Chapter 9 THE INEVITABLE PULL.

Chapter 9 THE INEVITABLE PULL.
Isabel’s POV

Damien was already in his office when I had come in.

He didn’t greet me. Didn’t have to. He stood behind the desk, sleeves rolled, jacket hanging neatly on the chair beside him. His focus was on the stack of documents he’d arranged into order.

“Right on time,” he said without looking up.

“You told me to be.”

He finally glanced up, the faintest tilt of amusement ghosting across his mouth. “And you listen now?”

“I adapt.”

His eyes lingered on me a fraction too long. “We’ll see.”

I sat. The chair felt colder than the air.

He began speaking. The topic was the integration model Mr. Sterling had assigned us. 

“You’ll manage the raw data entries,” he said. “Nothing leaves this room without my review. Accuracy matters.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” He leaned forward slightly, fingers tapping once against the page. “You rush when you’re uncertain. Don’t.”

“I’m not uncertain.”

He hummed softly, not quite a laugh. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He looked at me then—really looked and I felt the conversation slide out of the safe zone. His voice stayed calm, but I felt the tension rising. 

“Truth,” he said. “That’s an interesting choice of word for someone who spends half her time pretending.”

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“Pretending not to care. Pretending this is just another assignment. Pretending you don’t notice how much effort it takes not to look at me.”

The paper in front of me blurred. I wanted to tell him to stop, to stay on topic but that would’ve been admitting he was right.

“You’re crossing a line,” I said quietly.

“Am I?” He stepped around the desk, slow and unhurried, stopping behind me. “Or are you just afraid of what happens when you stop pretending?”

The sound of his voice that close to my ear made every muscle in my body tighten. I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Focus on the spreadsheet,” he murmured. “Show me you can.”

It was meant to be professional. It didn’t feel that way.

I bent over the document, forcing my eyes to the numbers. My pulse was so loud it drowned out every thought. He leaned in just enough that I could sense the heat of him—not touching, just near.

“Column four,” he said softly. “You’ve missed a variable.”

I looked at it again. “No, I didn’t.”

He reached over, pen in hand, and circled a single number. “There.”

And he was infact was right.

“Thank you,” I said, but it came out nothing more than a whisper.

He straightened, walking back to his side of the desk. The distance helped, but only barely.

“You don’t like being corrected,” he said.

“No one does.”

“You especially.”

He returned to his chair, leaning back slightly, studying me with those eyes that felt like dissection.

“Let’s talk about control,” he said.

I looked up, wary. “Control?”

“It’s the foundation of this system. Every variable must be contained, predictable. One error can ruin everything.”

He paused, eyes meeting mine. “You understand that, don’t you?”

He wasn’t talking about data.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Then tell me. how do you maintain control when everything in you wants to react?”

I blinked, unsure if he was still teaching or taunting. “You pretend nothing else exist.”

“And does that work for you?”

“It has to.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s not the same as yes.”

I felt the tension spike in the silence that followed. The clock ticked again. Somewhere in the house, a door closed. The sound made me jump.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“You’re wound too tight,” he said. “You can’t think clearly like that.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then prove it.”

“How?”

“By not running.”

I wanted to bite back but the words had hit too close.

He stood again, pacing once before stopping beside me. He rested one hand on the back of my chair—not touching me, not quite but close enough that I could feel him.

“Look at me,” he said.

I shouldn’t have. But I did.

His expression was composed, controlled. The opposite of what I was feeling right now.

“You think I want this,” he said. “You think I enjoy testing you?”

“Don’t you?”

He exhaled once. “You have no idea what I want.”

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then he turned like he hadn't said anything, returning to his seat. “We’re done for today.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded, eyes fixed on the papers. “You should go.”

I gathered my notes, fingers trembling despite my effort to seem unaffected. “We’re supposed to submit the preliminary outline by tomorrow.”

“I’ll handle it,” he said.

“You’re trying to avoid me now?”

“I’m protecting something I shouldn’t have to.”

That stopped me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looked up then and for the first time, I saw the crack in that perfect image of his.

“It means this was a mistake.”

There it was. The thing neither of us was supposed to admit.

“Then fix it,” I said quietly.

“I’m trying.”

Our eyes held. There was no anger now, only the weight of everything unsaid pressing between us.

The silence burned.

I turned toward the door before I said something  I couldn’t take back. My hand found the handle, but before I could open it, his voice came again, strained.

“Isabel.”

I froze.

“Don’t come tomorrow.”

I turned back slowly. “Mr. Sterling—”

He didn’t move, but the tension in his shoulders said enough “I’ll handle him.”

“Damien—”

He shook his head once. “Just don’t.”

His tone wasn’t sharp anymore. It was quiet. Almost pleading.

And that, more than anything, scared me.

I wanted to ask why. I wanted to demand he look at me and explain what had shifted, what line he thought we hadn't crossed. But I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form.

Instead, I stepped backward into the hall and waited for him to call me back. He didn’t.

I closed the door softly between us, but it sounded too loud. 

By the time I reached the staircase, my pulse still hadn’t slowed. I told myself it was relief—that I wanted distance.

But when I glanced back down the corridor, I wished he had come after me.