Who Are You Talking To

The morning had already been grating, and I could feel the day grinding against my nerves like sandpaper. Meetings droned on, schedules were meticulously repeated, and the air seemed thicker than usual.

The office, pristine as ever, felt suffocating. Even the hum of the air conditioning and the distant clatter of keyboards grated against me. I had tasks to complete, documents to read, and yet, the day dragged, as if the universe itself were testing my patience.

I was leaning over my desk, reviewing some of the investigation files my assistant had prepared for me, when the quiet of the office was broken. The door opened, and a young woman I had never seen before stepped inside, holding a tray with a cup of coffee. She moved carefully, almost timidly, but there was an awkward tension in her posture, as if she already sensed my temper before she had even encountered it.

Before I could even extend a hand, she stumbled. The cup tipped. Coffee cascaded across my desk in a dark, scalding stream, splashing over critical documents—documents that had taken hours of meticulous investigation to compile. My pulse jumped, and a deep, roaring anger surged through me.

“What the hell are you doing?!” I bellowed, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. The office, normally calm, felt alive with my fury. “Do you have any idea what you just ruined?”

Her face turned pale instantly. She took a hesitant step back, and I could see tears welling in her eyes. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—” she stammered.

“Out!” I snapped, cutting her off. “I said get out of my office!”

She started to cry softly, a pitiful, stifled sound that only inflamed my irritation further. I couldn’t tolerate it. At every little mistake, women cried. Every. Single. Time. Apologies and tears didn’t fix anything; action did. My hands slammed on the desk, rattling the remaining, now-damp files. “Leave! Now!”

Finally, she scurried out, leaving the scent of coffee and fear behind her.

My assistant, hovering awkwardly at the edge of the room, cleared his throat. “Sir… what happened?” he asked, careful not to provoke further anger.

“Who the hell was that?” I demanded, still glaring at the ruined mess on my desk.

“That… that’s a worker in the planning department,” he replied, his voice low. “She was delivering your coffee…”

I exhaled sharply, pressing my palm against my face. “Bring me another copy of these documents. Immediately. And make sure it’s intact this time,” I growled.

He nodded and disappeared for a moment. When he returned with a fresh stack, I began reading, scanning through the investigation reports and schedules. Then it clicked.

Anna.

Her name, her file, her history. Every detail I had glanced at before suddenly made sense. She was the same woman—the new bodyguard for the estate. The one who had walked into my life unexpectedly. My lips curved into a small, dark smirk. This is going to be interesting.

---

The hours that followed crawled, punctuated by small interruptions: calls, briefings, and minor inconveniences that should have been trivial. And yet, every minute, every second seemed stretched taut, a reminder that something in the day felt off.

By evening, the workday finally reached a lull. I was reviewing another stack of files when she appeared.

Anna. She walked in with her usual precision, controlled, professional, and cold. She didn’t acknowledge me, didn’t glance my way, and yet I felt every calculated step she took. Every movement, every detail of her posture, spoke volumes without a word.

She went straight to the car, opening the door for me with the exacting precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. I followed, keeping my gaze on her, trying to read her, to understand the subtle cues in her posture, the tension in her shoulders. But she remained composed, professional, and unreadable.

The drive was quiet, punctuated only by the low hum of the engine. Her hands gripped the steering wheel with deliberate focus. I could sense her awareness, the alertness honed from years of training. She didn’t look at me once. I kept stealing glances, curiosity and frustration rising in equal measure. *Does she not recognize me?* I wondered. *Or is this deliberate?*

The silence between us was suffocating in a way I couldn’t ignore. It made the car feel smaller, the space tighter. Every time I tried to force a reaction from her, she remained unaffected, focused, unbending. And yet, her indifference—real or feigned—gnawed at me more than anything else.

When we arrived at the estate, she drove directly into the garage and opened the door for me. I stepped out, my eyes locked on her, burning with curiosity and something deeper, though I refused to name it. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even glance my way. She simply went about her duty, precise, diligent, unshaken.

I walked past her, deliberately giving her a cold, sharp look. A challenge. A test. Her reaction—or lack thereof—both irritated and fascinated me. Why was I feeling this? Why did her professionalism unsettle me so much? So she is that lady, I reminded myself, the memory of the files and the past flashing sharply in my mind.

---

Later, after my bath, I wandered aimlessly around the estate. I didn’t consciously choose the direction; my steps simply carried me forward, drawn toward something I couldn’t articulate. Her room.

The faint sound of a phone call reached my ears. I paused, straining to listen.

“I love you baby… sweet dreams,” she said softly.

I froze. My heart tightened inexplicably. She’s… speaking to someone? Her voice was tender, warm, sincere—and yet so completely at odds with the professional, cold bodyguard I had seen all day.

My pulse raced, confusion knotting in my chest. I didn’t understand why hearing her voice like that unsettled me, why it sparked a twisted, possessive ache inside me.

I pushed the door open without hesitation. “Who are you talking to?” I demanded, my voice sharp, cutting through the quiet of the room.

And there she froze.