Afterhours
1051 Words
The city outside the glass tower glittered like spilled jewels, but Ava felt no shine in her chest as she stepped out of Blackwell Industries. The revolving doors hissed closed behind her, cutting off the scent of leather, coffee, and Dominic. She clutched her bag tightly, her pulse still uneven, as though she were carrying a secret flame no one could see.
The cool night air kissed her cheeks. Taxi lights streaked by, horns blared, and laughter spilled from a nearby rooftop bar. Life went on, oblivious. Yet Ava felt suspended between two worlds—one where she was the composed young woman her parents had raised, and another where she was being devoured, piece by piece, by a man who owned more than just her body.
She hated herself for trembling at the memory of his hands on her. For the way her thighs pressed together involuntarily as she walked, her body remembering him too well. Her need of him increasing with each passing second. She hated to admit it but that was the truth.
Her apartment was only a fifteen-minute train ride away. She chose the long walk instead. Maybe the city noise would drown out her thoughts.
Her building was modest compared to the polished steel of Blackwell Tower. She lived in a narrow apartment tucked above a bookstore, the kind of place where the stairs groaned and the walls carried the scent of paper and dust. It was hers, though—her one corner of independence in a world that demanded obedience.
Ava kicked off her heels as soon as she stepped inside. The small living room greeted her with silence. She’d left a half-finished bottle of wine on the counter last night. She poured herself a glass now, ignoring the way her hands shook slightly.
Her phone buzzed.
It was her best friend, Clara.
Dinner tomorrow? You’ve been ghosting me again.
A pang of guilt tightened her chest. Clara was the only one who suspected there was more going on than Ava admitted. Not the full truth, of course—how could she explain that her boss, the man whispered about like a dark legend, had her kneeling on office tiles just hours ago?
Ava typed back quickly: Yes. Tomorrow. Promise.
She left it at that. She didn’t have the courage for Clara’s questions tonight.
The wine didn’t ease her. The more she drank, the louder her thoughts became.
She tried distracting herself—scrolling her emails, flipping on the TV—but everything seemed drenched in his presence. An advertisement for men’s cologne made her flinch, her mind supplying the phantom memory of Dominic’s scent when he leaned over her desk. A late-night crime drama reminded her of the way his commands cut through her, sharp as handcuffs.
By the time she slid into bed, her body was restless, aching. She lay staring at the ceiling, clutching the sheets, furious at herself for wanting what she swore she shouldn’t.
He’s your boss.
He’ll ruin you.
He already has.
Her phone lit up again. A message, this time from an unknown number.
Still awake?
Her heart stopped.
There was no name. No photo. Just two words—and yet she knew. She always knew.
She stared at the screen, fingers hovering. She should delete it. Ignore it. Block it.
Instead, she typed: Yes.
The reply came instantly.
Good girl.
Her breath hitched. She dropped the phone onto the nightstand as though it burned her, pulling the blanket over her head like a child hiding from monsters. But sleep never came. All she saw was Dominic’s eyes, dark and merciless, even in her dreams.
********
Morning brought no relief.
The alarm blared at 6:30 a.m., dragging her out of a shallow haze. Ava moved through her routine mechanically—shower, blow-dry, coffee. She stared at her closet too long, hating herself for wondering what skirt would make his gaze linger. Every piece of clothing suddenly felt like submission, every decision tainted with his shadow.
By the time she arrived at the office, the mask was back in place. Ava the assistant. Ava the polished professional. Ava who knew her place.
But the memory of his message throbbed under her skin like a bruise.
Clara was right—she was ghosting her own life. Friends went unanswered, her parents’ calls went ignored, even her dreams for the future seemed blurred. There was only him.
And she hated it.
But the truth was undeniable. She was already ensnared. And deep down, Ava wondered if she wanted to be freed at all.
That evening, she didn’t go straight home. She lingered, walking the city blocks aimlessly. She stopped by a café she used to love, ordered a pastry, and barely touched it. The taste of cinnamon and sugar meant nothing when her mind was full of him.
She realized with a hollow ache that she was losing herself.
Her apartment was waiting, her textbooks from the night classes she had abandoned stacked in a neat pile. Once, she’d dreamed of graduate school, of making her mark in business on her own terms. But now? She was building a cage out of silk and shadows, and the lock was already turning.
She sat on the floor of her apartment, the glow of her laptop screen illuminating her face. She typed out Clara’s number, almost called. Almost confessed. She needed to get this out of her chest. She was no longer sure who she was or what she was doing or feeling.
But she didn’t. She didn't call Clara.
Because she didn't know what to say. What would she say? That she couldn’t breathe without remembering the way he filled her? That she was terrified of herself, of how much she wanted him?
Instead, Ava pressed her palms to her eyes, tears threatening. She was unraveling, one thread at a time.
And she knew, with dreadful certainty, that tomorrow she would go back. Go back and surrender to him. Go back and be f****d by him. Go back and be ruined by him. He had ruined her fir other men. She didn't think she could desire any other man but Dominic. So, she would go back to him. She always would.
Because Dominic Blackwell wasn’t just her boss.
He was her addiction.
- Writer
