We sat down at the table and Simon poured us each a glass of wine, the meal spread out before us like a feast. As we settled into our meal, the aroma of the carefully prepared dishes mingling with the rich bouquet of the wine, I found myself once again drawn into conversation with Simon.
"Tell me, Norman," he said, swirling the wine in his glass, "have you always been so focused on your career? Or was there a time when other things took precedence?"
I paused, my fork hovering over my plate. It was a seemingly innocuous question, but something about the way he asked it made me feel like he was fishing for a specific answer.
"Well," I began, choosing my words carefully, "I've always been pretty dedicated to my work. But there were a few times in the past where I made room for other things."
Simon raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Oh? Like what?."
I shrugged, spearing a piece of vegetable with my fork. "Nothing too serious. A few girlfriends here and there."
As I said this, I noticed Simon's grip on his fork tighten, his knuckles whitening slightly. But when I blinked, his hand was relaxed again, making me wonder if I had imagined it.
"Girlfriends," he repeated, his tone carefully neutral. "And how did you find balancing those relationships with your work?"
I took a sip of my wine, considering the question. "It was challenging," I admitted. "I always seemed to end up prioritizing my job. Late nights at the office, weekends spent working... it didn't leave a lot of time for anything else."
Simon nodded, his gaze intense. "That's a common struggle," he said. "Finding that balance between personal and professional life. It's not easy."
"No," I agreed. "It's not. And in the end, I guess I just decided it was easier to focus on my career. Less complicated."
He took a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving mine. "And what about your family? Are you close with them?"
I hesitated, caught off guard by the personal nature of the question.
I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading. "Uh-yeah, we were pretty close. But they're both gone now."
Simon nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something he already knew. "I'm sorry to hear that, Norman. Losing family is never easy."
I shrugged, trying to play it off. "It was a long time ago. I've made my peace with it."
"But, you know," he said, swirling the ruby liquid in his glass, "there's something to be said for having someone to come home to. Be it parents or otherwise."
I shrugged, unsure how to respond. My solitary existence had never felt like a choice, more like a default state I had fallen into.
"I guess I've just gotten used to it," I said diplomatically.
Simon nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "I remember those days. Coming home to an empty apartment, eating meals for one. It's an adjustment, to be sure."
Trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground, I asked, "What about you, sir? Any passions outside of work?"
But Simon just smiled, shaking his head. "Oh, I keep myself busy, Norman. But what about you, what do you like to do?"
I hesitated, my mind going blank. The truth was, I didn't really have any passions outside of my job. My life was a cycle of work, sleep, and the occasional mindless evening in front of the TV.
"Oh, you know," I said, trying to sound nonchalant, "I like to read, watch movies. The usual things."
Simon nodded, but I could tell he wasn't entirely convinced by my vague answer.
"And how are you finding your work at SR1?" he asked, shifting the conversation. "Are you enjoying your current position?"
I paused, weighing my words carefully. As much as I might have wanted to, I couldn't exactly tell my boss that I found my job unfulfilling.
"It's good," I said, forcing a smile. "I'm learning a lot, and I'm grateful for the opportunity."
Simon studied me for a moment, his gaze seeming to see right through my polite response.
"But are you satisfied, Norman? Do you feel challenged, engaged?"
His question caught me off guard. It was as if he knew, without me saying a word, that I was just going through the motions.
"I... I'm content," I said, but even I could hear the lack of conviction in my voice. "It's a good job."
Simon leaned forward, his expression softening. He paused, seeming to consider his next words. "Tell me, are you taking care of yourself? Eating well, getting enough rest?"
I shifted in my seat, feeling suddenly exposed. The truth was, my eating habits were erratic at best, and my sleep schedule was dictated by my workload.
"I try to," I said, but it sounded weak.
Simon frowned slightly, a look of concern crossing his features. "And your living situation? Are you comfortable, secure?"
I thought of my small, sparsely furnished apartment, the bare walls and the secondhand furniture. It was a roof over my head, but it had never felt like a home.
"It's fine," I said, shrugging. "It serves its purpose."
Simon sat back, his eyes never leaving mine. "Norman. I can see how bright you are. With the right guidance, the right... support. There's no limit to what you could achieve."
"But I wonder, Norman…" he continued, his voice taking on a thoughtful quality, "don't you ever wish for a life where you don't have to constantly push yourself to the brink, where you can enjoy the fruits of your labors without the constant pressure?"
His words struck a chord. The idea of a life without the constant stress, the endless struggle... it was tempting, dangerously so.
"I... I suppose I do," I admitted, "but just wishing doesn't make it happen, sir."
"No, I suppose not," Simon chuckled mirthlessly. He leaned forward, his hand coming to rest lightly on my arm. The contact was brief, fleeting... but it sent a jolt through me nonetheless.
"But you have more options than most, Norman." he said, his tone low and inviting.
There was something else in his words, something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. A possessiveness, a hunger that I wasn't sure I was ready to face.
I pulled my hand back, trying to avoid Simon's eyes.
"You know, Norman," Simon said, his tone casual but his eyes intent on mine, "I've thoroughly enjoyed our time together tonight. It's rare to find someone with whom conversation comes so naturally."
