The morning after his first day, Emerson Lane wasn't sure whether he should feel exhilarated, terrified, or just plain exhausted. His head still buzzed with Lafayette Jeff's exacting instructions, the weight of his presence, and—most dangerously—the memory of their accidental touch the day before.
He tugged at the collar of his shirt as he rode the elevator back up to the 23rd floor, trying to muster some semblance of composure. "You've got this," he muttered to himself, repeating the mantra like a lifeline. "It's just a job. Just a job. Just a job…"
When the doors opened, the office seemed sharper somehow, more imposing in the light of day. Em's eyes darted toward Lafayette's office, glass walls glinting, the man inside—already there, as usual—sitting behind his massive desk like a king surveying his kingdom.
Em swallowed and approached, careful to keep his steps confident. "Good morning, sir," he said, voice steadier than he felt.
"Morning," Lafayette replied without looking up. His voice, calm and measured, carried that magnetic weight Em couldn't ignore. "I trust you slept well."
"Yes, sir," Em said, trying to ignore the way his heart jumped at the simple acknowledgment. He'd barely slept, though—too much replaying the brush of hands, the tilt of Lafayette's head as he had assessed him, the faint curl of amusement in his lips.
"Today," Lafayette continued, finally lifting his gaze, "you'll start with something slightly more… complicated." He slid a folder across the desk. "I need a complete summary of last quarter's investor reports, with highlights and potential red flags. You have three hours."
Em blinked. Three hours? He had barely managed the spreadsheet yesterday. He swallowed. "Yes… sir. Of course."
Lafayette's eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing. "See that you do. I don't like being disappointed, Emerson."
He turned and walked away, leaving Em staring at the folder, pulse racing. It wasn't just the work—it was the energy in the room, the way Lafayette's presence seemed to cling to him like a second skin.
Em tried to focus, flipping through the reports, but he kept sneaking glances at Lafayette. The man moved through the office with effortless authority, speaking to staff in clipped sentences, commanding respect with the tilt of a shoulder or the lift of an eyebrow. And yet, occasionally, his gaze would flicker toward Em, brief, lingering just long enough to make Em's chest tighten.
By mid-morning, Em realized he was more aware of Lafayette's presence than the reports themselves. He was drawn to the subtle things: the way Lafayette adjusted his cufflinks, the faint smirk when a colleague asked a question he deemed trivial, the way he carried himself like he owned not just the office but the air in it.
It happened again at 10:42 a.m., completely out of nowhere. Em was scanning through a particularly dense financial statement when Lafayette appeared beside him, leaning slightly over the desk. The heat radiating off the man was almost tangible.
"You missed a figure here," Lafayette said softly, pointing at a number. His finger brushed Em's hand. Just slightly. But that small contact sent a shockwave straight to Em's core.
"I—I'm sorry," Em stammered, trying to steady his shaking hands.
"No need to apologize," Lafayette murmured, his voice lower, velvety, almost intimate. "Just… pay attention. Precision matters."
Em nodded, but his mind was far from the reports. He was acutely aware of Lafayette's proximity, the faint scent of cologne that lingered even when the man stepped back, the subtle warmth of his body that seemed to leave a lingering imprint in the air.
By lunchtime, Em realized something dangerous: he was drawn in. Not just curious, not just intrigued—but pulled toward Lafayette in a way that felt like gravity itself had shifted. And he wasn't sure whether he wanted to fight it or succumb.
Then came the first words that really made him pause.
"I trust you're keeping up," Lafayette said over lunch, casually leaning against the counter in the office kitchen, arms crossed. The casual stance was deceptive—it radiated authority and control.
"I'm doing my best," Em replied, trying to sound competent. He stirred his coffee nervously, aware of Lafayette's eyes on him. They weren't sharp now—they were… curious. Calculating. And something softer, almost unreadable.
"Good." Lafayette's gaze lingered, and Em felt it like a touch. "Ambition is fine. Drive is better. But… make sure you're not in over your head."
Em wanted to nod, to respond with something witty, to mask the sudden flutter in his chest. Instead, he swallowed hard and muttered, "I'll be careful."
Lafayette smirked, a brief flash of something that could have been amusement—or was it approval? "See that you are." Then he walked away, leaving Em to stew in the heat of unspoken words and the tension that now seemed to hum between them.
By the end of the day, Em was exhausted in a different way than yesterday. Physically, yes, but also emotionally drained, his mind replaying moments of proximity, glances, and touches that lingered too long to be accidental. He knew something had begun—a spark, a dangerous one—and he wasn't sure he could—or wanted to—ignore it.
As he stepped out of the elevator and into the cool evening air, Em's phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number:
"Don't think I didn't notice how good you were today. —L"
Em froze. His pulse thundered. This job… this man… was going to change everything. And maybe, just maybe, he was already hooked.