Chapter 8

POV: Vivian | Timeline: Wednesday, lunch with Natasha

"You look like absolute shit."

Natasha never minced words. That was why I loved her.

We sat in our usual booth at the café around the corner from my office. Wednesday lunch. Our standing date. The only hour of my week when I could be completely, brutally honest with someone who knew all my secrets.

Well. Almost all of them.

"Thanks," I said dryly. "That's exactly the ego boost I needed today."

"I'm serious, Viv." She leaned forward, concern creasing her forehead. "You've got dark circles that could double as bruises. Your hands are shaking so bad you almost knocked over your coffee twice. And you keep looking over your shoulder like someone's following you. When did you last actually sleep?"

"Define sleep."

"More than two consecutive hours without waking up drenched in sweat or with your hand between your legs."

I winced. She knew me too well.

"Then... I don't remember. Saturday? Maybe Friday?"

"Jesus Christ." She shook her head, her dark curls bouncing. "Is Sir pushing you too hard? I know the denial games are your thing, but there's a limit to what the human body can take—"

"It's not that." I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, trying to absorb its warmth. My fingers were cold. Everything felt cold except the constant heat between my legs. "It's... I think something's wrong. Really wrong."

Natasha's expression shifted. From concerned friend to protective guard dog. "Wrong how? Did he violate a boundary? Cross a line? Because I swear to God, Viv, if he hurt you—"

"No. Nothing like that. He's been... perfect. Attentive. Careful. As always." I took a breath. "But he knows things, Tasha. Things I never told him. Things I've never told anyone. Not even you."

Her eyebrows rose. "Like what?"

"My meeting schedule. The exact time of my presentation yesterday—down to the minute. He knew what time I'd be in the conference room. He knew I clenched my thighs during the meeting, in front of everyone, and exactly when I did it. He knew when my face flushed. And last night—" I pulled out my phone, scrolled to the message, showed her the screen. "He said he'd see me tomorrow. Tasha, I never told him where I work. I never even told him what city I live in."

Natasha read the message. Read it again. Her face went still in that careful way it did when she was processing something serious and trying not to scare me.

"That's... concerning."

"Right? Tell me I'm not crazy."

"You're not crazy. That's genuinely creepy." She set down her latte. "Have you asked him about it directly?"

"He deflects. Says he's observant. That he deduces things from context clues." I laughed bitterly. "Like some kind of Dom Sherlock Holmes who can figure out my entire work schedule from the fact that I mentioned being tired on Monday mornings."

"And you believe that?"

"I don't know what I believe anymore. I've been going in circles for three days. Convincing myself it's nothing, then panicking, then convincing myself again."

Natasha was quiet for a long moment. Stirring her latte. Her lawyer brain working through the problem.

"Okay," she said finally. "Let's approach this logically. Like a case. Either option A: he's somehow figured out where you work through context clues you don't remember sharing—which is creepy but theoretically possible if he's been paying very close attention for six months. Or option B: he's been researching you independently, which moves from creepy into stalking territory. Or option C..."

"Or he's someone I already know."

The words hung in the air between us like smoke from a fire neither of us wanted to acknowledge.

"Is there anyone at your office who fits the profile?" Natasha asked carefully. "Anyone who could be... Sir? Same build, same voice, same energy?"

I'd been asking myself that question for days. Lying awake at night, going through every man I worked with like a mental lineup.

"I've gone through everyone. The men in my department—most of them are married, and none of them have the right voice. The executives—too old, too young, too soft. The board members. Even the security guards and the IT guys." I shook my head. "None of them feel right. Their voices are wrong, or their builds don't match what I've seen on camera, or they're just... not commanding enough. Sir has this presence, you know? This authority. Most men fake it. He doesn't have to."

"What about outside your immediate circle? Someone you interact with but don't really know well?"

"Sir's too... familiar with me. The way he talks to me. The way he knows my stress levels, my moods, my schedule. He knows when I've had a bad day before I tell him. It has to be someone who sees me regularly. Someone who pays close attention."

Natasha took a long sip of her latte. Set it down with deliberate care.

"What about your boss?"

I almost choked on my coffee. Actually inhaled some of it and had to cough for thirty seconds while she pounded my back.

