Back to Work

I stay on the floor longer than I mean to, half expecting another command. My hands are shaking; I can’t tell if it’s fear or whatever residue his magic left behind. The hum inside my head has changed pitch, steady now, almost comforting.

Tim’s voice is level again. His tone stays calm. “Now you see what happens when you act without thinking Vera?”

I nod before I can think. It isn’t agreement—it’s reflex.”

He turns away, adjusting his cuffs as if nothing happened. “Get up, Vera. We both have work to do.”

The fog, the haze in my brain from the mind blowing orgasm I just had is still there. “What are you talking about? Why are you doing this to me?”

He studies me for a long time, expression unreadable. The light from the console edges his face in blue, cold and steady.

“I know you won’t believe me Vera, but really I’m helping you.” he pauses as I start to pull myself back together and start to stand on my wobbly legs. “This would go a lot smoother for the both of us, if you would stop pretending to be Executive Lux and just let yourself be Vera”

I hate the calm in his eyes, the way it makes my anger sound childish.

“I built this position. I earned it.”

“Earned?” he says. “That’s why it’s so hard for you to see what it’s doing to you.”

The hum inside my head swells again—steady, rhythmic. I can’t tell if it’s the building, the magic, or just my pulse.

When I try to answer, the words drift apart before reaching my mouth.

He gestures to the console.

“Sit down. We’ll start with the numbers. You’ll see it’s easier when you stop fighting. You have a pile of accounts that need your attention so you better get working on them.”

“You can’t treat me like this, You cant just tell me what to do!”

“Vera, you have a compliance audit coming up”

I froze

“If you want to keep this position that you have earned, You had better get to work on those accounts while I try to cover up your…. Creative accounting”

The hum steadies again—under my skin, inside my ribs.

He gestures to the reports glowing across my screen.

“Start with those. The sooner you finish, the easier this will be for both of us.”

The glass reflects both of us in the blue light: me sitting, him standing.

For once, I don’t know which reflection looks more real.

Tim turns off the console display and heads for the door. He pauses only long enough to collect a small bundle of fabric from the floor, folds it once, and pockets it without a word. The door slides shut behind him with a quiet hiss.

For a long moment, I just sit there. The air still feels charged; every breath tastes faintly of metal.

Then training takes over—habit stronger than panic. I straighten the chair, smooth the wrinkles from my skirt, and turn back to the screen.

Columns of numbers wait, patient and endless. Work is familiar. Predictable. I start correcting entries, reconciling reports, pretending this is just another morning after a bad meeting. With each form I finish, the rhythm steadies; the world narrows to spreadsheets and the soft pulse in the back of my head.

It’s almost normal. Almost.

But every few minutes my thoughts slide sideways—to him, to what just happened, to the quiet certainty in his voice. I shake it off and keep typing, telling myself that if I just keep working, everything will settle back into place.

It doesn’t.

The hum stays, patient and low, following the rhythm of my heartbeat.

It late before I finish all the files and start the flight home. I guess Sir Tim left early.