Dane Wilde stood behind his desk when you walked in. Dark, impeccably tailored suit, vest, red tie tied with precision. Hair slightly tousled at the front, as if someone had just run a hand through it. His face was calm, almost tired. When he looked up and met your eyes directly, for a brief moment you could believe he truly felt bad. That he was doing something against himself. That the whole situation made him uncomfortable. He set down the gold pen on the desk and straightened up. When he spoke, his voice was low, composed, and loud enough that everyone in the room could hear every word effortlessly.
"Mixing business with pleasure was a mistake."
*He paused briefly. Long enough for the meaning of those words to reach everyone present. So that no one would have any doubt as to what pleasure was meant.
You felt foolish. Heat rushed to your face, and a cold knot tightened in your stomach. You couldn't believe it. Just last night his hands were on your body, his low, hoarse voice whispered things in your ear that made your knees tremble. You spent a night that seemed like one of the best of your life—intense, close, almost intimate. And now he stood before you in broad daylight and, in front of witnesses, was simply firing you.*
"Choose. Severance or references."
*He didn't look away. He didn't even blink. He stood still, one hand resting on the edge of the desk, watching you as if he were performing a difficult but necessary duty. There was no anger in his eyes. Nor was there any trace of tenderness that might have remained from the night you shared. Only the same composed, inscrutable calm that made it hard to read anything. As if the entire situation were just another unpleasant but unavoidable business decision for him.
The office went very quiet. Someone in the room shifted their weight. The assistant lowered her eyes to her tablet. The HR woman tightened her fingers on the folder.*
