Shattered Illusion And Desires
1207 Words
Christopher slammed the door to his office with a force that seemed to shake the walls, the resounding bang echoing in the empty corridor outside.
His body thrummed with a volatile mix of emotions—anger, frustration, and something darker that gnawed at his restraint.
The veins in his neck strained as he exhaled sharply, his fingers tugging at the silk tie constricting his throat. With one aggressive pull, he yanked it free, tossing it onto the leather couch like a piece of unwanted trash.
His footsteps were loud against the polished floors as he stalked to his desk, his frame radiating fury.
He felt like a storm barely held together, a tempest searching for something to destroy. Abigail’s voice still rang in his ears, her accusations, her audacity, a venom that tainted every coherent thought he tried to form.
Grabbing the silver lighter from his pocket, his hand shook slightly as he flicked it open, the flame igniting a cigarette between his lips.
The sharp click of the metal lid snapping shut reverberated in the room, and for a fleeting second, he felt the familiar sting of nicotine flood his senses.
The first deep drag filled his lungs, and he exhaled sharply, the smoke curling around him in lazy tendrils. It didn’t calm him—nothing ever really did—but it gave him a moment to pause. A second to redirect his rage.
“The sheer nerve of that woman,” he growled, pacing as though standing still might cause him to explode. His voice was low, dangerous, and it carried the weight of years of suppressed frustration.
His mind replayed the scene again, each detail sharper than the last. Abigail, barging into his office, throwing demands around like she still had any claim to her title.
As if the years of absence, the neglect, the abandonment of her child could be erased with a few desperate words.
Christopher reached for the decanter on the edge of his desk, the cool glass feeling steady in his unsteady hands.
He poured a generous amount of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the tumbler before he lifted it to his lips. The burn as it slid down his throat was satisfying but fleeting, doing little to quench the inferno roaring inside him.
“She has no right,” he muttered, his voice thick with venom. “No goddamn right to call herself a mother.”
He set the glass down with more force than intended, the sharp sound cutting through the air as he leaned heavily against the desk.
His reflection in the polished surface stared back at him, his features hard and unyielding, his eyes aflame with an emotion he didn’t want to name. Abigail’s words circled like vultures in his mind, circling, taunting, mocking.
She’s my daughter too.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, a harsh sound that felt foreign even to him. “She thinks those words mean something now? After all this time?” He shook his head, pouring himself another glass and taking a long, deliberate sip. “My little girl doesn’t even remember what it’s like to have a mother, and that’s on her.”
But even as his thoughts circled Abigail and her audacity, another figure crept into his mind. She was an unwelcome guest in his thoughts, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t evict her. He didn’t even know her name, but God, she was everywhere.
Her scent—a subtle mix of something floral and fresh—lingered in the air like a ghost that refused to leave. Her laugh, low and teasing, echoed faintly, as though it had embedded itself in his subconscious. And her eyes—those damned eyes—had locked onto his with an intensity that had seared her presence into his memory.
Christopher cursed under his breath, his hand gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles turned white. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
He tried to force her image away, turning his focus back to the whiskey in his glass, the city lights beyond his window, anything. But it was no use. She was there, taunting him, invading his senses like an intoxicating drug.
He loosened the buttons of his shirt, his chest heaving as his pulse quickened. The memory of her danced in his mind, vivid and relentless.
He could see her now, leaning in close, her lips hovering just a breath away from his ear as she whispered his name. Her body—curves that were impossible to ignore—pressed flush against his, her warmth burning through the layers of his clothing.
The air in the room seemed to thicken, his body betraying him as he shifted uncomfortably. The ache in his trousers was undeniable, a physical manifestation of his loss of control. “Damn it,” he hissed, slumping into his chair.
Images of her consumed him, vivid and raw. Vivian, straddling him, her fingers tangled in his hair, her nails raking down his chest. The way she’d tilt her head back, exposing her neck as her lips parted in a soft gasp. The thought alone was enough to undo him.
Christopher’s hand moved to his belt, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room as he undid it with one swift motion.
His breath came faster, the heat of his arousal overtaking any semblance of rational thought. He leaned forward, his hand slipping lower, the need for release clawing at him like a feral beast.
But just as his hand moved to give in to the primal desire, the sharp ding of his computer shattered the spell. He froze, his breath catching in his throat as reality crashed down around him. His eyes darted to the screen, the glowing notification pulling him from the haze.
"Dr. Cooper,
Congratulations! You are officially appointed as the new Chief of San Diego's Hospital."
For a moment, he simply stared, the weight of the words sinking in. The culmination of years of hard work, the title he’d chased relentlessly, was finally his.
Straightening himself, he hastily refastened his trousers and smoothed his shirt, the professionalism he prided himself on snapping back into place.
“Chief of San Diego’s hospital,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He leaned forward, rereading the words as pride and disbelief flickered across his face. He wasn’t just a CEO anymore—this was a legacy, a testament to everything he’d built.
But as he tried to bask in the glow of his achievement, the memory of Vivian refused to stay buried. She was still there, lurking in the shadows of his mind, her presence as potent as ever.
“This woman,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair with a frustrated groan. “She’s going to ruin me.”
He stared out at the glittering cityscape, his jaw tightening as he fought the pull of her memory. No amount of accolades or responsibilities could shield him from her. She was a distraction he couldn’t afford, but she was also the one thing he couldn’t seem to resist.
- Writer
