#peter rumancek

I stood outside the glass office doors balancing his coffee, trying to breathe through the memory of last night; not too much milk, one cube of brown sugar, stirred exactly three times. Through the glass, I could see Mr. Godfrey seated at the head of the long table, surrounded by advisors and business partners, speaking with the same detached authority he always did. He didn’t need to raise his voice-- he simply existed, and everyone fell in line by birthright.

I stepped inside as quietly as I could. My heels made a soft click against the polished floor, and no one turned their head. That was the way it worked-- I was background. Necessary, but unimportant. And still, as I walked toward him, I felt every molecule of air bend around his presence, like gravity shifted in his direction. Of course the universe would bend to someone so gorgeous.

Mr. Godfrey looked good. Unbearably good. It was undeniable, simple as that. His suit was perfectly tailored, and he sat with the ease of someone who knew he was being watched, but never needed to look back to confirm it. He was of such wealth that his posture alone wasn't even a performance, but nature-- spine straight, one hand resting casually on the table, and the other lifted a document with slow, deliberate precision. It was clear that he was focused, and that the meeting was of importance, meaning I had to act accordingly on my fifth day of work.

But then... he licked his bottom lip.

It was subtle, almost absentminded, but I felt it in my knees. My throat tightened, my grip on the mug stiffened, and suddenly, the heat from the coffee felt like a warning in my palms. 

Get it together, pervert. Why couldn't I be normal about this? I blamed it on Forbes.

I was close to him, now. Close to him and his perfect nose, so close that I could smell the sharpness of his cologne. Then, when I leaned forward, just slightly, to place the cup on the table before him, I caught it-- the upturn of his nose. The Forbes nose.

It was stupid, the way I fixated on it. But there was something about the slope of it, the arch, the way it gave his face that hint of aristocratic cruelty-- I had stared at it for too long on that magazine cover last night, and now here it was again, real and breathtaking.

Stupid little me lingered for three seconds too long.

Maybe four?

Until, like a snap of a band around my wrist, Mr. Godfrey's eyes shot towards me as his face remained turned to his business partners; caught you. 

My breath hitched as he continued to speak like he wasn't glaring at me with the wrath of God, and the break of my fourth wall jolted through my spine. Fuck. My hands, traitorous and clammy, fumbled under the weight of his stare. The coffee sloshed hard against the rim of the cup, a dark arc of heat kissing the lip of the mug, a wave that threatening to spill. I gasped, audibly, stupidly, as the liquid nearly tipped toward the floor, and for one horrific second I thought it would splash right across Mr. Godfrey's papers, his lap, his perfect goddamn suit.

No one moved, but I heard someone gasp across the table, sharp and quiet.

I jerked the cup back just in time, barely keeping the liquid contained by steadying it against the heel of my palm. The saucer clicked, clacked, harder than it should’ve, as I set it down too fast, too loud. My fingers hovered above it like I’d placed down a live grenade.

Mr. Godfrey's eyes dragged over me like a blade, like he could see the heat blooming across my cheeks, the pulse thudding in my neck, and the tiny tremors in my fingertips. His eye didn’t twitch, his lips didn’t part, but he saw... oh, he saw everything.

I mumbled something between a sorry or excuse me, or maybe it was just the sound of my soul fleeing my body? I turned away so fast that I nearly clipped the edge of the conference table with my hip, narrowly avoiding it.

I fled back toward the door, the burn of Mr. Godfrey's green eyes following me all the way through the glass wall. The clack of my heels bounced hard off the walls, and I sat down behind my desk right outside, ready to sink through all the floors of the skyscraper and disappear for all of eternity. 

"Stupid," I hissed, barely above a whisper. "Fucking idiot. Stupid, stupid."

I knew this would happen. Of course it would. The second I took this job, I knew it was a risk. I just thought I’d have a little more time to prove myself before I humiliated myself in front of him, but no. One week in, and I was already the secretary who couldn’t even serve coffee without looking like she’d had a small stroke. Perfect impression. Just perfect.

My heart was pounding too fast-- I couldn't think. My body was on high alert, skin buzzing with residual panic and something darker, warmer. I just needed it to stop.

I shifted in my seat, trying to exhale through the tension. Mortification still gripped me by the throat, but beneath it was that other feeling, the one that made my skin feel too tight, my stomach flutter-- I crossed my legs. The stretch of my pencil skirt whined softly at the motion, and I squeezed my thighs together just enough to send a tiny shiver of release through my core.