I felt a flush of unease at his words, mixed with a touch of uncertainty. Again, Simon's praise, his attention... it was beginning to become too much.
"I've enjoyed it too," I said, my words careful, measured. I couldn't look up, couldn't meet his expectant gaze.
"We should do this more often," he said, his voice low, almost intimate. "Make it a regular occurrence, perhaps. Would you like that, dear?"
What?
The endearment slipped out so naturally, so casually, that for a moment I wasn't sure I had heard him correctly.
I opened my mouth to respond, to question, to clarify... but before I could form the words, Simon was already rising from his seat, gathering our empty plates.
"But listen to me, rambling on," he said, his tone once again brisk, businesslike. "We have a busy day tomorrow, and I don't want to keep you up too late."
He whisked the dishes away to the kitchen, leaving me sitting there, my mind reeling. It had been so brief, so fleeting- had I imagined it?
No, no there's no way- we're three for three here.
Had he accidentally let that slip? -or had that been deliberate?
Everything about Simon seemed calculated, it was hard to believe otherwise.
As I lay in bed that night, my mind still reeling from the evening's events, I found myself unable to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Simon's face, heard the echo of his words, the subtle promises and veiled implications.
But as I lay there, my eyes closed but my mind wide awake, I heard the soft creak of my bedroom door opening. Footsteps, muffled by the carpet, approached the bed. I kept my breathing slow and even, feigning sleep, even as my heart raced in my chest.
"Norman." Simon's voice came as whisper, barely audible above the hum of the city outside.
Shit.
I didn't respond, didn't dare move. What was he doing here, in the middle of the night?
I felt the mattress dip as Simon sat on the edge of the bed. He was close, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Look at you," he murmured, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "So peaceful. So unguarded. If only you could be this way in your waking hours."
His hand brushed my hair, a feather-light touch that made me fight the urge to flinch.
I lay there, my heart pounding, my mind racing. This was wrong, so, so wrong.
"You fight so hard, Norman," Simon continued, his tone almost contemplative.
There was a rustle of movement, and I felt Simon's breath against my ear. "You can make this so much easier on yourself," he whispered.
Just then, I sat up with a start, my body drenched in cold sweat. For a moment, I was disoriented, my mind still reeling.
What? What the hell…?
Simon. He had been here, in my room, sitting on my bed. Whispering those words, those promises. I could still feel the ghost of his touch, the heat of his breath against my skin.
But as I looked around, taking in the familiar surroundings of the guest room, reality slowly began to reassert itself. The bed was undisturbed, the door firmly closed. There was no sign that anyone had been here, no evidence of Simon's nocturnal visit.
A dream. It had all been a dream. But it had felt so real, so visceral. The weight of Simon's presence, the seductive lull of his voice... it was as if he had been right there, a physical manifest in the room with me.
I rubbed my face, trying to clear the cobwebs from my mind. I didn't even remember falling asleep. The last thing I recalled was lying in bed, my mind spinning with the events of the evening, the strange, charged energy that had flowed between Simon and myself.
Had that been the trigger? Had my subconscious, overwrought with the strain of trying to make sense of Simon's behavior, conjured him here in my dreams?
Had he forced his way into my dreams somehow?
I shook my head, trying to dispel the irrational thought. That was crazy. Simon was just a man, my boss. He wasn't some monster with supernatural powers.
I'm cracking up.
This is all because I'm still overthinking, right? Simon hasn't actually done anything to me.
But even as I made this resolution, memories of past attempts to rationalize Simon's behavior flooded back. Every time I'd decided to be less paranoid, Simon would say or do something that sent those alarm bells ringing in my head again.
The way he'd appeared in the park, as if out of nowhere. His insistence on buying me clothes. The odd comments about my place in the company. Each incident, viewed individually, could be explained away. But together...
I shook my head, frustrated by my own circular thinking. This back-and-forth in my mind was exhausting, and I was no closer to understanding what was really going on.
Then, suddenly, a realization hit me. There was a way to confirm or deny at least one of my suspicions.
The photo album.
Simon had claimed it was just a collection of employee photos. If that was true, if I could see it for myself and confirm it was nothing more than a harmless company record, it would go a long way towards easing my fears.
But if it wasn't...
I felt a mix of anticipation and dread at the thought. Checking the album would be risky - I'd have to find a way into Simon's office without him knowing. But it could provide the clarity I desperately needed.
If it really was just an employee album, I could finally put my paranoia to rest. I could accept Simon's help and attention without constantly second-guessing his motives.
But if it wasn't, if my suspicions were confirmed…
Then what?
I sank back into the bed. If the album turned out to be something other than what Simon claimed, if it revealed some hidden obsession or nefarious intent, what could I actually do about it?
Go to HR? But Simon was the company president. Who would believe my word against his?
Quit my job? I already had applied to numerous places but I haven't heard anything back yet.
Go to the police? For what, exactly? Being creepy wasn't a crime, and I had no concrete evidence of any wrongdoing.
The more I thought about it, the more trapped I felt. Simon held all the cards - my job, my financial stability, even my current living situation were all, in some way, dependent on him.
