Isla's POV
The next morning I arrived at Patel Dynamics early, my stomach already doing nervous flips. I had taken my Biktarvy pill at home like always, double-checking the time on my phone to make sure I stayed on schedule. Undetectable was my normal now, but habits like this kept me safe.
I wore a simple navy blouse and black trousers today no slippery new shoes.
After yesterday's fall, I wasn't taking any chances. My bag held my notebook, a spare pen, and the small pill case I carried everywhere.
At nine o'clock sharp, an email from Mr. Patel's assistant popped up: "Meeting in his office at 9:30 to discuss the Tokyo trip details. Please bring any questions."
My heart picked up speed. I spent the next twenty minutes reviewing the company's recent project files so I wouldn't look unprepared.
When the time came, I walked to the corner office, knocked once, and heard his deep voice say, "Come in."
Davis Patel sat behind a large wooden desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking focused but not unfriendly. The morning light coming through the big windows made the office feel less intimidating than I expected.
"Sit down, Isla," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.
I sat, placing my notebook on my lap and trying to keep my posture straight. "Good morning, Mr. Patel."
He nodded and got straight to business. "The trip is five days. We leave Monday morning. You'll handle scheduling, take notes in meetings, prepare summaries each evening, and make sure everything runs smoothly. Long hours, possible late dinners with clients. Are you comfortable with that?"
His tone was calm and professional, but there was a natural authority in it that made my skin feel warm. I nodded quickly. "Yes, I am. I work best under pressure."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes steady on mine. "Good. Because I expect complete focus and efficiency. If something needs to be done, it gets done without excuses. I don't tolerate sloppy work."
The words came out firm, almost commanding. Something in his voice deep, controlled, leaving no room for argument sent an unexpected rush through me.
Heat pooled low in my belly, sudden and strong. I felt myself getting wet, right there in his office. My body reacted before my brain could stop it.
This shouldn't be happening. Not here. Not with him.
I squeezed my thighs together tightly under the desk, trying to calm the growing ache. My cheeks felt hot, and I hoped he couldn't tell. I forced my mind back to the conversation, gripping my notebook harder.
"I understand," I said, keeping my voice as steady as possible. "I'll make sure everything is prepared in advance. Do you have preferred templates for the daily summaries?"
He continued speaking, outlining the itinerary, key clients, and what he needed from me. His words stayed dominant and clear: "I need you to anticipate problems before they arise. Stay one step ahead at all times."
Every time his voice took that firm edge, my body betrayed me again. I pressed my legs even closer together, shifting slightly in the chair. The friction only made it worse. I could feel the dampness growing between my thighs. My breathing wanted to quicken, but I held it steady, focusing on writing notes.
He paused for a moment and looked at me more closely. His gaze dropped briefly to where my legs were pressed together under the desk. Did he notice? Oh god, please no. His expression didn't change much, but there was a tiny flicker in his eyes something curious, maybe surprised.
I swallowed hard and kept talking. "I'll prepare a shared folder with all the documents tonight so we can review them before the flight. Is there anything specific you want me to research about the Japanese partners?"
We continued for another ten minutes. I managed to stay professional, asking smart questions about time zones, cultural notes, and backup plans. Inside, my mind was spinning. This reaction was new and intense. I had never felt anything like it so strongly, especially not from just hearing someone speak.
Finally, he closed the folder on his desk. "That covers the main points. We'll meet again Friday to finalize. Any questions?"
"No, Mr. Patel. I'm clear on everything," I said, standing up a little too quickly. My legs felt shaky.
He gave a short nod. "Good work so far, Isla."
As I left his office, I walked as normally as I could toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. The moment the door closed behind me, I locked it and leaned against the sink, breathing fast.
I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was flushed. My hands trembled as I gripped the edge of the counter.
What the hell was that?
I had gotten wet just from the way he spoke firm, in control, dominant. The word "Sir" had slipped out naturally yesterday, and now this. My secret fantasies about being dominated, about giving up control to someone strong and commanding, were crashing into real life. And it felt good. Too good.
But this was dangerous. Really dangerous.
No one had ever wanted me once they knew about my HIV. Guys in college had backed away fast after I told them. Even the few who said they didn't mind at first eventually disappeared. I was used to rejection. I had learned to protect my heart with sarcasm and boldness.
So why was I letting myself feel this way about Davis Patel? He was the CEO. Hot, successful, and completely out of reach. Once he found out about my illness, he would probably pull back just like everyone else. Wanting him fantasizing about him dominating me, about calling him Sir in a completely different way was only going to lead to pain.
I was in big trouble.
I splashed cold water on my face, dried my hands, and took a few deep breaths to calm down. My body was still buzzing, but I pushed the feelings down. I had a job to do. I was hardworking and smart. I couldn't let silly desires ruin this opportunity.
Still, as I walked back to my desk, one thought kept circling in my head:
I liked it when he spoke that way. I liked it a lot.
And that scared me more than anything.