And I won’t stop until I have it.
Yuri’s fingers finally freeze on the keyboard. He leans in, squinting at the results. “Got it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “It’s from a site calledVelvet After Dark. Audio erotica, looks like. All user submissions, but some have premium voice actors, regular uploads…”
He scrolls, reading off the page. “There’s a whole profile here—‘NightWhisperZ.’ A lot of stories.‘Obey the Night,’ ‘Under His Desk,’ ‘Morning Heat,’ ‘Locked Door Games.’Jesus, there’s hundreds of them.”
I step closer, trying to steady my breath as I scan the list. “Are you sure this is it?”
“Positive,” Yuri says with a smirk. “You know me, my work isn’t sloppy. Same voice, different scripts?—”
“Out,” I interrupt, voice like a blade.
“Huh?” he says.
“Get out, your job is done,” I say.
He glances at me, measuring, then nods. “Yeah. Of course.” He sends the profile to my private email and grabs his things, not looking back. He knows better than to linger—everyone does.
I wait for the door to close before I move. No one’s going to say a word. Not to anyone. I made sure of that—every NDA at this company is airtight, iron-clad. I’ve protected my secrets from the inside out, since the day I took control. Even Zatanna had to sign, first thing, her nervous signature scrawled at the bottom of the page.
I open the link. Her page blooms across my monitor with dozens of stories, hundreds of hours, her voice waiting for me, only me.
My obsession just found new fuel.
From the glass wall of my office, I watch her.
Zatanna sits at her desk, shoulders hunched, quietly flipping through a pile of paperwork one of the junior analysts dumped on her. She’s focused, frowning a little, unaware that I’m staring. Everyone else in the room moves past her like she’s invisible.
But to me, she might as well be the only thing in the building.
What the fuck has gotten into me?I rub my jaw, restless, feeling her presence like static on my skin. I could have given her the assignment—myrealreason for hiring her—days ago. I should have. But every time I start to call her in, the words stick. It’s easier to watch. To want.
Two days. She’s been here two days and already I’m losing time, losing ground. The deadline hangs over my head, closer every day, and I still haven’t begun what I promised. I tell myself I’mbeing careful, methodical. The truth is simpler: I can’t bring myself to consider anyone else, not with her here.
By the time I leave the office, night has swallowed Manhattan. My apartment feels colder than usual, every window reflecting city lights and my own tight, unsmiling face. I find my mother in the kitchen, preparing tea the way she always does when she’s worried.
She glances up. “You are late, Alyosha. You look… distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I say, a little too quick, shedding my coat and setting my briefcase by the door.
She narrows her eyes, but lets it go. “Sit. I made soup.”
I join her at the small table, my mind still ten blocks away. She asks about the business, the weather, my health. I answer without hearing myself.
But I can’t stop thinking about Zatanna, about her careful hands, the shy way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the secrets in her voice. It’s like a fever I can’t break.
I know I’m running out of time.
But for the first time in years, I want to do nothing but wait.
She places a bowl of soup in front of me, her hands gentle, movements practiced. The kitchen is warm, filled with the quiet smells of dill and potatoes and home. I should feel comforted, but the old tightness in my chest never leaves.
She sits across from me, silent for a while, then says softly, “You should speak to your father, Alyosha. He asks about you.”
I stiffen, pushing my spoon around the bowl. “There’s nothing to say to him. He made his choices.”
She sighs, a line of worry creasing her brow. “He’s still your father.”
I don’t reply.
