Invisible hands

Remote work was supposed to feel like freedom.

That was the lie people sold it with—soft pajamas, flexible hours, distance from authority. Space. Control. Choice.

By the third day, I understood the truth.

Distance didn’t weaken Adrian Blackwood’s reach.

It refined it.

My apartment had become an extension of his office without a single piece of furniture moving.

The first sign was the calendar.

I woke up at 6:43 a.m. to the gentle buzz of my tablet—no alarm, no sound sharp enough to startle. Just a vibration timed to the exact moment my sleep cycle thinned.

I hadn’t set it.

The screen lit up.

BLACKWOOD SYSTEMS — DAILY STRUCTURE

A full schedule bloomed into view.

Meetings I hadn’t accepted yet.

Calls pre-confirmed.

Breaks inserted with unnerving precision.

Even my lunch window was marked.

I stared at it, blanket pooled around my waist, irritation simmering.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.

My phone buzzed almost immediately.

Adrian Blackwood:

You’re awake.

I glanced at the time.

6:44 a.m.

Me:

That’s not psychic. That’s surveillance.

A pause.

Then—

Adrian:

That’s pattern recognition.

I swung my legs off the bed and stood, suddenly restless.

Me:

You don’t get to schedule my morning.

Adrian:

I didn’t.

You woke up at 6:43 every day last week.

I froze.

That was true.

I hadn’t realized he’d noticed.

Me:

Stop watching me.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Adrian:

I stopped watching when you left the building.

Now I observe outcomes.

My jaw tightened. “That’s worse.”

No reply.

I showered quickly, the water grounding me, steam fogging the mirror until my reflection blurred. For a brief moment, I felt like myself again—unobserved, unmeasured.

Then I stepped out and saw the notification waiting on my tablet.

FIRST CALL — 7:30 A.M.

Mandatory presence.

Mandatory.

I dressed sharply out of spite.

If he was going to manage my time, I’d at least remind him I still owned my body.

The call opened exactly at 7:30.

Adrian didn’t appear on screen.

Only his voice filled my apartment—calm, even, close enough to feel intentional.

“Good morning, Iris.”

I didn’t sit.

“Is there a reason this couldn’t be an email?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I wanted to hear your voice,” he replied.

I scoffed. “That’s not professional.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s diagnostic.”

I crossed my arms. “You’re enjoying this.”

A beat.

“I’m assessing adjustment,” he corrected. “Enjoyment implies indulgence.”

“God forbid,” I muttered.

A faint sound—almost a breath of amusement.

“Your team will defer to you today,” he continued. “I’ve rerouted approvals through your channel.”

“What?” I straightened. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” he said. “And I have.”

The call ended before I could respond.

I stared at the dark screen, pulse racing.

He hadn’t ordered me.

He’d empowered me.

Which meant any failure now would be mine.

By midday, my inbox was overflowing.

Executives asking for guidance.

Departments waiting on my decisions.

People who used to CC Adrian now CC’ing me.

It was intoxicating.

And terrifying.

Every success tightened the thread between us.

At 1:12 p.m., my grocery delivery arrived.

I frowned at the bags on my counter.

I hadn’t ordered anything.

Inside: exactly what I liked. Brands I trusted. Foods I bought when I didn’t feel guilty spending money.

My phone buzzed.

Adrian:

You skipped protein yesterday.

I laughed—short, sharp, disbelieving.

Me:

You can’t micromanage my diet.

Adrian:

I’m not.

I’m compensating for stress response.

I leaned against the counter, exhaustion pressing in.

Me:

This is control.

A pause.

Adrian:

This is support you don’t know how to accept yet.

I hated that he said yet.

Because it assumed inevitability.

That night, I tried to disrupt him.

I declined a meeting without explanation.

Ten minutes later, my tablet chimed.

MEETING RESCHEDULED — PRIORITY SHIFTED

No message.

No reprimand.

Just… correction.

I slammed the tablet face down on the couch.

“Unbelievable.”

My phone rang.

I ignored it.

It rang again.

Then stopped.

A message appeared instead.

Adrian:

You don’t have to answer when you’re angry.

I stared at the words, chest tight.

Me:

Then stop giving me reasons to be.

Several seconds passed.

Adrian:

Anger means you’re still engaged.

Silence would concern me more.

I sat back, suddenly tired.

This was the game.

Not domination.

Calibration.

He adjusted pressure based on my reactions. Eased when I resisted. Tightened when I adapted.

Always watching.

Always responding.

At 10:03 p.m., I noticed something else.

The noise.

Or rather—the lack of it.

The street outside my apartment was quieter than usual. Traffic thinned. The bar on the corner closed early.

Coincidence, I told myself.

Until my phone buzzed again.

Adrian:

You sleep better when it’s quiet.

My breath caught.

Me:

Did you—?

Adrian:

No.

Relief flickered.

Then—

Adrian:

I asked.

I sank onto the couch, heart pounding.

“You can’t just… orchestrate my surroundings,” I whispered to the empty room.

My phone buzzed again.

Adrian:

I didn’t orchestrate.

I influenced.

I closed my eyes.

That was the difference.

And that was the danger.

Because nothing he’d done crossed a line you could point to and scream abuse.

No threats.

No commands.

No force.

Just a world slowly reshaped around me until resisting felt like swimming upstream.

As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, one thought refused to let go:

He isn’t keeping me here.

He’s making sure everywhere else feels harder.

And the worst part?

A traitorous part of me understood why.