Or are the tables turning beneath me?

Tangled in a Trance - Chapter 2: Unraveling Threads

I sit at my desk in The Metro Pulse newsroom, my laptop screen glowing with the half-finished draft of my exposé on Julian Voss. The words drip with venom: charlatan, deceiver, preying on the gullible. I picture his smug face crumbling as my article hits the stands, his career reduced to ash. The thought sends a sadistic thrill through me, sharp and delicious. I want to humiliate him, to see him squirm under the city’s scorn. He dared to challenge me, and I’ll make him regret it.

But my blouse is still unbuttoned from last night’s inexplicable lapse, the memory gnawing at me. I fastened it this morning, triple-checking each button, yet my fingers itch to undo them again. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Stress. Overwork. Not hypnosis. Hypnosis is a parlor trick, and I’m too strong to fall for it. Still, my phone sits face-down on the desk, silenced, as if it’s a bomb waiting to detonate. I shake my head, refocusing. Julian’s going down, and I’m the one holding the match.

Tara, my editor, pokes her head over my cubicle. “Elise, got a sec? That Voss piece is gold. When’s it dropping?” Her grin is conspiratorial, and I mirror it, feeding off her enthusiasm.

“Soon,” I say, leaning back with a predator’s confidence. “I’m going to flay him alive. Publicly. He’ll be begging for mercy by the time I’m done.” The words feel good, vicious, but a flicker of Julian’s dark eyes crosses my mind—his steady gaze, the way it pinned me in his office. I shift in my seat, a warmth coiling low in my belly. Stop it, Elise. He’s the enemy.

Tara laughs. “That’s my girl. Text me when you’ve got a draft.” She walks off, and my phone pings with her message: Can’t wait to read it! My fingers move before I can process, unbuttoning the top of my blouse. I gasp, slamming my hands down on the desk. The newsroom buzzes around me, oblivious, but my heart hammers. I fumble to rebutton, my cheeks flushing red. It’s a reflex, I rationalize. Muscle memory. Not him. Not his voice, smooth and commanding, echoing in my subconscious.

I grab my phone, tempted to smash it, but another part of me—a darker, primal part—hesitates. What if it’s real? What if Julian’s control is slipping under my skin, unraveling me? The thought should terrify me, but it sends a shiver of excitement down my spine. To be so ****, so exposed, at his mercy… I clench my thighs together, horrified at myself. No. I’m in control. I’m the one exposing him.

I need to see him again, to prove he’s powerless. I dial his office, my voice crisp when his receptionist picks up. “Elise Harper. I want another meeting with Dr. Voss. Today.” She schedules me for 4 p.m., and I hang up, my pulse racing with purpose—and something else I refuse to name.

Julian’s office feels smaller this time, the air thick with unspoken tension. He’s behind his desk, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a hint of tanned skin. I hate how my eyes linger there, how my body hums at his nearness. He stands, gesturing to the chair across from him, his smile slow and knowing. “Back so soon, Elise? Couldn’t resist me?”

I scoff, dropping into the seat and crossing my legs, my skirt riding up just enough to catch his eye. I lean into it, weaponizing my allure. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here to give you a chance to surrender before I publish my article. It’s going to ruin you.” My voice is ice, but my blood runs hot as his gaze meets mine, unflinching.

“Ruin me?” He steps around the desk, perching on its edge, close enough that I catch the faint spice of his cologne. “You sound so sure. But tell me, Elise…” He leans in, his voice dropping to a murmur. “How’s your blouse holding up?”

My breath catches, my hand flying to my collar. All buttons secure. I glare at him, but my cheeks burn. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap, but my voice wavers. He’s toying with me, and it’s working.

He shrugs, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Just curious. You seemed… distracted last night.” He pulls out his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen. My stomach lurches. Is he about to text me? Call me? I imagine my blouse falling open right here, my bra exposed, and a jolt of panic—mixed with shameful thrill—shoots through me.

“You’re bluffing,” I say, standing to regain control. I step closer, invading his space, my voice low and venomous. “I’m going to humiliate you, Julian. Your name will be a joke. No one will trust you again.” But even as I speak, my body leans toward him, drawn by some magnetic pull. His eyes darken, and for a moment, I think he might touch me. I want him to, and I hate myself for it.

He straightens, breaking the spell, and tucks his phone away. “Write your article, Elise. Let’s see who ends up exposed.” His tone is playful, but there’s a steel edge that makes my skin prickle. He opens the door, dismissing me, and I storm out, my heart pounding with rage and something dangerously close to desire.

Back at my apartment, I’m pacing, my phone clutched in my hand. I’ve silenced it, but the screen lights up with a text from Tara: Draft status? My fingers betray me again, unbuttoning my blouse. I curse, tossing the phone onto the couch, but not before another button pops free. My reflection in the window shows a glimpse of lace, and I freeze, my breath ragged. It’s not real, I tell myself. It’s psychosomatic. I’m stronger than this.

But as I rebutton, my mind wanders to Julian’s voice, his commanding presence, the way he looked at me like he already owned a piece of me. The thought of being at his mercy, stripped bare in public, sends a forbidden thrill through me. My cheeks flush, my body quivering with a mix of dread and arousal. I imagine his eyes on me, watching as I unravel, and my hand trembles as I reach for my phone.

I could text him. Demand answers. Or… I could test it. Just once. To prove he’s powerless. My thumb hovers over his contact, my heart racing. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m the one exposed, humiliated, just as I planned for him? The thought is terrifying—and electrifying. I drop the phone, sinking onto the couch, my blouse half-open, my resolve fraying. Julian’s winning, and I’m not sure I want to stop him.