Beneath the Surface

The night before, she couldn’t think of anything else. The paperwork he’d given her had barely held her focus; her mind kept replaying his voice from the audio file, winding through her thoughts like a thread she couldn’t cut. She told herself she was being foolish, but the more she tried to ignore it, the stronger it pulled. She even caught herself imagining what it might be like to sit in his office and finally say the things she didn’t dare voice to anyone else. By morning, the idea had rooted itself deep inside her.

The next day, stepping into his office felt like crossing a threshold. The air was heavier here, more private, as though the walls had been built to guard secrets. They worked in near silence, pens scratching over paper. Midway through, Garrett paused, pen balanced between his fingers. “Octavia’s careful… she spends like someone who knows exactly where the lines are drawn.”

Farida spoke before she thought. “Because the lines are fixed. Between her, Anjila Mehra’s mother, and the rest, no single hand can tip the balance.”.” Even as she said it, she felt the tiny jolt of revealing something not everyone knew—something better left unsaid.

The words hung in the air. Her cheeks warmed. I shouldn’t have said that.

Garrett’s only response was a small, unreadable nod, but the pause told her he’d noticed. They resumed working, yet her mind kept circling the slip. It felt like both a breach—and a bridge.

When they finished, she lingered, pen idle. Her mother’s voice whispered: They always want something. Was she really about to open a personal door for the big bad white man everyone warned her about? She thought of the dream, of his voice in it, of the glances she’d stolen all morning under the guise of harmless curiosity. What could it hurt? The question pulsed, battling a thin thread of fear.

“Could I… ask you something? Not about work.”

He leaned back, attentive. “Of course.”

“You’re trained in psychology, right?” Her voice dropped, as though saying it too loudly would shatter her nerve. “I think… I might need to talk to someone. I don’t really fit here. I’m not like the others. With them, it’s all noise and confidence, always knowing where they stand. I’m second-guessing everything, holding back. And the more I try to blend in, the more I feel like I’m disappearing.”

His gaze softened, though something unreadable flickered beneath. “I’d be glad to help. But to do that properly, I might need to work with your subconscious—help you change the patterns you can’t reach yourself. Would you be willing to try that?”

She hesitated. Part of her wanted to refuse, to protect the last untouched piece of herselfA flicker of her mother’s warnings flared. The idea of surrendering that deeply to anyone—let alone him—was dangerous. But another part, stronger, whispered she needed this. “If you think it would help.”

“Sit back down,” he said gently.

She obeyed, every movement deliberate, aware of the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“What do you feel most often here?”

“Nervous. Unsure. Like I don’t know the rules everyone else does.”

“You want clear rules. Certainty. A place where you know exactly what’s expected, and you can excel. You want someone to give you that.”

She exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

“Then let’s try something. Hands flat on your knees. Look at me, but don’t strain. Just notice my voice.”

Her fingers brushed her skirt before settling. His tone dropped into a measured rhythm. “Each word is a stone on still water—ripples spreading calm. Let them carry away everything else.”

Her breathing deepened, the faint thud of her heartbeat filling her ears. Warmth seemed to bloom in the room. The edges of her vision softened until only his gaze mattered. The chair beneath her felt heavier, more solid, as though anchoring her in place. Her hands seemed to sink into her knees, the weight of them pulling her deeper into stillness.

“When I speak, you can let go. You trust me to tell you what’s needed. Every word is a marker you can hold when the world feels too loud. Think of the times you’ve felt safe. They all had one thing—clarity. You knew where you belonged, what to do, who to follow. Let that feeling spread.”

Her eyes fluttered, mind painting ordered spaces, precise movements, an unseen hand steady at her back.

“In this space, there’s no uncertainty. I speak, you follow. I give you order, and you thrive. That order, stability, purpose… I can give it to you, Farida. No one else will understand you like I do.”

The words soaked in like warm rain. She felt anchored.

When her awareness returned, the office seemed warmer, closer. Garrett’s voice was calm. “You respond well to structure. That’s a strength—and I can help you use it. Why don’t you work from my office a few hours each day? Keep things organized, handle some tasks. It’ll give you stability… and let me keep guiding you.”

She nodded before she realized she’d agreed.

Over the next two weeks, a pattern formed. The first morning back, she aligned his pens, stacked folders, set his coffee exactly as he liked it. By midday, she’d spoken barely a word, too focused on perfectionThe next morning, she woke earlier than usual. There was an odd energy under her skin, as if she were preparing for something important. By the time she reached his office, she was already smoothing her skirt, adjusting her scarf, and mentally rehearsing the order in which she would arrange his desk.

Over the next two weeks, a pattern formed. The first morning, she aligned his pens, stacked folders, set his coffee exactly as he liked it. By midday, she’d spoken barely a word, too focused on perfection.

Daily, she organized his desk, color-coded files, arranged notes, polished the brass on his desk lamp. Soon, she anticipated his needs before he spoke, hands moving instinctively to smooth a page or erase a fingerprint. His occasional pauses to watch her sent a warm coil tightening in her chest.

By the end of the first week, she preferred this work to all else. By the second, the thought of being his maid lodged firmly in her mindbegan as fleeting images—a flash of a uniform, the memory of kneeling to reach a low drawer—before settling into something she couldn’t ignore. She mirrored that order at home, keeping every surface spotless. The compulsion thrilled her.

When she finally confessed—eyes down, voice trembling—he didn’t mock. He called it natural, worth exploring. She spoke of uniforms, kneeling, the pride of pleasing him alone.

He listened, then offered, “We can explore it safely, if you wish.”

Her pulse raced. And though a voice reminded her he was married, the thought only added a sharp, guilty thrill.