I let myself enjoy the peace of it.

That Saturday, when the door closed behind Tasha and I was left with only Trent's laughter ringing in my ears, I felt like I'd just stepped out of a storm. For the first time in weeks, I could breathe without second-guessing myself—because surely, after what happened, she must've gotten the message. Which would mean no more hidden traps, no stolen glances, no almost-crossed lines. Just quiet.

And I clung to that thought.

The weekend drifted by in a way I hadn't felt in a while—light, steady, even simple. Trent stayed over for a bit, and when he finally left, the silence of my place didn't feel like a weight pressing down. It actually felt... good. I cleaned, I cooked, I even sat back with a book for a few hours without checking my phone every ten minutes.

I had another video call with Val, and yeah, it was awkward again. The silence, the pauses, the way we tried too hard to fill them up with nothing sentences. But instead of spiraling the way I did last time, I just… let it be. Told myself it was normal. Long distance wasn't supposed to feel easy all the time. And if I kept hanging on to every crack in the glass, I'd only end up breaking it myself.

So I smiled, I asked her about her day, and when she laughed—even for a second—I took it like oxygen. When the call ended, I did feel that sting, that low sadness at how strange things had gotten, but I didn't let it crush me. Not this time.

I kept myself steady.

And maybe I even let myself believe that I was stronger for it. That I could walk through all of this without falling prey to temptations, without slipping into something I'd regret. I told myself the truth I wanted to live by: Val is my future. No one else. And as long as I remembered that, I'd be fine.

By Sunday night, I actually felt ready for the week ahead. I slept easy.

But then Monday came.

I walked into the office with that same lightness in my chest, greeted the security guard on the way in, even grabbed myself a coffee like I was in one of those commercials where people actually enjoy Mondays. I carried that mood all the way to my desk.

And then I saw her.

Tasha.

She walked past me in the hallway. I gave a small smile, lifted my cup slightly in a half-wave, and said, "Morning."

Nothing.

Not even a glance.

She kept walking, straight ahead, like I hadn't said a word.

The lightness in my chest dimmed just a little. I blinked, turned my head slightly, watching her back as she disappeared into the far corridor.

Okay. That was… something.

I sat down at my desk and set my coffee down carefully, like the sudden change in air had thrown me off balance. My first thought was maybe she didn't hear me. Maybe she was just lost in her own head, thinking about work, thinking about anything but me.

But no. I knew.

I knew the way someone who's been around her long enough knows. That was intentional.

And just like that, a slow unease settled into me.

Maybe I went too far.

I mean, I knew she'd been... trying. Not in a loud, obvious way, but in that subtle, careful way she had of testing the edges, seeing how far she could push without getting caught. And maybe dragging Trent into it—making him my shield, laughing it off when she was clearly frustrated—maybe that crossed a line.

The thing was, I didn't regret it. Not one bit. I'd do it again if I had to. But sitting there at my desk with the sound of her heels still echoing faintly in my ears, I realized that the fallout wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

I tried to shake it off, tried to focus on my computer screen, on the emails stacking up since Friday, but my mind kept circling back. Her face when she realized Trent was staying. The faint edge in her voice when she said "fine" about him looking at her work. The way she left without much more than a clipped goodbye.

Yeah. She wasn't just brushing me off this morning. She was sending a message.

And I had no idea what was coming next.

---

By late morning, I'd settled into my routine. Numbers, lines, reports—nothing I couldn't handle. Derrick leaned over my desk, his sleeves rolled up, helping me cross-check a reconciliation for one of our clients.

"Wait, wait," he said, tapping the sheet with the end of his pen. "Here. You carried this balance twice. Looks like a duplicate entry."

I frowned, leaning closer. "No, it's a correction from last quarter. See? Right there."

He squinted, then let out a low whistle. "Damn. You're right. That's sneaky." He chuckled and shook his head. "Clarkson would'nt have missed that for sure."

I smirked. "Clarkson doesn't miss anything."

Derrick grinned, about to fire off another joke, when a voice cut sharp across the office.

"Mr. Tanaka."

I froze. My pen slipped from my hand and tapped against the desk. She'd never called me that before. Not once. It was always "Kai." Sometimes "Tanaka," but even that was in a friendly, casual way. This… this sounded different. Formal. Cold.

Even Derrick blinked, his eyebrows shooting up. He leaned closer, muttered under his breath, "Did you do something?"

I forced a shrug. "I dunno."

But I did know.

Everyone in the office knew Tasha wasn't the type to bark out surnames without a reason.

I stood, straightened my tie, and walked toward her desk. The room seemed quieter than it had a minute ago, like a subtle shift in air.

Tasha didn't look up when I reached her. She had my report open on her screen, scrolling with a slowness that felt so intentional. Finally, she gestured to a section without meeting my eyes.

"This," she said, her tone clipped. "You submitted it on Friday."

"Yes," I replied carefully. "You already approved it."

She clicked her tongue softly, shaking her head. "And yet, I'm not satisfied with this section. The allocation here is vague. It's not aligned with the way we present in our final reports."

I leaned in slightly, scanning where she pointed. "The allocation is correct. I followed the same formatting we've used for the last three reports."

"Correct isn't always clear, Mr. Tanaka," she said, still not looking at me. "Our clients don't care about technical accuracy if the presentation is confusing."

My jaw tightened. "With respect, Tasha, you reviewed this on Friday and said it looked accurately presentable. Word for word, those were your words."

Finally, she turned her head, her eyes cutting into mine. There was no anger there, no heat—just that polished, professional mask. The kind that said: you won't win this.

"I must have overlooked it," she said smoothly. "That happens. Which is why I'm asking you to redo it. Unless you think your first draft is above revision?"

My throat felt dry. She was good. Too good. Everything she said sounded professional, objective, unarguable. To anyone listening in, I was the one resisting, not her.

I exhaled through my nose and forced my tone to stay even. "No, of course not. I'll revise it."

"Good." She closed the file on her screen with a click that felt louder than it should have. "Have it back to me before end of day."

I didn't move at first. My fingers curled around the edge of the folder she slid toward me, but I stayed rooted there, staring at her calm expression. She didn't look smug. She didn't look angry. She just looked… untouchable. Like she'd already written the rules of this game and all I could do was play along.

"Understood," I said finally, my voice low.

She nodded once, already turning back to her screen. "Thank you."

That was it. Conversation over.

I turned on my heel, file in hand, and walked back across the room. I could feel eyes on me—the subtle, fleeting kind, where coworkers pretend they're focused on their screens but their curiosity betrays them. My ears burned, but I kept my shoulders squared and my pace steady.

Back at my desk, Derrick leaned an elbow on the divider, his face full of questions he didn't dare say out loud. I just shook my head, set the file down, and sank into my chair.

I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Anger simmered low in my chest, but it wasn't the kind that exploded. It was the kind that sat heavy, twisting, reminding me that this wasn't really about the report.

I wasn't angry about redoing the work. I could redo it in half the time, and I knew it would still be right.

What got to me was everything underneath—the message she was sending without ever breaking professionalism, the quiet reminder that she had the power to make things difficult for me.

Because if today was any sign of what was coming next, I had no idea just how far she was willing to push.

---

To be continued...

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