Maci | Unknown Number

The hum of conversation dwindles to nothing, replaced by the faint echoes of retreating footsteps. The office feels more cavernous now, its earlier buzz replaced by a stillness that settles in my chest. Why is Mike still haunting me, even through faceless, creepy messages from unknown numbers?

It has to be him, no one else could dig under my skin like this.

I should’ve left ages ago, but here I am, rooted to my desk. Teetering between exhaustion, panic, and a sprinkling of pride. It’s a mess of emotions and I refuse to untangle it.

If I just ignore him, he’ll go away. Rats always scurry back to the shadows, eventually. Right? Ignore, push to the back of your mind, forget the shitty messages.

My brain is a whirlwind of buzzing neurons. It feels… good. The kind of good that comes from throwing everything you’ve got at something and hoping it sticks. The downside is the headache blooming at the base of my skull, pulsing in time with the glow of my monitors.

The design on my screen stares back at me, almost done, but my focus is shot. My fingers hover uselessly over the keyboard before I give up, leaning back in my chair with a sigh, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension.

“You survived.”

Jane’s voice cuts through the quiet, bright and cheerful as she appears beside my desk. Her hair swings with every step, and she’s wearing that beaming smile.

“Barely.” My lips quirk into a tired grin. “It was… a lot. Good, though. I think?”

She laughs, light and warm. “You’ll find your rhythm soon enough. First days are always overwhelming. Oh, before I forget, did you set up your work phone yet? HR runs everything through the app. Approvals, payroll, the works.”

Shit. Of course, I forgot.

“No, not yet,” I admit, sitting up straighter. “Sorry Jane. I’ll do it now.”

“Attagirl,” She winks, checking her watch. “I’d stay to help, but my husband’s already sent three passive-aggressive texts about dinner plans. Great first day, Maci. We’re lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Jane.”

The warmth in her voice eases something in my chest. Maybe I’m not screwing this up.

“Oh, one more thing,” her tone dropping slightly. “Try to keep your work phone on you as much as possible. Mr Wintermere’s… particular. He likes to approve things through the app. Leave requests, project updates, design notes, it all pings his notifications.”

“Good to know,” Yep that sounds like the asshole himself.

Jane shrugs, her smile softening into something apologetic. “He’s a perfectionist, but you’ll get used to it. Night, Maci.”

“Night,” watching as she clicks her way out of the office, leaving me alone with the ghost of her advice, and the looming reality of him.

“Hey!” Emma’s cheerful voice jolts me, making me drop the phone box I was digging out of my bag. I spin to find her grinning like she’s got all the secrets, her jacket slung over one arm.

“Just wanted to wish you good luck with the whole phone setup thing,” she says, her tone conspiratorial. “Jane’s a doll, but she seems to think everyone gives a shit about tech.”

I laugh softly, shoving my bag aside. “Thanks. I’ll stumble through it.”

Emma leans on the edge of my desk, her jacket sliding a little further down her arm.

“Oh, and just so you know, this place doesn’t really do the whole ‘stay late and grind’ vibe. Except for one person.” Her eyebrows waggle, and I already know where this is going. “If someone’s burning the midnight oil, it’s Mr Wintermere. The man’s a machine. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s prowling the upper floors right now like some brooding vampire.”

he rolls her eyes, but the amusement in her voice is obvious.

“If you end up as the last one out, don’t be shocked if he’s the one flicking the lights off.”

“That’s comforting,” I murmur, ignoring the very real possibility of running into Thorne Wintermere alone at night.

Emma pulls out her phone and gestures with it.

“Here, give me your number. Text me if you get stuck, want to bitch about Ethan or better yet, if you find any good memes.”

Now that pulls a laugh out of me. I rattle off my number, and she immediately calls my phone.

“Thanks, Emma,” I check for her missed call. “I thought I was the only one, you know, about Ethan.”

“Oh, babe.” Her eyes sparkling, slipping her phone back into her pocket. “That boy’s a walking red flag wrapped in overpriced cologne. Moan about him anytime. Or just send memes please, I get stuck doom scrolling.”

As she waves and heads toward the door, I can’t help but feel lighter.

“See you tomorrow, M!” she calls over her shoulder, her energy trailing behind her like a burst of sunlight.

I wonder if she’ll be a friend; I hope so.

The office settles into silence, and suddenly, the absence of her voice feels deafening. It’s just me now and my thoughts can move back to the ‘text message that must not be named’. The faint hum of the monitors and the dull buzz of the overhead lights feel louder than they should, filling the empty space. Even the cleaner’s gone, leaving the room eerily still.

Emma’s words about Mr Wintermere being the last one left linger, sends a flicker of unease skating down my spine. Is he still here, pacing like a caged animal? The thought sends a jolt through me, half dread, half fanny flutters.

