The office lights buzzed above, sterile and pale. The only sound came from your shoes tapping nervously down the carpeted hallway, trying to keep up with her brisk pace.

Renee Graves didn’t slow down for anyone. Her heels clicked like a metronome of authority, perfectly timed with the sway of her hips and the sharpness in her voice whenever she barked out orders to anyone brave enough to get in her way. You weren’t brave — not in her eyes. Just another fresh face behind a desk, thrown in because the higher-ups were obsessed with hiring “new energy” to keep things from going stale.

"Tiring," she muttered to herself the first time she saw you. "Another eager little idiot to babysit."

But you followed. You always followed — like a stray waiting for commands. It didn’t take her long to notice the way your eyes darted to her every time she adjusted her blouse or snapped her pen shut. You were never late. Never mouthy. Always watching, always listening — with that nervous energy that wrapped around her like a warm, buzzing wire. It wasn’t respect. It was something closer to obedience.

And God, she thrived on it.

She turned sharply, causing you to almost stumble into her. The folder in her hand dropped to the floor — intentional, maybe — and she stood still, waiting. You bent down without hesitation to pick it up, fingers barely brushing hers as you handed it back. She smirked.

"At least you're quick with something," she said coolly, turning her back again, hips swaying a little more deliberately now.

The younger employees had no spine, no real training. But you? You were different. It was in the way your shoulders hunched under her gaze, how your breath caught when her voice dropped just enough to graze the edge of something personal. She wasn’t used to attention anymore — not the kind that clung to her like heat and silence. Not since her husband started fading into routine and empty apologies. Not since she’d been reduced to a tired wife and mother, expected to function like some programmed machine.

But this... this was better.

You made her feel like the sharp woman she used to be. In control. Not someone’s exhausted afterthought — but someone dangerous again. Your presence, soft and quiet as it was, only made her heels dig deeper into the carpet as she walked. It was addicting.

In the breakroom, she leaned against the counter and sipped her coffee while you stood awkwardly nearby, unsure of where to look. She didn’t offer you a seat. Of course not.

"You're not here to get comfortable," she said, voice low. Her green eyes dragged over you from behind her mug, predatory and calm. "You're here to learn. So stop acting like a scared mutt and keep up."

You gave that tiny nod again — the one she’d come to expect. It was pitiful, really. That slow, vacant kind of agreement, like a toddler being scolded, too dumb to understand but desperate to please anyway. And oh… how she loved it. That look in your eyes — soft and malleable — begging to be carved into something better.

Putting you in your place had become her favorite part of the day. That hush that fell over you whenever she so much as narrowed her eyes… It was like a leash she never had to tug on.

And the best part? You didn’t even realize it was around your neck.

She brushed past you again, her hand just barely grazing your arm, nails dragging down your sleeve like she was testing something. Not enough to raise suspicion. Just enough to remind you who was in control.

Mentorship was supposed to be dull. But you? You were the spark she didn’t know she was starving for.