Beyond Control
Jamie
The sunlight cuts through the office like it’s got something to prove—warm, insistent, and impossible to ignore. When I designed this space—glass walls, high ceilings, clean lines—I imagined clarity. Focus. Power.
I didn’t think about how hard it would be to look away from her.
Divya.
She sits just outside my office, head down, sketching something on her tablet—probably mockups for the new cosmetics campaign. Her black hair’s pulled back today, a few soft tendrils falling loose around her face. There’s a pencil tucked behind her ear.
I should be reviewing quarterly reports. I should be prepping for the eleven o’clock with Braxton. Instead, I’m watching her. Again.
Every move she makes draws my eye, like my focus isn’t mine to control anymore. And that scares the hell out of me. Because I’m not some idiot with a crush. I’m her boss. I built this company from scratch. I don’t make impulsive decisions. I don’t want things I can’t have.
Except... I do. I want her.
And I’m running out of excuses for why I haven’t done a damn thing about it.
Not just in the obvious way, though God knows that’s there too. It’s been there since the day she walked in—bright-eyed, brilliant, completely unaware of the effect she had. That soft voice, the way she lights up when she’s explaining an idea, the laugh she tries to hide when Gael says something ridiculous.
She’s in my head. In meetings, on runs, when I pour myself a whiskey at night and tell myself it’s just attraction. Just hormones.
But it’s not. Somewhere along the line, the wanting shifted.
It’s not just her body I can’t stop thinking about. It’s her. Her fire, her grace, the way she walks into a room like she doesn’t belong—and somehow steals the air anyway.
I want to know what makes her nervous. What makes her laugh. What makes her stay.
Hell, I want her to be mine.
That thought alone knocks the air out of me.
Mine.
Since when did I become that guy? I don’t do mine. I don’t do soft smiles, Sunday brunch, or meeting someone’s parents. I’ve never wanted to.
But she’s not chaos. She’s clarity.
And if I let myself believe it—even for a second—I can see it. Her hand in mine. Her voice in my home. Her head on my shoulder at the end of a long day.
Christ. What the hell is happening to me?
This isn’t just attraction. This isn’t even love—not the way I used to define it, wrapped up in convenience and timing and polished compatibility.
This is... something else.
Something quieter. Heavier.
It’s in the way I notice when she’s tired. The way I track her laugh across a room. The way I catch myself wondering if she’s eaten, if she’s sleeping, if anyone has ever really seen her the way I do.
It’s dangerous.
Because the second I admit how deep I’m in... there’s no crawling back out.
I scrub a hand down my face, heart thudding like it’s trying to warn me. I’ve kept myself locked up for years—tight, clean, untouchable.
And now she’s in every crack.
This isn’t good.
This is the beginning of something I can’t control.
A knock on the glass pulls me out of it.
I sit up straighter, clearing my throat like that’ll somehow erase the last five minutes of spiraling.
Gael doesn’t wait for permission—he never does. He swings the door open with a grin and two coffees. “Brought the good stuff. You looked like you were five seconds from an existential crisis.”
I arch a brow. “Do I?”
“Always,” he deadpans. “But especially today. You’ve got that ‘questioning all my life choices’ look. Very brooding. Very dramatic. Solid eight out of ten.”
I take the coffee mostly to shut him up. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“Sure,” he says, flopping into the chair across from me. “But watching you unravel is way more fun.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s impossible not to smirk. Gael’s an ass, but he’s my ass—loyal to a fault, sharp as hell, and one of the few people who doesn’t treat me like I’m made of stone.
He leans back, watching me a little too closely. “So... gonna tell me who she is?”
I freeze for half a second. That’s all it takes.
He grins like a predator. “Oh damn. There is someone.”
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “You’re imagining things.”
“Nope. You’ve got the look, Boss. The ‘I’m totally screwed and pretending I’m not’ look. So who is she?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
His eyes flick past me, through the glass, to the desk just outside. He doesn’t say her name.
He doesn’t have to.
“Ohhh,” he says. “This just got very interesting.”
I take a long sip. “It’s not what you think.”
He snorts. “Right. Because what I think is that you’ve been eye-fucking your intern for three weeks and pretending you’re not.”
I glare. “Jesus, Gael.”
“Just calling it like I see it, Bossman.”
I set the coffee down a little harder than necessary. “She’s smart. Talented. She’s got a future ahead of her. I’m not—”
“—gonna act on it. Yeah, I know the speech.” He waves a hand, then leans in, voice dropping. “But between us? You’ve been different since she started.”
I don’t argue. Because he’s right. And that scares me more than I want to admit.
Gael watches me, his expression softening. “Divy’s good people. Megan’s known her since freshman year. She’s sweet. Driven. And she’s been through some shit—so if you’re messing around, tell me now so I can kick your ass.”
“I’m not.”
“Good,” he says, leaning back. “Because Megan likes her. And you know how that goes—one of them turns on you, the other follows, and suddenly I’m eating dinner alone and talking to a cactus.”
