The silence that followed was suffocating. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Charles simply stared at her—a wild, tensing gaze that felt like a physical weight. Diane's mind raced, trying to find a footing in the shifting sand of his silence. Finally, unable to bear the tension, she broke it."Hi, sir," she whispered.
Charles leaned back, a dark smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, I see. You've got quite a bit of courage, wanting to speak first. Let's have it then. What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Sir, I was just... I wanted to introduce myself and ask about the training.
"Oh, shut up, miss," he snapped, his voice turning cold. "You shouldn't try to ruin my mood this sweet afternoon, or you will live to regret it for as long as you live. Now, tell me. Your name?"
"Diane," she answered, her body beginning to shiver inaudibly.
"Diane?" Charles repeated the name as if tasting it. "Oh, wow. That reminds me of an old school classmate from way back.
So, Miss Diane, what school did you attend? Or did you not even have the privilege of an education?"
The insult stung, but Diane kept her voice steady. "I did, sir. I attended Nord Anglia."
Charles's eyes widened, a predatory light gleaming in them. "My Good God, you did? I mean, I did too.
Now tell me, Diane... do I look familiar to you?"
Diane looked at him—really looked at him. He was handsome, in a sharp, lethal way, but the face didn't register in her memories of crowded hallways and textbooks. "With all sincerity, sir, I can't remember knowing you from anywhere.
Charles leaned forward, his shadow stretching across the golden floor. "Diane what?" he asked, his voice dropped to a whisper.
"Diane Lucien, sir," she answered. Inside, she was praying. She didn't want a history with this man.
She didn't want a "connection." All she wanted was to be a faceless employee, to work her hours, get her paycheck, and disappear into the New York crowds to save her family.
"Oh, what a world!" Charles laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The smart, gentle, and beautiful Diane Lucien. I knew it. You truly don't remember me, Charles Bennet?"
Diane searched her mind, the name suddenly clicking into a specific, painful memory. "Charles Bennet?"
"Yes," he said, his voice hardening. "The Charles Bennet that once asked you out in front of the whole school. The one you declined right in front of all my niggas. Everyone made a scorn of me for weeks because of you. What a small, pathetic world this is'.
The memory hit her like a physical blow. She remembered the boy—lanky, awkward, and far too arrogant even then. "Yes... now I remember. S-sir, I am so sorry for how I treated you. I was young... I was just being my age."
"Maybe," Charles said, standing up and walking around the desk until he was inches from her. "But now you're all grown up. And I'm asking you again, right here, right now. Will you be my woman, Diane?"
The room seemed to shrink. Diane opened her mouth to say no, the word hovering on the tip of her tongue, but her throat seized. If she walked out, she lost the job. If she lost the job, she would be handed over to Ben like a piece of property to satisfy her father's debt. To her, Ben was a tomb; Charles was a cage.
"But sir," she stammered, thinking of the woman who had just left. "The lady... Lara. Isn't she your mistress?"
Charles shrugged dismissively. "She is. Is there a problem with that? I believe I am a trophy, Diane. Any girl that wins me, stays with me. There is plenty of room."
The casual cruelty of his statement gave Diane a sudden, unexpected jolt of adrenaline. The fear was still there, but it was being overtaken by a desperate need for dignity.
"No, sir," she said, her voice vibrating with a new strength. "I wouldn't do that. All I beg is for you to let me work here in your company. I don't want to be in a competition with another woman over a man. I beg of you, just let me do my job."
Charles's face contorted into a mask of cold fury. He stepped even closer, his breath hot against her ear.
"Oh, well," he hissed. "You have two choices, Diane. You either become my woman, or I hire you—and I make this company, and every hour you spend in it, a living hell for you.
She made to leave but Charles called her back.
"Wait a damn minute, Diane," he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "So, if I had a group of people standing right here, right now, would you have turned me down again? Would you have humiliated me in front of everyone just like you did back in high school? Really? After everything I've become?"
Diane felt the urge to flee, but she forced her feet to stay rooted.
She strolled back toward the desk, a deliberate movement meant to mask the trembling in her knees. She placed her well-manicured fingers on the polished mahogany of the office table, leaning forward just enough to maintain unwavering eye contact.
It was terrifying to stare into the eyes of a man who could ruin her with a phone call, but she had reached her limit.
"Boss Charles," she began, her voice steady despite the adrenaline. "Take me as your worker and treat me just as one. That is why I am here. Being your mistress is the least thing in my scheme right now, let alone getting into some petty war to fight numerous other women just to have you. No, Charles. That's silly. I have a life to save and a debt to pay. I don't have time for games."
Charles let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Now listen carefully. If that is truly your decision, then trust me, you will leave this office and live to regret it. I don't forget, and I certainly don't lose twice."
Diane didn't offer him the satisfaction of a rebuttal. With a heavy silence and a sudden, borrowed confidence, she turned on her heel and made for the door.
"And you think being my worker is going to be a bed of roses, Diane?"
Charles called back, his voice echoing against the marble walls.
Diane paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder.
"Being your mistress wouldn't be any better, trust me. I remain your worker, Charles. Deal with it—and deal with me—as you wish."
She spoke the last words loudly, her voice carrying a defiant ring that seemed to vibrate in the hallway. As she stepped out into the corridor, she nearly collided with a figure standing just outside the door.
It was Lara. The two women locked eyes for a fraction of a second—Diane's eyes were wide with a mix of relief and lingering fear, while Lara's were narrowed in suspicion.
With a burst of speed, they passed one another. Diane didn't look back; she kept moving toward the elevators, her heart hammering. Meanwhile, Lara stormed into the office, the door swinging shut behind her with a heavy thud.
"Did I just hear the word 'mistress'?" Lara asked, her voice trembling with a cocktail of awe and pure disgust. She stood in the center of the room, her sleek elegance beginning to crack.
Charles didn't even look up as he straightened the items on his desk. He was still reeling from Diane's defiance. "Yes, Lara. I want her to be my woman."
The confession hit Lara like a physical strike. "Oh, wow. Charles Bennet, really? So what am I? What have I been all this while, Charles? Tell me! Make me understand where I stand in your life, if at all there is a position for me in there anymore!"
"Lara, you are making a scene—"
Charles began, his tone weary and dismissive.
"Keep your useless explanations to yourself!" Lara burst out, her voice cracking. "You have the guts to tell me, right to my face, that you want her to be your mistress? After everything I've done to support your image?"
Tears of regret and bitter disappointment began to well up in her eyes, spilling over and ruining her perfect makeup. She looked at the man she had idolized and saw only a stranger fueled by a high-school grudge.
"Ok, Lara, I'm sorry... Listen, it's not—"
Charles tried to reach out, but Lara recoiled as if his touch were poison. She turned to the side, her hand darting to a silver tissue dispenser on the corner of the desk.
She ripped out several slips of tissue with a violent jerk and began to sob, dabbing at her face as she tried to regain some semblance of dignity.
She reached for her designer handbag, her movements frantic. Before she turned to leave, she stared deeply into Charles's eyes, seeing the emptiness there. With a gesture of total contempt, she balled up the wet, tear-soaked tissues and threw them directly at him.
"Coward," she spat.
The word hung in the air, sharp and final. She turned and fled the office, the sound of her heels no longer rhythmical, but erratic, leaving Charles alone in his golden cage.
To Be Continued...