Just enough to breathe.

This was what happened when I spiralled, when I got overwhelmed and overstimulated-- I had learned how to self-soothe the odd way. Years of buried anxiety attacks that crept up in school, at family dinners, in public places where I had to keep my composure, I found my own escape, my own... coping method, if I may.

My fingers clicked open the first email in my inbox; it was some logistics guy from the New York office. My nails tapped the keys too quickly, like I was being timed, like I could answer fast enough to undo what just happened, but the friction of the seam of my pantyhose grazing against my underwear made it bearable. 

Made everything bearable.

A sigh escaped before I could stop it, quiet and embarrassed, and I ducked my head to hide it behind the screen. It wasn’t even about pleasure-- not really. It was about calming down, about surviving the fact that I’d just made a complete fool of myself in front of the most terrifyingly beautiful man I’d ever met.

The man whose cologne I could still smell.

The man whose voice still echoed in my skull.

The man I had fantasized about the night before while staring at the cover of a fucking magazine.

It was only last year that I found out what I was doing technically counted as masturbation. I remember blinking at the screen, reading some late-night advice column, and feeling that horrible, guilty heat crawl up my neck. But honestly? I didn’t care. No one ever saw. No one had ever noticed. It was just a small shift in posture, a soft clench of my thighs. I could easily make myself cum without anyone ever noticing, so what was the harm? It was discreet, it was harmless, and most importantly, it worked.

My cheeks burned. I scooted forward in my chair with a sheepish little smile tugging at my lips as I replied to a second email, this one from the Dubai office. My fingers were fast and competent, my face was calm and professional-- I was the image of a well-oiled machine.

... Even as I got off beneath the desk with my thighs.

I even managed to act normal when all of Mr. Godfrey's business associates left his office (see, I was a pro!), and I sent them off with a polite goodbye and a sweet secretary-smile. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing suspicious-- just a secretary doing her job.

But then... he stepped out.

Mr. Godfrey.

He didn’t walk past me, didn’t leave-- he simply leaned against the doorframe of his office like a man who knew he didn’t have to say anything to make his presence known.

I didn’t dare to look up, but I could feel his green eyes scour me like x-rays, like spotlights. They drilled into the top of my head, down my neck, across my back; it made my breath catch in my throat. I pressed my thighs together harder, half in panic, half in instinct, as shame flooded me like a second skin; the same shame that made my adrenaline spike. 

He cleared his throat-- "Good morning,"

I nearly jumped in my seat at being addressed, and immediately unfolded my legs before daring to meet his gaze. "Good morning, Mr. Godfrey!" I hoped my cheerful voice would overshadow the nervous twitching of the outer corners of my mouth. It wasn't my favorite thing to know that a telling-off was looming over me, especially from someone with authority-- usually, that ended up with me bursting into tears. 

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes burned themselves into mine, and something told me he was imagining an alternative universe where he could shoot lazers through them and obliterate me in an instant. "The way you dress," he snarled. "It's disgusting."

"... What?"

Narrowing his gaze, he folded his arms over his suit-clad chest, getting his hair out of his eyes with a nod of his head. If this had been a movie, my vision would've gone pink and hazy as time slowed to show the way the softness of his hair flowed with the kick of his neck, falling perfectly into place as he looked at me. "You represent me," Mr. Godfrey threatened. "From the way that you move, to the way that you dress. Let down your hair."

"O-Okay?--"

"And are your hands unsteady, or are you just pathetically clumsy?"

Mr. Godfrey could've squeezed my tongue between the tips of his fingers and dragged it out of my mouth with force, and that would've felt the same as I felt now, trying to speak. "Not usually," I confessed. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't sleep well and... and the cup slipped. It won't happen again, I promise." Please don't fire me, please don't fire me, you gorgeous man. No more studying his side-profile. Please, please. No more getting off to that Forbes magazine. I could be good, please, please.

Rolling his eyes, Mr. Godfrey let out a disappointed groan. It was almost as though he wanted me to snark back at him like I had done in my interview, yet I knew that'd get me kicked out of the company with no less than a dime in compensation. "Why didn't you sleep?"

What? Why he was he making normal conversation with me? This wasn't usually how this worked. He'd come in, tell me what I needed to do for the day, and call me in for his ridiculously specific coffee after a while. This was new. "I got a bit distracted, sir,"

"With what?"

