Disloyalty

- Sweet Confidence -

5 hours later:

buried my head in my hands, staring down at the last page of work. Five hours. Five long, torturous hours of mind-numbing copying. The office had emptied long ago, and now it was just me and Andrew—silent, unmoving, locked in this unbearable tension.

Everyone else had gone home. But I was still here, trapped, sitting across from Andrew as if we were the last two people in the world. Not a single word had passed between us in what felt like an eternity, just the soft scratching of my pen and the occasional rustle of papers.

I was hungry—my stomach growled, but I ignored it. Thirsty—my throat felt parched and dry. And the need to use the bathroom had become too intense, But more than anything, I was exhausted. Bone-tired. Not just physically, but emotionally. Tired of this endless game of power we were playing, tired of his cold, unwavering control, and most of all, tired of pretending it didn't affect me.

I wanted him to see it. To feel it. Every sigh I let out was loud, deliberately exaggerated, as I shifted in my chair with restless discomfort. I squirmed, fidgeted, tapping my pen just a little too hard against the desk, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of him. Anything. A sign acknowledgment, a sign that he was aware of how miserable he was making me.

But he didn't budge. His head remained down, focused on whatever important task held his attention behind the screen of his laptop. The glow from it cast shadows across his face, and even in the dim light, I could make out the hard lines of his expression—completely unbothered.

I glanced up at him, the weight of his indifference pressing down on me like a heavy fog. How could he ignore me so completely? Couldn't he see that I was at my breaking point? Or maybe that was the point. he just wants to push me just a little further until I snapped.

I bit down on my lip, forcing myself to keep quiet, despite the growing urge to scream. My eyes flicked to the clock—7:45 p.m. The numbers blurred for a moment, my exhaustion clouding my vision. God, I was so close to losing it. I wanted to throw the pages in his face, storm out of the office, and call him a dick

I let out another sigh, this one more of a quiet plea than an act of defiance, sinking lower in my chair. My fingers trembled slightly from the fatigue, and I pressed the pen to the paper once more, trying to concentrate on finishing the final lines. But every word blurred into the next, my focus slipping, my mind wandering back to him.

How could he be so calm? So detached? Didn't he feel this suffocating tension between us, or was he truly immune to it? I glanced up at him again, searching for any sign that he was as affected by this as I was.

The silence between us grew louder, more oppressive, and I could feel my patience fraying.

"That's it," I muttered under my breath, slamming my pen down with a loud thud on the desk. I'd had enough. Andrew might not let me leave until I'd finished copying every last word, but there was no way I could keep going without at least using the bathroom.

I pushed my chair back and stood, frustration bubbling over. "Andrew," I said sharply, my voice cutting through the heavy silence. He finally looked up, his brow furrowing like he was confused by my nerve to even speak.

"What?" His tone was cool, indifferent, like he couldn't fathom why I might have something to complain about.

"Can I please go to the toilet? I'll come straight back after." I couldn't hide the exasperation in my voice, though I tried to keep it professional.

Andrew blinked, then shrugged. "Okay."

Wait—what? Just like that? I stared at him, dumbfounded. It was that easy? The entire time? I wasn't even relieved, just irritated that I'd spent the last hour trying to focus on not wetting myself when I could've asked sooner.