped with fear and a tentacle that tightens out of some emotion that’s currently foreign to you. Is it desperation? Fear? Disgust? Regret? He’s rigidly stiff under you, but he allows your hand to wander and trace soothing patterns into his skin.

“What do you like to do in the summer?”

Mr. Ashengrotto hiccups through a strangled sob. “S-Summer?”

“Do you like summer, Azul?”

“I… I suppose it’s an enjoyable season.” He clears his throat in an attempt to build himself from the ground up, still just as guarded and defensive as before, but the tentacle around you loosens its possessive hold slightly. “I’ve always wanted to try that thing… What was it? Movies in the dark of night, sitting in the back of a car, wrapped in thin sheets and…smelling of citronella. And there’s an abundance of junk food. The stars are brighter than light itself and the sky looks so expansive…”

“Oh, a drive-in cinema. I’ve never been to one.”

“Really?” Lighthearted shock replaces sorrow. “You’ve never been? I would have thought… Ah. Well.”

“I’d like to go to one.”

“As would I.” He coughs awkwardly when your fingers curl into his tentacle and adds in a discontented grumble, “I never should have gotten careless. This is what happens when I lose track of time.”

“We can have our own cinema here. Just you and me.” Your other hand pries the tentacle from your eyes, and he cowers when you look at him. “It’ll be our first date. I’m sure the stars are much prettier out here than in the city.” You smile at him and his shoulders tense and relax all at once. “How does that sound? A movie date under the stars. We can even put little plastic ones on the ceiling since I…can’t exactly go outside anytime soon. The ocean is…s-still there and…”

“That sounds wonderful!” he blurts and then flusters. Surely he’s not this easy, but if you can delude yourself into thinking otherwise then Mr. Ashengrotto can easily do the same. “Ahem. I mean. Well… I… I look forward to it.”

You exhale through your nostrils. “I’m sorry for arguing with you. We can start a family someday. Not today or tomorrow, but one day.”

Those words don’t feel as empty as you would’ve hoped, for you know that he’ll get what he wants eventually. All he has to do is exercise patience, and Mr. Ashengrotto is immensely patient when it comes to long-term investments.

He smiles, real and raw, and relieved tears gather in his pearly eyes. “Thank you… I’m also sorry…that you have to see me like this. I didn’t intend on—ahem. Well, in any case, I’ll change back and explain everything as soon as I—”

“It’s okay.” You cradle the tentacle in your arms, nuzzling it with the same gentleness of a mother, and he melts under your careful touch. “I’ll like all of your sides, too.” It’s another lie. There is no side to him that can be liked, for he’s made himself so cantankerous. “Even the ones you like to hide. That just means I’ll have to uncover all of you for myself. If you’ll allow that, Azul.”

His name, spoken so sweetly, in a tone you’re certain he could only relish in his deepest dreams.

“Of course,” he whispers, weepy with joy, fully submitting, and you know you’ve hooked him. For now, at least.

Now it’s your turn to toy with him much like how he did to you throughout your years at the company. And luckily for you, you’re very familiar with the high-stakes chessboard Mr. Ashengrotto adores playing on.

#yandere twst #yandere azul ashengrotto #yandere azul ashengrotto x reader #slight n/sfw #azul thought three #ceo azul: i want to spend the rest of my life with you <3 #reader: how about you spend the rest of your life in JAIL #he very well should for his crimes (but also because it took me so long to finish this fic orz)#now to continue azul thought 4: the contractual fwb mwahaha >:D

727 notes · View notes