"With... reading," The words on the front page over and over as I scanned the beautiful upturn of his nose? Exactly.

"What do you read?" he asked, now seemingly interested.

Fuck. "Nothing that would interest you, sir,"

There was a sparkle that appeared in his eyes. "Try me," 

Having to rake through my brain for random book-titles was nerve-wracking, especially when Roman Godfrey was staring me down with his green challenge burning a hole through my skull. I decided to be honest; "The last thing I read wasn't very appropriate, sir. I shouldn't say," The last thing I read that wasn't Forbes, that is.

Mr. Godfrey allowed his eyes to widen, just a little. Finally, that seemed to crack through his harsh mood this morning, and he let out a scoff that sounded an awful lot like a pitied laugh. "Lie, then,"

"Pardon?"

"Say the first book that comes to mind. One that seems smart,"

"Well..." This was beyond intimidating, yet I complied. Amusement simmered in my chest, somewhere. "War and peace. Leo Tolstoy."

That seemed to do the trick. With a nod of approval, Mr. Godfrey pushed away from the doorframe with a handsome smirk. "Good," he hummed. "That's a dull one."

"Have you read it, sir?"

"Yes," Tapping his fingers against the wood of the door, he cocked his head to the side, scanning me; "Now, let down your hair."

Rapunzel, Rapunzel? 

Oh. 

Letting my smile falter, I reached for the claw-clip I had in my hair and put it on my desk, looking up at Mr. Godfrey with eyes pleading for approval. I felt pathetic, really, yet there was something satisfactory about his scary tone. Then, without thinking, it fell from between my lips-- "What else disgusts you about me, sir?"

No, no, stupid!

I just felt so eager to fix myself, to comply-- fucking pathetic.

Mr. Godfrey's smirk fell in an instant, like a drop of water hitting the ground.

It felt like I had broken some sort of agreement by opening my mouth like that. Holding back my snark was certainly something I had to work on, especially in front of the most powerful man in Hemlock Grove. 

His eye twitched, barely noticeable. Then, he turned on his heel, imposing the most squeaky, uncomfortable squeak of his shoes on the walls of the office like it'd be punishment enough for my behaviour-- automatically, I pressed my thighs together and shivered. 

Mr. Godfrey slammed the door shut, making me jump in my seat. It felt like I was getting sonically beat black and blue, and I proceeded to cross my legs now that he was out of sight. 

Hopefully, this day would get better soon.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

... It did, but in the most peculiar way. 

Later that day, whilst I rummaged through Mr. Godfrey's spam folder for mails I could've missed, I got a notification from my personal work email, which was was odd-- no one ever sent me mails directly, since they all knew I waded through Mr. Godfrey's inbox and was easier to reach there. Hence, I checked it out the second it ticked onto my screen, and... well.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Disgust And So Forth

Dear secretary,

I trust that you will sleep better tomorrow. Coffee that is stirred correctly is always appreciated, yet coffee that threatens to spill all over my new suit which cost me $5,348 is not. 

And regarding your inquiries about my disgust, I would like to point out that your nails are unkempt and therefore distracting when I pass by your desk and see you type. I suggest you find yourself a manicurist. What is fashionable in nails these days?

I'm happy to answer any other questions you have for me via email, should you so desire. 

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

Never had I ever scooted forward on my chair as fast as now. My head snapped to the side, looking directly through Mr. Godfrey's glass office, hoping to catch him looking at me with that boyish smile I'd assume came accompanied with this email, yet-- nothing. He was certainly not looking, nor did he seem like he had just typed out this email. His green eyes were glued to his screen, his long, slender fingers reaching for a marker to circle the paper in front of him as though he was correcting something, deep in work and thought.

Was someone in the office pranking the newbie? Then again, who else could've typed out this email? 

Fuck it.

From: You

Subject: Enlightenment And Epiphanies

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I must apologize once more. The incident this morning was utmost unfortunate, and it shall not be repeated. However, I would like to specify that I do not have the funding to dry-clean your suits as compensation if any accidents were to happen. Am I legally bound to do so, sir? I do not believe I saw that in my contract. I could have perhaps afforded that luxury, had I not had the salary of a secretary.