Ooook, shove that nonsense back in the box and focus on the work phone. D******d, install, sign in. Smooth as silk. The phone is so fast it’s a show-off, putting my ancient brick of a personal phone to shame. The HR app opens effortlessly, sleek and modern, with options for schedules, pay info, even a directory of coworkers. Useful and just bougie enough to remind me I’m working for a billionaire.

Task complete, I dig through my purse for my personal phone. Emma’s number is unsaved, and it feels like bad juju to leave it that way. She’s so effortlessly warm, a beacon of energy in this cold corporate tundra, and I just know she’s the type to verbally eviscerate anyone who deserves it.

A total ball-breaker, my kind of person.

I save her number and my thumb hovers over the keyboard, debating what stupid joke to send her to keep that connection alive. I’m already smiling as I tap.

Then my phone buzzes in my hand.

The screen lights up, the glow cutting through the dim office. My smile fades, thumb freezing mid-motion.

Unknown Number.

My core twists, tightening like a fist clenching around my ribs. I stare at the notification, debating whether to open it. Against every instinct screaming at me to delete it, I swipe it open.

'Still hiding secrets? He’ll find out soon enough.'

I have exactly one secret, one piece of my past I’ve buried so deep it’s almost like it belongs to someone else.

Mike.

His name alone is enough to send memories unspooling in jagged flashes. Bruises I hid under long sleeves in suffocating heat. Words that cut sharper than anything physical. Nights spent staring at the door, praying he wouldn’t come home. Tattoos inked over scars I couldn’t bear to see.

I choke the memories down, locking them away behind steel doors. My past is mine. It has no place here. I fought tooth and nail to escape it, and I won’t let it claw its way back in.

But the text…

Who is ‘he’? And why does it matter if 'he' knows that secret?

I can’t unpick it. But maybe I already have, because who else would threaten me like this? No one but Mike.

The prickle I felt earlier, that crawling sensation of being watched, it’s back. Stronger this time. These messages aren’t random. They’re deliberate. Targeted. And all wrong.

I’m not just being paranoid. Am I?

Clutching my phone like it’s about to grow legs, my pulse pounds so loud I swear it echoes in the empty office. Thorne’s words roll through my head like a bad rerun: “If anything else happens, you come to me immediately.”

Yeah, no. That’s not happening.

It was weird when he said it in the first place. I am sure he just wanted to flex his overprotective, slightly terrifying energy. Imagine actually going to him, day one, no less, crying about a text message.

A text message. I’d never recover from that level of mortification.

It would be weak, right?

Just the thought of showing up at his office, stammering about “creepy vibes” and “someone might know my secret,” makes my cheeks flame. I’d be desperate Maci, irrational Maci, not the Maci who survived worse than this. The one who doesn’t buckle at every shadow. But my senses are on high alert right now, and the idea of running to my super intimidating, ridiculously hot boss about an unknown number gives me the ick.

It feels like the office is breathing.

The dim light isn’t helping. Shadows stretch unnaturally long across the walls, dark corners swallowing the spaces that felt perfectly fine earlier. The hum of the building’s systems, air conditioning, the occasional tick of cooling vents, feels louder, invasive. Every creak sends my heart skipping.

You promised. Fine, the people pleaser it is.

Tucking my phone into my pocket, I grab my bag and scuttle towards the doors before I talk myself out of it. The weight of the text is dragging behind me, clawing at my back. The building itself feels wrong now, the familiar space transformed into something foreign.

Every shadow moves, like they’re watching. The walls shrinking with every step.

I won’t look back. Nope. Because if I do, they’ll be a face right there, I’ve watched enough horrors. Logic? I don’t know her. I’m already too far gone, so I do what any totally sane and rational person in this situation would: I scrunch my eyes shut.

No one’s there, Maci.

Right?

I crack one eye open and glance over my shoulder. Nothing. Just my own shadow stretching along the hallway.

Ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.

The elevator opens and the brightness inside makes me squint as I step in, my hands shaking and mashing the elevator button like it owes me money.

My reflection in the mirrored walls stares back at me, pale and wide eyed. Where’s the calm façade I’m trying so hard to project? Stuffed somewhere in the bottom of my bag with my phone and whatever’s left of my dignity, apparently.

Calm down, Maci. Breathe. You’re just talking to your boss.

The motion slows, the doors part and I am in Thorne’s domain, again. The space is unnervingly quiet and I hesitate for a split second, what if he’s not here? Why does this feel like walking into a trap?

When I reach the solid wood door, my hand hovers. The thought of bolting is there, but then so is the promise I made to him and to my own overactive conscience.

