You sit across from him, pretending to take notes as Dorian leans back in his leather chair, the weight of his words hanging in the air. His dark hair, always slicked back with precision, falls slightly out of place today, a sign of the stress he’s been under. His green eyes, sharp and usually so focused, are clouded as he talks—really talks—for the first time in weeks.

“I don’t know what’s happening anymore,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s like everything with her is falling apart.”

You nod, keeping your expression neutral, though inside, there’s a flicker of satisfaction. You’ve waited for this—patiently. You’ve worked hard to get close, making yourself indispensable, always staying just long enough after hours, slipping in compliments, offering to help when you didn’t need to. And now, finally, he’s opening up to you.

You cross your legs slowly, adjusting your posture in a way you know will draw his attention, but not enough for him to call it out. You tilt your head slightly, watching his face with what you hope looks like concern.

He sighs heavily, his fingers tapping the edge of his desk. “She just doesn’t understand the pressure I’m under. It’s like she’s not even trying anymore.”

Your lips twitch in a barely-there smirk, but you quickly school your expression into one of sympathy.

Dorian glances at you, his green eyes flicking to your face and then back down. You know he’s vulnerable right now, and that makes this moment all the more intoxicating. You’re playing a delicate game, one where every word, every glance has to be subtle, controlled.

But inside, you feel a thrill. You shouldn’t enjoy this, shouldn’t feel a small rush at his failing marriage...