In regards to your observations about my nails, I must say I take offence. Just because they are short, does not mean that they are not looked after. As for styles, I believe French tips are rather in at the moment. What colors are appropriate for the office?

Kind regards,

Your Secretary.

I hit the send button with dread pooling in my stomach. I pulled a face despite knowing he could see me at any moment. Did I take it too far? Why was Mr. Godfrey sending me emails in the first place? This could probably get us both into a long, disciplinary meeting with HR if they found out about our odd emails.

I did my best to sneak another peek at him through the glass walls of his office, yet there were once again no signs of him having seen it or having reacted to anything unusual. Was I maybe overanalyzing this? Was this maybe normal behaviour at an office job? Since this was my first job ever, I decided to give Mr. Godfrey the benefit of the doubt until I saw his next email pop up on my screen unusually fast.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Clearing Up Legalities

Dear secretary,

You are not legally required to pay for my dry-cleaning. Still, I hope there will be no need for any dry-cleaning at all after you get the appropriate amount of rest for the night. And by law, your salary is more than satisfactory for a person with a bachelors degree and no other job references or experience. 

And as for the nails, I had no idea they were called French tips. In my experience, the French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs; I will refer you to the phenomenon of French fries. 

Color?

Lilac.

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

I had to bite down on my lip rather harshly to suppress the girly giggle threatening to escape me. I shouldn't be feeling this giddy over an email from my boss-- maybe he was just being friendly? Maybe he was aware that his behaviour and tantrums were odd and sometimes hurtful? It was surely that!

Excited by the sudden rush of energy at work, I crossed my legs; that was when I realized to which depths I was truly excited. It was highly inappropriate to masturbate over mails from my unbelievably attractive boss, yet here I was, shamelessly shifting around on my chair to make sure the seam of my pantyhose scooted to the most pleasurable place between my legs. With a sheepish look of relief spreading across my lips, I typed my answer. 

From: You

Subject: The Spirit Of Napoleon Lives On

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I'm relieved to hear that my duties do not span paying for your dry-cleaning. Thank you for clearing that up, sir.

I will also make sure to be more critical of things that are tied to the French from now on. You certainly have a point. Next time I am in France, I shall make sure to keep it in mind. Anything else I need to be made aware of, sir?

And lilac is a pretty colour. Am I allowed any other designs?

Kind regards,

Your Secretary.

My lower abdomen was pooling with dread, excitement, and oddly profound arousal. Suppressing a choppy exhale, I dared another glance at Mr. Godfrey, once again hoping to catch him looking at me with my heart stuck in my chest-- yet, again, nothing. Now, he had even stood up, pacing back and forth in front of his desk with his long legs, reading the paper he had been marking over and over. Was it maybe a speech he was preparing? I had no idea. As his secretary, I should've probably had some idea, at least. Was I maybe doing a bad job? Perhaps.

In the meantime, I hoped to relieve myself of the way my heart was beating with anticipation. Maybe if I got off, I'd relax? I hadn't managed to, earlier. Maybe then, I'd calm down and treat these emails as what they really were, simply a boss trying to be kind to his new and anxious employee? 

A few more minutes passed by, and I made myself busy by googling nail salons and various nail designs. I even dared to play some snake on my Google browser to pass the time.

Then, finally, when I had built up a nice, steady rhythm with my legs clenching and unclenching, letting the pantyhose stroke up against my clit through my dampening underwear, the anticipated email ticked in. 

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Appropriate Fashion

Dear secretary, 

There are no rules in place about nail designs. Nothing is prohibited, but please make sure to be tasteful. We have some important people coming in next week, and I am not too keen on my secretary not looking the part. 

Actually, I cannot seem to remember who it is we are welcoming; is it some oligarch from Azerbaijan? Cannot find it on the schedule. Need to know.

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

Some part of me wanted him to order me to get the French nails, to get them specifically to his liking and taste-- the second my mind got into that mind space, I uncrossed my legs, clearing my throat as I started looking for who next week's guest actually was. I was unraveling. I needed to get myself together.

And just as I was about to read the long name of the rich, lavish business partners from Azerbaijan (Mr. Godfrey had been right after all), someone teasingly knocked on my desk. 

My eyes darted up over the top of my computer, and my smile immediately widened-- "Peter!"

