𝘽𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙍𝙪𝙡𝙚𝙨

Chapter 2: The Weight of Her Gaze

The days turned into a blur of deadlines, drafts, and late nights at the office. Grace's demands were unrelenting, her standards impossibly high. Each morning, I'd prepare myself for the inevitable summons to her office, where she would start dissecting my work with a clinical precision that left me on edge.

Her presence was like a storm, sweeping through the office, unsettling everything in its path. Every glance, every word from her was measured, very deliberate. She was always in control, never a hair out of place, her sharp heels clicking ominously as she passed through the corridors. Always.. perfect. It was a sound I had come to dread and crave in equal measure.

I tried to focus on the work. That was why I was here, after all. And I was good at it—good enough that I hadn't been fired yet, at least. But the more time I spent in her presence, the more difficult it became to focus. She consumed my thoughts, my dreams, and no matter how hard I tried to shake it, the attraction only grew stronger.

It was late one evening, long after most of the staff had gone home, when I found myself in Grace's office again. I'd been reviewing a particularly difficult manuscript, one that had been sent back with more red ink than black, and I knew I was out of my depth. My fingers shook slightly as I knocked on her door.

"Come in."

Her voice, smooth and authoritative, slid over me like silk. I stepped inside, clutching the manuscript to my chest, hoping she wouldn't notice the tension in my body. She sat behind her desk, as usual, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scanned something on her computer screen. Without looking up, she gestured for me to sit.

"I'm assuming this is about the manuscript," she said, her tone clipped and efficient. "Sit."

I did as I was told, my heart pounding in my chest. The silence between us stretched, thick with tension as she continued typing. My eyes wandered over her, taking in the sharp angles of her jawline, the way her fingers moved effortlessly over the keyboard. She was mesmerizing, in every possible way. The control she wielded so easily over her environment over me was intoxicating.

She finally looked up, removing her glasses and leaning back in her chair. "Well?"

I blinked, startled by the sudden shift of her gaze onto me. I swallowed hard, my voice wavering as I held out the manuscript. "I.. uhm.. I need your feedback on this. I've been going over it for hours, but it's not... it's not good enough."

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took the manuscript from my hands, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. It was electric, that simple touch, sending a jolt of heat through me that I hoped didn't show on my face. I couldn't help it—the way her skin felt against mine, even for just a second, sent my mind spiraling.

Grace flipped through the pages, her expression unreadable as she scanned the text. I sat there in silence, my palms sweaty, my heart racing. Every second in her presence felt like a test, like I was being weighed and measured, and I had no idea if I was passing or failing.

When she finally looked up, her gaze was as sharp as ever. "You're right," she said, her voice calm but firm. "It's not good enough."

I bit my lip, nodding. "I know. I'll do better, I—"

"Stop," she interrupted, holding up her hand. "Don't apologize. Don't make excuses. Fix it."

I swallowed thickly, the words hitting me like a stone. There was finality in her voice that left no room for argument. I nodded quickly, my throat tightening. "Yes, of course. I'll fix it."

She studied me in silence for a long moment, her sharp eyes lingering on my face. Then, in a movement so sudden it caught me off guard, she rose from her chair and walked around her desk.

Her heels clicked softly on the floor, and every sound sent my heart racing faster. She stopped right in front of me, so close that I could see every perfect detail of her crisp white blouse, the faint scent of her rich and elegant perfume enveloping me. My breath hitched as I looked down at my hands, trying not to think about how near she was, how vulnerable I felt sitting before her like this.

"Look at me, Miss Bennett."

Her voice was low, commanding, making my pulse throb in my throat. I hesitated, unable to tear my gaze from the floor, my fingers trembling in my lap. I could feel the heat of her presence, overwhelming and suffocating, making it impossible to think straight.

"Look at me," she repeated, this time softer but even more forceful.

Before I could respond, her fingers gripped my chin, firm but not painful. My breath caught in my throat as she tilted my head upward, forcing me to meet her gaze. Her touch was shockingly intimate, the warmth of her skin sending a shiver down my spine.

My eyes locked onto hers, and I was instantly lost. Those cold, blue eyes bore into me, searching, testing. My skin burned under her touch, and I felt a tremor run through me. There was something in the way she looked at me—something dark, possessive, and utterly in control. It made my heart race, and I knew that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't hide the effect she had on me.

her thumb brushed the edge of my jawline as she held me there, her eyes locked onto mine, unblinking and intense. "I expect results. If you're going to be here, working under me, I need to know you can handle the pressure. Can you do that?"

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might burst. Her touch was burning into my skin, her words sinking deep into me, leaving me breathless and overwhelmed. *Working under her*. The way she said it, the way her fingers lingered on my face—it all felt like so much more than a professional demand.

"Yes," I managed to whisper, though my voice was barely audible. "I can handle it."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she was testing the truth of my words. She held my face for a moment longer, her grip firm but not painful, before she slowly released me. My skin felt cold where her hand had been, as though her touch had seared into me, leaving an imprint that wouldn't fade.

"Good," she said, her voice low and steady, as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't just tilted my entire world off balance. "You may go."

I stood shakily, my legs unsteady beneath me as I gathered my things. The heat in my body hadn't subsided, and the memory of her touch still buzzed through me like electricity. I turned to leave, but before I reached the door, she spoke again.

"Oh, and Miss Bennett?"

I froze, my hand on the door handle. I turned my head slightly to glance back at her, my pulse quickening once more.

"Don't let this happen again," she said, her eyes locking onto mine. "I won't be as forgiving next time."

There was a weight to her words, a quiet threat laced with something darker, something that made my stomach flutter in a way I didn't understand. I nodded quickly and slipped out of her office, the door closing behind me with a soft *click*.

As I stood in the dimly lit hallway, my heart still racing, my mind couldn't stop replaying what had just happened. The way she had touched me, the way her fingers had gripped my face—it had been so intense, so intimate. I felt as though I was caught in her orbit, powerless to escape.

I knew one thing for sure: Grace Holloway was dangerous. And the more I tried to deny it, the more I realized that I was falling deeper under her control.