His sinful Obsession

Blasphemy

Frida learned the rhythm of fear quickly. 

It woke before she did, sat upright in her chest, counted seconds with obsessive precision.
Every footstep in the corridor sharpened her spine.
Every pause felt staged.
She stayed alert even in silence, especially in silence.

Rafael never came.

That absence was worse than his presence. It stretched the hours thin, made her mind invent versions of him standing just beyond the door, listening. 

She slept in fragments, dressed as if flight might suddenly become possible, her phone clutched like a useless talisman. She got her phone back two days ago. 

She tried again; different numbers, different apps, prayers whispered into dead signal but the calls dissolved into nothing. No ring. No answer. Just the quiet confirmation that she was sealed in.

She tested the limits carefully. 

One step too close to the exit, and the guards shifted.
Not aggressive.
Not loud.
Just enough to remind her that the walls had eyes. 

The doors opened only when they decided to. 

Polite refusals replaced locks, which somehow felt more humiliating.

She walked the penthouse like a map she was trying to memorize for escape routes that didn't exist. Windows didn't open. Elevators required permissions she didn't have. Even the air felt monitored, too controlled, too calm. 

Time dragged.
Hunger came and went.
Anxiety stayed.

She flinched at every sound, expecting him. Wanting him not to appear. Dreading that he would. When evening settled and still nothing happened, desperation crept in, quiet and poisonous. She pressed her forehead to the glass and watched the city breathe below her, alive and unreachable.

He had offered. She had refused.

Now she waited, trapped between punishment and anticipation, unsure which would be worse.

.

.

.

Rafael's office looked untouched. That was the lie.

The truth lived in the air: sharp, overheated, waiting for something to break.

A glass shattered against the far wall. No one flinched fast enough. They never did anymore.

Paper lay scattered like fallen birds. His desk lamp was on its side, still glowing, stubbornly refusing darkness. Rafael stood near the window, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, jaw locked so tight it ached. 

He hadn't slept. Sleep required surrender.

"Revisaron los registros de llamadas dos veces," someone said carefully from the doorway. "Ninguna conexión saliente atravesó el cortafuegos"
(They checked the call logs twice. No outgoing connection made it past the firewall)

Silence answered. Dangerous silence.

He turned slowly. Not in anger.
Worse. control tightening.

"Lo intentó (She tried)," he said.
Not a question. A diagnosis. "Y eso es lo único que importa" (And that's all that matters.)

No one replied. They knew better.

He dismissed them with a gesture that cut the room in half. The door closed. The office shrank. His thoughts didn't.

Refusal replayed itself with surgical precision. 

The way she had said no. Not loud, not dramatic.
Clean.
Final.
As if she believed that word still had power.