Diane felt the urge to flee, but she forced her feet to stay rooted.
She strolled back toward the desk, a deliberate movement meant to mask the trembling in her knees. She placed her well-manicured fingers on the polished mahogany of the office table, leaning forward just enough to maintain unwavering eye contact.
It was terrifying to stare into the eyes of a man who could ruin her with a phone call, but she had reached her limit.
"Boss Charles," she began, her voice steady despite the adrenaline. "Take me as your worker and treat me just as one. That is why I am here. Being your mistress is the least thing in my scheme right now, let alone getting into some petty war to fight numerous other women just to have you. No, Charles. That's silly. I have a life to save and a debt to pay. I don't have time for games."
Charles let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Now listen carefully. If that is truly your decision, then trust me, you will leave this office and live to regret it. I don't forget, and I certainly don't lose twice."
Diane didn't offer him the satisfaction of a rebuttal. With a heavy silence and a sudden, borrowed confidence, she turned on her heel and made for the door.
"And you think being my worker is going to be a bed of roses, Diane?"
Charles called back, his voice echoing against the marble walls.
Diane paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder.
"Being your mistress wouldn't be any better, trust me. I remain your worker, Charles. Deal with it—and deal with me—as you wish."
She spoke the last words loudly, her voice carrying a defiant ring that seemed to vibrate in the hallway. As she stepped out into the corridor, she nearly collided with a figure standing just outside the door.
It was Lara. The two women locked eyes for a fraction of a second—Diane's eyes were wide with a mix of relief and lingering fear, while Lara's were narrowed in suspicion.
With a burst of speed, they passed one another. Diane didn't look back; she kept moving toward the elevators, her heart hammering. Meanwhile, Lara stormed into the office, the door swinging shut behind her with a heavy thud.
"Did I just hear the word 'mistress'?" Lara asked, her voice trembling with a cocktail of awe and pure disgust. She stood in the center of the room, her sleek elegance beginning to crack.
Charles didn't even look up as he straightened the items on his desk. He was still reeling from Diane's defiance. "Yes, Lara. I want her to be my woman."
The confession hit Lara like a physical strike. "Oh, wow. Charles Bennet, really? So what am I? What have I been all this while, Charles? Tell me! Make me understand where I stand in your life, if at all there is a position for me in there anymore!"
"Lara, you are making a scene—"
Charles began, his tone weary and dismissive.
"Keep your useless explanations to yourself!" Lara burst out, her voice cracking. "You have the guts to tell me, right to my face, that you want her to be your mistress? After everything I've done to support your image?"
Tears of regret and bitter disappointment began to well up in her eyes, spilling over and ruining her perfect makeup. She looked at the man she had idolized and saw only a stranger fueled by a high-school grudge.
"Ok, Lara, I'm sorry... Listen, it's not—"
Charles tried to reach out, but Lara recoiled as if his touch were poison. She turned to the side, her hand darting to a silver tissue dispenser on the corner of the desk.
She ripped out several slips of tissue with a violent jerk and began to sob, dabbing at her face as she tried to regain some semblance of dignity.
She reached for her designer handbag, her movements frantic. Before she turned to leave, she stared deeply into Charles's eyes, seeing the emptiness there. With a gesture of total contempt, she balled up the wet, tear-soaked tissues and threw them directly at him.
"Coward," she spat.
The word hung in the air, sharp and final. She turned and fled the office, the sound of her heels no longer rhythmical, but erratic, leaving Charles alone in his golden cage.
She stayed still for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the neighborhood waking up,a distant car engine, the chirping of birds, and the soft rustle of wind against the glass.
After weeks of back-and-forth arguments, sleepless nights, and the crushing pressure of her family's expectations, Diane had reached a breaking point. She needed the money. That was the cold, hard truth of her reality.
But needing the money didn't mean she was willing to sell her soul. In her mind, the decision was final: she was never signing that contract, and she was absolutely never marrying Ben.
To her, Ben wasn't a partner,he was a transaction her family was trying to force her into, and Diane was tired of being treated like a commodity.
She finally sat up, her body feeling like it was made of lead. The exhaustion wasn't just physical, it was the kind of tiredness that lived deep in the bones, born from constant mental warfare.
To think that she had to leave the sanctuary of her apartment to face the lion's den—her office—made the prospect of the day ahead feel nearly impossible.
Despite the internal chaos,
Diane took pride in her home. She lived in a quiet, fresh-looking vicinity where the air felt a little cleaner than in the bustling city center.
It was her only refuge. She reached out, her hand brushing against the smooth, crocheted cotton curtains that draped elegantly over her window. With a slow, deliberate tug, she pulled them back, inviting the world inside.
Warm, golden sunlight flooded the room. The rays rushed in as if they were eager to chase away the shadows of her doubt.
The light danced across her clean, well-kept furniture, illuminating the small details that made this place hers. Seeing the room brighten up gave her a small, much-needed spark of hope.
It was a silent reminder, no matter what Charles or anyone else threw at her today, she was resilient. She was stronger than the fear.
The Forgotten Shield
Diane dressed with a sense of purpose, choosing an outfit that felt like armor. She applied a light, sweet scent—a fragrance that usually made her feel feminine and in control.
As she locked her door and walked toward the street, she passed the large Honeylocust tree that stood as a landmark near her building. Its delicate leaves shimmered in the morning light.
She was nearly at the main road when a sudden, cold realization hit her.
She stopped dead in her tracks, her hand flying to her empty pocket.
"The spray," she whispered to herself.
She had forgotten her pepper spray.