C10

CHAPTER 10

​The office clock seems to mock time; it reads 9:30 PM. At this hour, the entire 49th floor of Apex Ink—and I assume the lower ones too—is a completely different place. The main lights have dimmed automatically, leaving only the track lighting illuminating the artwork and the designer lamps over the empty desks. The silence is no longer productive; it’s tense, almost solid, broken only by the hum of the ventilation system and the occasional creak of the building's structure under the Manhattan wind.

​My eyes burn. I’ve spent the last three hours in the warehouse moving boxes and organizing files until my fingers were coated in a fine layer of grayish dust and my muscles began to protest. When I came back up to the main floor, I did so hoping that Amy had already left, but the light filtering out from under her dark wood door tells me my punishment isn't over yet.

​I sigh.

​I walk to my desk with heavy steps. I feel exhausted, but also strangely alert. There is an electricity in the air that I can't seem to shake. I sit down and open the folder for the meeting minutes, but before I can write the first word, the intercom emits its now-familiar, sharp beep.

​“Ms. Contreras, bring your things and come in.”

​There isn't a single "please," nor a trace of weariness in her voice. I get up, gather my notebook and my purse, and push the door open.

​Upon entering, the office is submerged in a bluish twilight. The only strong light source comes from Amy’s desk lamp, creating a circle of clarity over the black glass surface. She is sitting there, but she no longer looks like the flawless executive from this morning: she has removed the minimalist accessory she was wearing, and the first two buttons of her white blouse are undone. Her black hair, previously pinned up in a perfect bun, now falls loosely over her shoulders, giving her a wild air that makes me swallow hard.

​“Sit,” she orders, pointing to the chair across from her on the other side of her desk.

​I sit because honestly, I need to; I am super tired, but I still try to maintain a professional posture even though my shoulders feel like they weigh a ton. Amy doesn't look at me right away; she is finishing signing some documents with a silver fountain pen. The scratching of the nib against the paper is the only sound to be heard.

​“Did you finish with the archives?” she finally asks, looking up.

​Her eyes, under the lamp’s light, look like two incandescent gems; there is no trace of fatigue in them. On the contrary, they seem to feed on the stillness of the night.

​“Yes, Ms. Murphy. The entire 'Nocturna' section is sorted by year and author, just as you requested.”

​“Good, because now comes the most delicate part of your job,” she says, closing the folder and pushing it aside. “I do not like my personal affairs mixing with the ordinary flow of the office. Starting tomorrow, you will handle my private correspondence: invitations, non-disclosure agreements, legal correspondence for my other properties... Everything goes through you.”

​I swallow hard, because now I really feel like we are talking about a whole new level of work. And I think this was exactly what was waiting for me in the first place. I watch her pull a lacquered wooden box from the bottom drawer of her desk and place it on the glass. When she opens it, I see a series of heavy, elegant cream-paper envelopes.

​“Come closer, Camila. I cannot teach you this from the other side of the desk.”

​I get up and walk around the desk, stopping right by her side. My heart begins to hammer against my ribs. As I reach her side, Amy spins her leather chair toward me; she doesn't move back to give me space—on the contrary, she stays right there, forcing me to lean over her to see the contents of the box.

​“Each envelope must be opened with this letter opener.” She hands me a sharp silver piece. “I do not want jagged edges; I want perfection.”

​I take the letter opener, but my fingers brush against hers. It’s a brief contact, barely a second, but I feel a shock surge up my arm to my shoulder. Amy doesn't withdraw her hand immediately. Her eyes follow the movement of my fingers, and I can see her jaw tighten.

​“Hold it firmly,” she whispers. Her voice, in the silence of the empty office, sounds deeper, more intimate. “Do not let the tool dominate you; you dominate the tool.”

​I begin to open one of the envelopes under her supervision. I am so close to her that I can feel the heat radiating from her body; her perfume is now a haze clouding my judgment. Amy leans forward, supposedly to see what I’m doing, but her shoulder brushes against my arm.

​“After opening it,” she continues, her warm breath brushing my cheek and sending a shiver across my skin, “you must sort them according to the wax seal. If the seal is red, it goes into the folder immediately. If it’s blue, it’s for my personal archive at home.”

​I find it hard to focus. My hands are trembling slightly, and the silver letter opener feels heavier than usual. Amy rises slowly without breaking eye contact; standing up, her height far exceeds mine and her presence completely surrounds me. She places one hand on the desk right next to mine, and rests the other on the back of her chair, trapping me perfectly between the furniture and her body.