Ghosts in Glass

Raina Cole hunched over her desk on the 47th floor of Wolfe Tower, the office soaked in the eerie quiet of late evening. This was her fifth day in this office. Her laptop cast harsh white light against the grime of exhaustion lining her eyes. The pitch she was finalizing made no sense. Something about digital acquisition, but she kept typing, pretending her aching legs didn’t feel like stone. Her thrift-store blouse clung to her sweat-damp skin, and the buzzing lights above flickered like dying insects. She rolled her neck until her spine cracked, but her body stayed curled like prey. A memory ambushed her again. It was Isla’s cruel voice by the orphanage swing,

“Little Ray, you're just too weak.” And every time, the other children’s laughter echoed sharper in her mind. She swallowed hard and shoved it down. Then she remembered Clause 9B. Cazien’s threat. She couldn’t afford to fuck this up.

The intercom crackled. “Raina,” Cazien’s voice slurred, low and ragged. “Get in here...” Her hands froze over the keyboard. The frosted glass of his office door glowed faintly, one thin band of light cutting across it. Her gut twisted, but she stood, smoothing her skirt, adjusting the too-tight neckline. Her boots moved soundlessly across the floor as she entered.

His office reeked of whiskey, sweat, and sleeplessness. Papers were strewn across the desk like wreckage. A half-spilled bottle bled amber onto a manila folder.

Cazien Wolfe slumped in his leather chair, shirt unbuttoned low, his tie loose around his neck, jaw dark with stubble. His storm-gray eyes that were always razor-sharp, looked vacant now. Beside him, some pills... Modafinil, she registered instinctively... were scattered, crushed beneath his palm. Her breath caught. She recognized the signs instantly - disorientation and erratic behavior. Evidently, Kleine-Levin Syndrome.

Her nursing years resurfaced like an undertow.

“Mr. Wolfe.” Her voice was steady despite the tremor she felt. She moved toward him slowly, her heel crunching a broken tablet. His head lolled sideways. He mumbled something incoherent. Another memory hit her at that very moment. She saw Isla climbing into the backseat of a luxury car, leaving her on the orphanage steps with tear-streaked cheeks.

She blinked, knelt beside him.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Stay with me.” Her fingers brushed his wrist. His pulse pounded—too fast, arrhythmic. His eyes suddenly snapped to hers, a flash of awareness cutting through the fog.

“Raina,” he rasped, voice guttural, broken.

Her breath stalled in her throat.

She reached for a water bottle on his desk, uncapped it, and gently held it to his lips. He drank in slow, sputtering gulps. Then his hand latched onto her arm with sudden force. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

“You’re okay,” she lied, voice low, steady. She scanned the pills, calculating doses and interactions. Too much Modafinil would fracture him. Her brain raced. He needed to be taken out of here. She helped him up, slinging his arm over her shoulder, his weight tipping her sideways. The floor outside was silent. She glanced around. No witnesses. Just them. And the mess.

Rain hammered her sedan’s windshield. Wipers squealed uselessly as Raina drove through the slick Manhattan streets. Cazien slumped beside her, breath fogging the glass, head lolling to the side. He wasn’t speaking anymore. Just quiet, dazed.

“You don’t have to do this,” she muttered to herself, jaw clenched, fingers tight on the wheel. Her mind looped Isla’s face... how easily she’d walked away. Raina swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

Beside her, Cazien groaned, shifting. His hand reached blindly, landing on her thigh. Heat spread low in her belly, shocking in its intensity. She swerved slightly, tires screeching, adrenaline and shame clashing like blades.

“Fuck,” she snapped. “Cazien... Mr. Wolfe...”

He mumbled her name again. She didn’t know what he meant. She parked at his building, a monolith of glass and marble. The doorman didn’t flinch as she helped Cazien out, barely holding him upright. They’d seen this before.

Inside, the penthouse was a cathedral of shadows and silence. Marble floors gleamed. Crystal fixtures glittered in the dim light. She kicked the door shut, his body sagging heavier into her side.

“You’re fine,” she whispered, dragging him in. His hand suddenly gripped her waist, then her shoulder, spinning her.

“Come here...” he growled. His mouth crashed into hers, messy, desperate.

She gasped, her back slamming against the cold wall. His hands were on her body... hot, rough and tearing her buttons loose. Her blouse gaped open, damp with sweat and want. She hated the way her body reacted, the way her thighs tensed, her skin flushed.

“No,” she said, breathless, putting her palms between them against his chest... but her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling instead of pushing.

He kissed her harder, biting her lower lip until she moaned. Her head fell back. His hand was on her hip, then her thigh, then under her skirt. Heat surged up her spine. His teeth scraped her collarbone. Her hands slid beneath his shirt, mapping his muscle and sweat.

He pressed against her, cock hard through his slacks, pinning her. She bucked without meaning to, while her nails dug into his back.

“Fuck,” she gasped, her voice was so raw he groaned, with his mouth on her throat, tongue on her breast, fingers sliding between her legs. She cried out as her legs parted instinctively. It was too much. Too fast. Too real. Her mind screamed at her to stop... but her hips moved on their own.

Then he faltered. His eyes rolled back as his body slumped. She caught him with a strangled sob, dragging him to the couch. Her chest heaved. Her blouse was half open, her skirt wrinkled high on her thighs. Her body still throbbed - unfinished and ashamed.

She pulled a throw over him with her hands shaking. He looked so young like this; mouth slack, lashes brushing his cheeks.

She adjusted her glasses. Her vision blurred.

She didn’t cry.

When the first gray light seeped in, she slipped out. Her torn blouse was tucked back into her skirt. Her boots echoed through the marble as she left.

*******************

She returned to Rainer PR by seven. Her desk felt like an icebox. She was made of stone.

Cazien arrived an hour later, crisp suit, clean shave, unreadable face. He passed her like she was a shadow.

Did he remember? Her heart clenched.

“Files,” he said, pausing at his door. She handed them over. Their fingers brushed.

A flicker in his gaze.

Then it was gone.

She sat back down. Her body still ached. From fear, want and from everything she didn’t want to name.