There he stood, the only friend I had made during my time at Godfrey Industries. He worked in the legal department, and was Mr. Godfrey's paralegal that showed up from time to time. He was also one of the few people that dared to pass the threshold of my desk and venture into the dark forest, also known as Mr. Godfrey's office. Here, clad in a suit, staring down at me with a charming grin, Peter Rumancek leaned over my computer as he spoke, his brown hair falling softly over his eyes; "How are you doing? I see that your head's still intact,"

"Barely," I breathed, straightening my skirt-- I was undeniably happy to see Peter. Every time he came around, he either made me laugh or made my day. "I nearly spilled coffee all over Mr. Godfrey at a meeting earlier... It really set him off, so I suppose I'm going to be sent to the Guillotine at the end of the day. You passed by at the right time."

Peter huffed. "Is this goodbye, then?"

"It seems so... Au revoir, Peter,"

"Oh, sweet melancholy," He straightened up with a smirk, trailing his fingers across my computer. "But, uh, is bossman busy?" Nodding toward Mr. Godfrey, Peter made a face-- it was clear that he dreaded going into the office. "Need to go in and ask about the ongoing case."

And with complete certainty that Mr. Godfrey didn't care enough to look my way (as always), to even give me a second of his attention, I turned to look at him with the perfect view I had. Which was why, when I immediately met his striking green eyes, that my breath hitched with horror. Surprisingly, he seemed rather amused by my antics, briefly passing his eyes between Peter and I as if to mock me for flirting with his paralegal-- caught you. But Mr. Godfrey didn't spend much time caring or tending to my life, and he returned to whatever he was doing behind his enormous computer screen in no time.

Something about the way he seemed outright entertained by the fact that I had a life outside of being stepped on made my blood boil and my heart ache. I turned to my friend, the paralegal, and nodded solemnly, not saying a word.

Peter caught what had happened, letting out a breathy oh. He nodded too, mostly to himself, before he retracted his hands into his pockets. "I might meet the Guillotine before you," he joked, hoping to get a reaction out of me before walking into his impending doom.

But I could only stare at my computer, mortified. My right leg gave into a bounce, and some odd feeling I couldn't place kept gnawing at my chest and made me nauseous-- I didn't think before I spoke; "The French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs,"

Peter blinked. "What?" 

"What?" I echoed-- it was as though I hadn't been the one to speak. Had I just quoted my boss's email? Fuck. I was really falling apart, wasn't I? 

In an attempt to save face, I tried to plaster on a smile. A twitchy one, at that. "Sorry, I'm spacing out. Mr. Godfrey is in his office, yes, but what's the case about? Do I have you listed on his schedule for today?" Grabbing the mouse to my right, I clicked back into the schedule, looking for Peter's last name while managing to squeeze in a quick glance into Mr. Godfrey's office again-- he wasn't looking at me anymore. I couldn't help but feel disappointed, despite knowing I shouldn't.

Peter scoffed, tapping his fingers against my desk. "Well, I shouldn't be telling you this actually, but this information might save you down along the road, so..." He lowered his voice, reluctant to tell me; "It's about the last secretary. She's suing him."

My gaze snapped up to meet Peter's.

Shit.

The image of her with the bunched up paper between her teeth, her mascara running down her cheeks, along with the odd tear along her skirt, flashed before my eyes.

What had happened to her?

I couldn't think about this-- not right now, not with the humiliation of Mr. Godfrey's gaze mere meters away. "You're on the schedule," I breathed. "He's probably waiting for you right now."

Peter caught my disturbance, yet decided not to comment. He had already said more than he was legally allowed to say, anyway. "Okay... Will I see you at lunch?"

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "Sure,"

Peter gave me a half-hearted salute and walked toward the double doors, probably eager to be done with my odd behaviour for now. I could hear the low click of his shoes against the wood floor as I glued my eyes to the screen, or at least pretended to, hyper-aware of every movement in my periphery.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Peter approach Mr. Godfrey's desk-- it was odd how my boss immediately looked so nice whenever he spoke to anyone that wasn't me.

It was humiliating to think it was funny to him that I could have anyone be interested in me. Everything about it made me want to cry; why did I need Mr. Godfrey to like me so much? It was so obvious that he thought I was a cretin of sorts, so why did I need him to think otherwise so badly?

To distract myself, I finally answered his email. Maybe it was time to stand my ground?