You promised.

I take a breath, steadying the flutter in my chest, and knock softly.

“Come in.”

The door swings open smoothly, almost too easily, and as my gaze lifts, why is he like this, why.

I expected the usual: the imposing desk, Thorne seated behind it like the architect of my every undone thought, cool and commanding as always. But no. He’s not behind the desk. He’s in front of it, leaning with arms crossed over his massive chest.

He’s been waiting for me.

It’s not just that he’s standing, it’s how he’s standing. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms that could bend steel. I didn’t even realise forearms could have muscles like that. But it’s not just the muscles, it’s what’s on them.

His skin is inked, like totally covered. Intricate tattoos flowing up both arms. Dark, all black and grey, stark and striking. One arm bears the unmistakable form of a wolf, its eyes fierce and alive, while the other is a swirling storm of shadows, impossible to decipher in the soft light.

They don’t belong on someone as polished and poised as Thorne. They’re raw, untamed, dangerous. A glimpse of something primal he keeps locked away, hidden beneath the composed exterior he shows the world.

I wonder how far those tattoos crawl across his skin?

His tie is loose, hair a little tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it. This isn’t the Thorne I’ve met before. This is someone else entirely, someone less controlled and far more… animal. And I’ll be damned if I don’t want to throw myself at his feet.

“You’re still here?” The words tumble out before I can catch them, my voice small and uncertain in his space.

One perfect eyebrow arches. “It’s my company, Maci. Where else would I be?”

Ouch, still dismissive, my presence is barely being tolerated. His head tilts ever so slightly, ice eyes narrowing on me.

“How was your first day?” Uninterested. He’s ticking a box on a mental checklist. Does the new employee cry on day one? Yes? No? It’s such a sharp contrast to the intensity I associate with him. The realisation crashes over me: coming here was a mistake. A huge, shitty mistake.

“Good” I hate the wobble in my voice. “Everyone is really nice.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but it never reaches his eyes. He just nods, waiting, either for me to continue or, more likely, leave. The silence stretches into unbearable territory, suffocating me. The message in my pocket feels like a lead weight dragging me down, urging me to flee.

I try to hold myself steady, to keep my composure. But the emotions from the day, the week, the last year, it all surges to the surface. The dam breaks. Throat tight, chin wobbling, eyes burning. It’s time to go.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, swallowing hard, shoving the emotions back down. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just… never mind. I’ll go.”

Turning on my heel, desperate to escape his gaze, I take a step, two at most, before I realise I can’t go further. He’s in front of me, blocking my path, his massive frame filling the space like a wall.

Wait. What?

He was just leaning against the desk like 1 second ago. How did he move like that? My pulse is roaring in my ears, I take a half-step back, my eyes darting up to meet his, only to wish I hadn’t. His face is thunderous, his eyes darker, sharper. The entire room feels charged, I’ve walked into a storm and he’s the epicentre.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is low, guttural, the kind that reverberates in places it shouldn’t.

“Nothing,” I stammer, avoiding his gaze in case it scorches me. “It’s just the first day, you know? Overwhelming. That’s all. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

His eyes narrow while he peels back my defences, layer by layer. I feel naked under his scrutiny.

“Don’t lie to me, Maci. You look like you’re about to cry.”

The command in his tone cuts through what little resolve I have left. The truth blurts out before I really do cry.

“I got another message, well, two, actually.” My voice is barely a whisper. “It’s probably nothing. I’m overreacting. I’ll just get out of your way now.”

“What message?” His words are razor sharp, and I see the shift in his body as he steps closer. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking like the warning click of a bomb.

His fists curl, flexing at his sides, his entire body vibrating with barely contained energy. The tiny hairs on my arms stand on end, a visceral reaction to him.

“Let me see them.” His voice softens, that coaxing, playful tone as he lures me into dropping something I shouldn’t have.

He takes another step forward, and my hand instinctively moves to my pocket. His eyes flick to the motion, then back to my face.

“It’s nothing,” That's weak. I know it, he knows it and my fingers curl protectively around my phone.

“Maci.” The way he says my name is a weapon, drawn out and low, a purr. His hand extends, palm up, waiting. “The phone. Now.”

With a shaky exhale, I drop the phone into his hand. Our fingers brush, just for a second, but the jolt that shoots through me is static on steroids. I’m panting at that briefest touch, and I have no clue if it’s because he petrifies me or because I want him to.

His thumb swipes across the screen, and I watch as his eyes scan the messages. The tension in his jaw hardens, the muscles in his face tighten into sharp, unforgiving lines. His grip on the phone turns his knuckles white, and I swear the air around us grows colder.

“What the fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his voice low and venomous.

A voice that promises destruction.