Chasing the Flame

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

I stood in the produce aisle of the grocery store, absently thumbing through a basket of foodstuff, my mind miles away from the task at hand. I knew why I was here. It was a Saturday evening, and I felt a rare sense of excitement bubbling within myself. I wanted to do something special—something just for Kimberly. I'd decided I would cook for her, or better yet, cook with her. The thought of doing something so simple, so domestic, made me feel strangely content. Despite all my household staff's polite but firm protests, I insisted on going to the grocery store myself. They were used to handling everything for me, but today felt different. I wanted to take control.

Earlier that day, I even spent some time cleaning my room—something I hadn't done in what felt like forever. The memory made me grin. I could still picture the look of disbelief on Karen's face, my head housekeeper, as she watched me awkwardly fumble with the vacuum cleaner.

"Sir, let me take care of that for you," she had said, stepping forward as if it physically pained her to see me doing chores.

I smiled at her and shook my head. "It's alright, Karen. I've got this. You and the other staff can take the day off. I'll love to be alone"

Her eyes had widened, clearly thrown off by my uncharacteristic behavior. She looked as though she were walking on eggshells, half-expecting my good mood to snap and turn into something else entirely. The rest of the staff had been just as uneasy, eyeing me cautiously as if my mood might shift in a heartbeat, but I had only laughed to myself.

For once, I was in no rush, no frantic calls pulling me back to work, no looming deadlines gnawing at my mind. My only thought, the one that kept resurfacing throughout the day, was Kimberly.

I didn't need my staff to fetch groceries or prepare a meal for me tonight. No, this was something personal, something I wanted to share with her. Just the two of us, away from the formality of my usual life. The idea of us cooking together—something so simple, yet intimate—filled me with anticipation.

I couldn't wait to see her. Saturdays weren't her usual working days, but I'd already decided I'd use my position to summon her to my apartment. The plan felt selfish, even manipulative, but I couldn't help myself. After all, I was paying her well,  and bending the rules now and then wasn't entirely out of line. Still, the thought of her hurriedly making her way to me, possibly out of obligation or fear, gnawed at my conscience.

I hated that. I hated the idea of scaring her, of using my authority to control the situation just to satisfy my own desires. What if she didn't want to come? What if she resented me for it? The thought of her avoiding me, pulling away, sent a wave of anxiety through my chest that I couldn't ignore.

The truth was, I didn't want to be the boss she feared. I wanted her to want this, to choose me. But what if she didn't? That question, that fragile uncertainty, was enough to crack the confident facade I usually wore. And in that moment, the idea of losing her—before I even had her—made my heart shatter.

She had only been working for me for three months, but that short time had been enough for me to realize something unsettling—I had deep feelings for her. I couldn't call it love, not yet. Love was something I didn't entertain, something I'd always considered a weakness, a complication I'd never allow myself to get tangled in. But with Kimberly, it felt different.

I wasn't ready to admit it, even to myself, but the truth was undeniable. I wanted her around. Not just for the few hours she worked in my apartment, but all the time. It wasn't just attraction; it was more than that. The thought of her leaving, of not seeing her, left me with a hollow feeling I couldn't shake.

And that terrified me.

I'd spent my life keeping people at arm's length, controlling every interaction, every emotion. But with her, that control was slipping. I was scared—scared of what it meant to want her so badly, to crave her presence like a necessity. It was a vulnerability I wasn't used to, and it shook me more than I could have ever imagined.