From: You

Subject: Revolution - The French Way

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

You will be welcoming Mr. Aliyev next Thursday at 14:00. He is not an oligarch, but the son of the president of Azerbaijan, and he will be here to discuss a collaboration with Godfrey Industries regarding oil, and our shared ambition to extract profit while spending as little money, or effort, as possible.

I shall draft up talking points, as I did for your last meeting.

Also, I do look like your secretary. You would not have hired me in the first place if I did not. Your remarks about my appearance are unwarranted. Were I shuffling through the building wearing sweatpants, you might have a point. However, I am not. I will change my nails, but I will keep my skirts. They are office-appropriate.

After all, I am not working at Vogue. 

Kind regards,

Your secretary.

I hit send.

And then I immediately wanted to die.

That was it-- my rebellious email had been enough to make my heart patter with excessive force, and the second I hit send, I feared I'd faint from the anxiety. I was okay with possibly saying this out loud to his face, but in an email? That email could get me fired. Blacklisted. Dragged to HR and spat out like gum from beneath someone's shoe.

Mr. Godfrey could ruin me if he wanted to, and that was the part I hated; how badly he could wreck me, and how little it would take. However... that was also the part that made my heart beat faster. Pervert, pervert, pervert.

I started to feel light-headed from all the worrying, and that's when I crossed my legs again-- searched for that sweet, aching pressure. The relief was the only thing that helped, and the only thing that quieted it all down.

Peter passed me by shortly after, but didn't stop to chat. He nodded at me, flashing me a charming, apologetic smile, and I allowed myself to sink into my seat with pleasure as his back turned to me and he disappeared down the hall. 

It felt wrong to do this at the office, perfectly in eye-sight of my boss, yet he had pissed me off to the point where I couldn't care. If he was going to treat me like shit, I had to make myself feel better, right? On top of that, I had an odd feeling I was close-- resting my head in my palm, propping my elbow on my desk, I stirred the mouse across my computer in random motion as I melted.

My thighs clenched tight. The desk shielded me, the chaos around me offered cover, and I let it happen. Again.

Was I sick for doing this? Probably.

Did it matter? Not in this moment. Not when the pleasure bloomed sharp and fast, not when my breath faltered and I shuddered at the ghost of Mr. Godfrey's voice in my head, the threat of him, the humiliation of him. 

I tried not to worry about the lack of following emails from Mr. Godfrey; he was probably not going to respond to it anyway. He had better things to do. Knowing him, he'd ignore me from now on, and maybe even pretend I didn't exist for the rest of the day. The idea that I was figuratively not seen, not cared about, not paid attention to, made me more secure about pulling this off, getting off like this, without being noticed-- not that anyone had ever caught me doing this anyway. They wouldn't know what they were looking at anyway, even if they saw me.

I made a fist in front of my mouth, clenching and unclenching, feeling my clit rub against that perfect spot in the seam of my pantyhose; it felt so unbearably good, and I had done this enough times to know how to cum quickly. 

So finally, when I felt it crash over me, when I closed my eyes and let out a shaky breath, I finally felt relief. Relief from the humiliation, from not being respected, from being treated like I was nothing-- at this moment, I felt at peace. Blissful peace. 

I cleared my throat, allowing a cheeky smile to form across my lips. There was a huge thrill in being able to get away with getting off in the office in broad daylight, to be the nasty piece of shit Mr. Godfrey saw me as-- maybe he could see right through me? Maybe that was the real reason he hated me, because he recognized something twisted and depraved inside me that mirrored him?

I couldn't stop myself from smiling, drunk on shame and secrecy. So, with a newfound sense of confidence, I allowed my eyes the victory lap; to look into Mr. Godfrey's office and feel like a God, to know he could never figure me out, that he could never, ever have the fucking brains to know. He thought he was such a fucking big-shot, he thought he could stomp all over me, he thought he could intimidate me into making myself smaller?--

I froze.

Green.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes were staring right back at me, wide with recognition.

I held my breath. My blood ran cold.

He knew.

He knew. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't blink, didn't look away. 

Leaning forward, refusing to break eye contact, his fingers ghosted over his keyboard...

And then, the notification ticked in on my screen.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Warning #1

Dear secretary,

I rather like your skirts. Keep them.

PS: I saw that.

Kind regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries

(a/n: did I just do that? yes. have I ever seen anyone else write about this? no. did I need to take it into my own hands? YES. MWAH GIRLIESSSSS HOPE U ENJOYED<33333)

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