"Alexander Kane?" I finally managed. "Are you insane?"

"Why not? You're always talking about how demanding he is. How he's constantly in your space. How he notices every tiny error in your work, every moment you're not perfectly focused. Maybe he notices more than just your spreadsheets."

"Tasha, that's completely insane. Alexander is cold. Distant. He treats me like I'm a piece of office equipment—useful but not worth actual human interaction. Sir is the complete opposite—warm, attentive, always praising me, always making sure I feel valued—"

"Maybe that's the point." She shrugged. "Maybe he acts different online. Lots of people do. Maybe the cold boss thing is a mask, and the real him is the guy who tells you you're beautiful and makes you come so hard you forget your own name."

I wanted to argue. To list all the reasons it was impossible. Alexander Kane, secret Dom? Alexander Kane, the man who criticized my font choices in front of the entire board?

But something had shifted since yesterday. Since he stood too close in the conference room and I breathed in his cologne. Since he looked at me with those dark, knowing eyes and told me to handle whatever was distracting me. Since he said "you're usually more composed" in a tone that sounded almost... approving. Of my lack of composure.

"He's impossible," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

"You're not sure, though." Natasha studied me over her coffee cup. "I can see it in your face. You're not sure anymore."

"I don't know what I am anymore. I don't know what's real and what I'm imagining. I've been so sleep-deprived and so... desperate... that I can't trust my own judgment. Every man I look at, I'm comparing to Sir. Every voice I hear, I'm listening for his tone."

"Then get proof. One way or the other." Natasha leaned forward, her eyes intense. "Ask Sir directly. Tell him you need to know who he is or you're done. If he's legit—if he's some stranger who just happens to be terrifyingly observant—he'll respect that boundary. If he's not..."

"Then I'll know."

"Exactly."

She was right. I knew she was right.

But part of me didn't want to ask. Because if the answer was what I was starting to suspect...

Everything would change. My job. My life. My understanding of the past two years. Every interaction I'd ever had with Alexander Kane would need to be reexamined through an entirely different lens.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it—and her face went pale.

"Viv... did you see this?"

She turned the screen toward me.

A business article. Forbes. The headline read: "Kane Industries CEO Alexander Kane Named Most Eligible Bachelor for Third Year Running."

The photo showed Alexander at a charity gala from last month. Black tuxedo that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Perfect posture. Commanding presence. A slight smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Something about the image made my breath catch in my throat.

The way he held himself. The set of his shoulders. The angle of his jaw. The intensity in his eyes even in a candid photo taken from across a crowded room.

It was familiar. Too familiar.

I'd seen that posture before. In Sir's videos. The way he sat, the way he moved, the way he held his hands—always controlled, always deliberate, like every muscle was exactly where he wanted it to be.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

"What? Viv, what is it?"

I couldn't answer. My mind was racing, overlaying images. Alexander in his office, typing with those precise fingers. Sir's hands on camera, gesturing as he gave commands. Alexander's voice, cold and clipped, barking orders. Sir's voice, warm and dark, commanding me to touch myself, to edge, to come.

Different. They sounded so different.

But the cadence. The rhythm. The way certain words landed with extra weight...

"Viv, you're freaking me out. Talk to me."

I shook my head. "Nothing. I'm just... I need to figure this out. One way or another. Tonight."

"Then talk to him. Set the boundary. Demand an answer." Natasha reached across the table and squeezed my hand hard. "Whatever the truth is, you deserve to know. And if it turns out Sir is someone you know, someone who's been playing games with you this whole time... you need to decide if that's something you can forgive. Or if it's something that changes everything."

My phone buzzed.

Sir.

My heart lurched. I looked at the screen.

I hope you're enjoying your lunch, Velvet. The café on the corner—that's your usual spot on Wednesdays, isn't it? The booth by the window. I like knowing where you are. Don't forget, you still don't have permission to come. That privilege belongs to me. And I'm not ready to grant it yet.

I showed Natasha the message with numb fingers.

"He knows you're at lunch," she said slowly. "He knows which café. He knows which booth. Viv... how does he know that?"

I had no answer.

Just a growing certainty that my two worlds—the professional Vivian and the secret Velvet—were about to collide.

And I had no idea if either of us would survive the impact.