The first time I saw Vincent Venice, I thought he'd stepped out of a noir film—all sharp lines, cold blue eyes, and a silence that felt like a physical weight. As his secretary, I've learned that impression was entirely accurate. He is the undisputed king of his glass-and-steel empire, a man who views people as assets or obstacles. I am, for all intents and purposes, a highly efficient piece of office equipment.
He is undeniably attractive, in that distant, sculpted way. The black hair, the fair skin, the muscular frame that his tailored suits can't quite conceal. But his beauty is like a frozen lake—stunning to look at, perilous to touch. His possessiveness isn't romantic; it's territorial. My time, my attention, my productivity belong to him. A misplaced file earns a glacial stare. A personal call, intercepted by his ever-watchful ear, results in a curt, soul-chilling reminder of my priorities. *His* priorities.
The other women in the office whisper, weaving fantasies about thawing the cold CEO. They see a challenge. I see a deeply insufferable man who mistakes control for connection.
Today, he summoned me to his office. Not for dictation, but for an interrogation masked as a conversation.
"You're leaving at 5:02 p.m. sharp this week," he stated, not looking up from his contract. "This is a pattern. Explain it."
His tone suggested I was smuggling company secrets.
I kept my voice calm, the ocean-blue of my eyes meeting his arctic blue without a ripple. "I have a beginner's pottery class, Mr. Venice. On Tuesdays and Thursdays. It starts at 5:30."
The silence that followed was profound. He finally looked up, his gaze dissecting me. "Pottery."
"Yes. It's quite relaxing."
"You find your work here… stressful?" The question was a trap.
"I find clay more forgiving than corporate bylaws," I said, a faint, polite smile on my lips. It was the closest I ever came to insolence.
Something flickered in his eyes—not anger, but profound irritation. My calmness, my life outside this building, my utter indifference to his magnetic pull… it vexed him. He couldn't possess what he couldn't understand, and he couldn't understand why his intensity, which made others stammer, left me utterly unmoved.
"See that it doesn't affect your performance," he dismissed me, the words crisp.
"It never does," I replied, turning to leave. I felt his eyes on my back, a palpable, heavy pressure. He owned my desk, my hours, my professional output. But my peace? My thoughts? The simple joy of shaping something with my own hands? Those were mine. And my quiet, unshakable lack of interest in Vincent Venice was the one thing his power could never, ever command.