I almost smile. “You deserve that cactus.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Probably.”
There’s a beat.
He taps the arm of the chair. “So... you into her?”
I hesitate—not because I don’t know. But because saying it out loud feels like stepping off a ledge.
Gael watches me struggle, then whistles low. “Damn. You’ve got it bad.”
I scowl. “I don’t—”
He lifts a hand. “Spare me. I’ve seen you stare down million-dollar contracts with less intensity.”
I lean back, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “It’s complicated.”
He laughs. “It always is.”
I glance past him, through the glass. She’s still working. Head tilted. Brows furrowed. Lost in it.
Gael follows my gaze, and—for once—his voice goes quiet. “You know... I’ve never seen her look at anyone.”
I frown. “What?”
“Parties. Events. Group dinners. Divy shows up, she’s sweet as hell, talks to everyone—but she never looks at anyone.” He nods toward me. “Not like that.”
“Like what?”
He smirks. “Like the way you look at her.”
My jaw tightens.
“You two might actually make sense,” he says.
That throws me. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. She’s not a flirt. She’s not playing games. And you? You’d never go after someone just to scratch an itch. If this is happening—it’s worth watching.”
He stands, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “And hey, if I happened to mention to Megan that you’ve been acting weird, and she happened to invite Divya to something this weekend...”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t.”
He grins. “What? I’m just saying—it’s not like I’d orchestrate anything.”
I point a finger at him. A warning.
He winks on his way out. “But if fate needs a little push? Who am I to stand in the way?”
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m alone again.
Except now, the quiet’s not calm. It’s spinning.
Gael’s got that matchmaking glint in his eye—the same one that’s ruined more corporate mixers and blind dates than I care to count.
But this? This isn’t a stunt. This isn’t a joke.
This is me. And Divya. And a feeling I don’t know how to name.
If he says something to Megan, and Megan says something to Divya...
God.
What would she think? Would she laugh? Would she pull away?
Would she look at me—really look—and know what I’ve been trying to bury?
I glance at her again. She’s still working, unaware. Peaceful. No idea that in my head, I’m already chasing futures I have no right to want. No idea I’m two steps from blowing it all up—just because I feel something.
Because I want something.
And not just her body. I want to know how she takes her coffee. What she looks like in the morning, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. I want her to laugh in my kitchen. I want to be the reason she smiles without thinking.
That’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s not lust. It’s not a crush.
It’s something bigger. Something I don’t know how to name.
And if Gael pushes? If fate gets that little shove?
I don’t know if I’ll stop it. I don’t even know if I want to.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
It doesn’t.
My hand moves on instinct, reaching for the small cabinet to the left of my desk. I don’t drink this early—hell, I’ve built a career on discipline—but today... just a splash.
I pour a finger of whiskey into the glass and take a slow sip. The heat steadies me, grounds me, just enough to shove all those thoughts into a box I don’t have time to open.
Braxton will be here in fifteen. Big account. Global reach. We’ve been courting them for months, and if I don’t close this, someone else will.
I stand and head into the private bathroom hidden behind the bookcase. The water’s ice-cold. I splash it across my face, trying to shock the ache out of my chest.
Focus, Donovan. I meet my own eyes in the mirror. They’re too sharp, too bright. Like they’ve seen too much too fast.
“You’ve got this,” I mutter.
A lie, maybe. But it’s the one I’ve got.
By the time I step back into my office, the whiskey’s settled into a slow, quiet hum. The world starts to feel familiar again—edges clean, lines straight. Numbers. Strategy. Sales projections.
Things I can manage.
Things that don’t make my heart race like a girl in a navy blouse with a pencil tucked behind her ear.
The front desk buzzes. “Mr. Braxton just arrived. I’ll send him to conference room B.”
“Thank you,” I say, voice steady.
And then it hits me.
Conference room B.
Divya takes notes for me there. She always does.
I glance through the glass again. Sure enough, she’s gathering her tablet, slipping on the blazer she always wears like armor. She smiles at someone passing by—polite, reserved—and heads toward the room.
I swallow hard.
So much for focus.
So much for calm.
I’ve got ten minutes to figure out how to sit across from the one person I can’t stop thinking about, pretend nothing’s changed, and close the most important deal of the quarter.
God help me.
I straighten my cuffs. Pop a breath mint. Run a hand through my hair. My fingers catch at the temple, where the gray’s starting to show.
A reminder that I’m not twenty-five anymore. That I built this life brick by brick. That I’ve faced boardrooms full of sharks, clawed my way through hostile markets, survived scandals, mergers, and lawsuits.
I can survive one meeting with a girl who makes me forget how to breathe.
Right?
My chest tightens. But I push it down. Bury it beneath the armor I wear too well.
She’ll be in there—calm, professional, with her perfect notes and steady voice and those too-big eyes that don’t know they haunt me.
And me? I’ll pretend I’m not coming apart at the seams.
I’ve got this. I always do.
