“Why analytics?” I asked.
Her lips parted, surprised. Unmasked. A look that made it far too easy to imagine her on her knees again, obeying my voice without hesitation.
And I braced myself, because I knew whatever came next would hit me harder than I was ready for.
She set her fork down, her hands knotting together in her lap.
“When I was a kid,” she said, “I realized pretty early that people didn’t make sense.” A soft laugh slipped out. “They’d say one thing and mean another. They’d change their minds. They’d get mad.” She paused, her eyes lifting to mine. “They let you down.”
I didn’t breathe, waiting for her to continue.
“So I like numbers,” she continued. “Patterns. Things I could understand. Things that stayed the same no matter how messy everything else got.” She lifted her wine but didn’t drink it. “I liked knowing that if I looked long enough, I could always find the truth.”
I sipped my wine and took her in.
“And data…” She toyed with the hem of her sleeve. “Data doesn’t judge you. It doesn’t care if you’re from a small town or if your clothes are from Goodwill. It justis.You look at it, and you see what everyone else missed.”
I gulped. She wasn’t still talking about data anymore.
She was talking about herself. About being overlooked, underestimated, unseen.
“And maybe…” Her voice dropped a fraction. “Maybe I liked feeling good at something. Especially when no one expected me to be.”
Damn her.
Damn the way she kept showing me pieces of herself I had no business wanting.
I admired her—more than I should. She never expected praise or recognition. She never expected anyone to look at her andseeher. But I’d spent too many Saturday nights with her bound beneath my hands to pretend I didn’t know exactly how deeply she craved it.
“Someone should have,” I said.
Her head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing like maybe she wasn’t sure she’d heard me right.
I leaned in just a fraction. “Expected it. Expected you.”
My voice came out lower than I intended—rough, intimate, too close to the tone I used in the dark. The tone meant to disguise me. For a heartbeat, fear flashed through me that I’d slipped. That she’d recognize it.
Color warmed her cheeks, softer now—something caught between surprise and something she didn’t have a name for yet. If she recognized the tone, she didn’t let on.
“Well… no one ever did,” she whispered.
“I do,” I said—too quickly, too honestly—before my brain had a chance to stop me. She was my employee. And I was training her in submission without her knowing who I was. One wrong step, and this entire thing would explode in my face. I had enough scandal waiting to swallow me whole; I didn’t need to invite more.
Her hand stilled on her napkin. The air between us tightened, a live wire stretched straight between her and me. She didn’t look away.
Neither did I.
“Mira.” Her name came out deeper, darker. “Look at me.”
She did—slowly, like she felt the shift too. God, she was born for submission and she wasn’t aware of it. It just came naturally.
“You shouldn’t have had to earn that,” I told her. “Being seen. Being believed in.” My jaw ticked, wanting to take on everyone who had ever doubted her. “People should’ve recognized exactly what you are.”
Her breath hitched. “What I am?”
“Exceptional.”
As much as the word said, it barely scratched the surface. It didn’t come close to the wildfire she lit under my skin, theobsession she stirred without even trying. If she had any idea what she did to me… she’d run. Or she’d lean closer.