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration building. What was the point of confirming my suspicions if I couldn't do anything about them?
But then, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered:
Knowledge is power. Even if you can't act on it immediately, knowing the truth will help you protect yourself.
I nodded slowly, clinging to that thought. Maybe I couldn't confront Simon directly or escape his influence entirely, but if I knew what I was dealing with, I could at least be prepared. I could be more cautious, more strategic in my interactions with him.
And who knows? Maybe understanding the full picture would reveal options I hadn't considered yet.
A soft knock on the door roused me from my thoughts. Disoriented for a moment, I remembered where I was- there was only one person that could be. My heart rate picked up as I approached the door, opening it only halfway to peer out cautiously.
Simon stood there, already dressed for work, looking every bit the executive he was.
"Good morning, Norman," he said, his voice smooth. "I wanted to let you know I'll be heading to the office ahead of you today."
I nodded, still groggy and unsure how to respond.
Simon's lips curved into a small smile. "I had hoped we might commute together, but some urgent matters require my early attention." He paused, then added, "I've left breakfast and coffee out for you in the kitchen. Please, help yourself."
"Oh... thank you," I managed, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the unease churning in my stomach.
Simon's eyes seemed to search my face for a moment before he continued. "Norman, you look tired. Did you not sleep well?" Simon asked, his voice laced with what sounded like genuine concern.
I shifted uncomfortably, aware of my disheveled appearance. "I'm fine, just... adjusting to a new place, I guess."
Simon frowned, hesitating. "Perhaps I should stay behind and wait for you. We could go to the office together once you're ready."
A jolt of panic shot through me at the thought of spending more time alone with Simon. "No, no," I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "That's not necessary. You said you had urgent matters to attend to, right?"
Simon studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Yes, but if you're not feeling well—"
"Really, I'm fine," I insisted, forcing a smile. "Please, don't let me keep you. I'll make my own way to the office."
Simon seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding slowly. "If you're sure. Remember, there's no rush. Take your time."
As Simon turned to leave, he paused, his hand on the doorframe. He stood there for a long moment, his back to me, as if waiting for something. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words.
I felt a strange pressure building in my chest. Did he expect me to say something? To thank him again? To ask him to stay? My mind raced, trying to decipher what Simon wanted from me in this moment.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Simon glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes met mine, and I saw something flicker in them before it was quickly masked.
"Well," he said, his voice softer than before, "I'll see you at the office, Norman."
I nodded. "Yes. See you there."
With one last lingering look, Simon finally left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
As I closed the door, I leaned against it, my heart pounding. What had just happened? What had Simon been waiting for?
Shaking off the lingering unease from Simon's departure, I realized I needed to start preparing for the workday.
I moved to the guest room closet, opening it to reveal the new clothes Simon and I had picked out. I was struck again by the quality and style of the garments. They were far nicer than anything I'd owned before.
With a sigh, I selected a crisp suit, a white button down with a blazer and a pair of tailored slacks.
Fully dressed, I turned to look at myself in the mirror. The man staring back at me looked polished, professional - almost like a different person entirely.
Was this how Simon saw me?
Was this who he wanted me to be?
I adjusted my collar, trying to reconcile this new image with how I felt.
I made my way down the hallway, the scent of coffee growing stronger as I approached the kitchen. Stepping inside, I paused, taking in the scene before me.
On the kitchen island, a full breakfast spread awaited. A plate covered with tinfoil sat in the center, flanked by a bowl of fresh fruit and a glass of what looked like freshly squeezed orange juice. A steaming pot of coffee sat nearby, an empty mug placed beside it.
I approached cautiously, lifting the foil to reveal a perfectly prepared breakfast - fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and toast, all arranged with meticulous care. It looked like something out of a high-end hotel or a food magazine.
For a moment, I just stared at the meal, a mix of emotions washing over me. The thoughtfulness of the gesture was undeniable, but it also felt overwhelming. How early had Simon woken up to prepare all this? Had he even eaten any of it?
Settling onto one of the high stools at the island, I began to eat, each bite reminding me of Simon's attention to detail. The food was delicious, but I couldn't fully enjoy it, my mind wandering to the man who had prepared it.
As I finished my meal, I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was time to leave for work. I rinsed my dishes, placing them in the sink, then gathered my things.
I stepped out of Simon's building, the crisp morning air a stark contrast to the warmth inside. The city was already alive, a cacophony of car horns and distant sirens filling the air.
The entrance to the subway loomed ahead, a gaping maw swallowing streams of commuters. I descended the stairs, the temperature rising with each step. The stale, musty air of the underground enveloped me.
The platform was crowded, bodies pressed together in an uncomfortable dance of personal space invasion. Cigarette butts and discarded food wrappers littered the ground, crunching under my new leather shoes.
Splatters of unidentifiable substances stained the concrete floor, and graffiti covered every available surface.
Never change, New York. I thought wearily.
As the doors opened, I was swept into the car by the surge of people. I gripped a grimy handrail, trying not to think about the countless hands that had touched it before mine.
At each stop, the press of bodies shifted, a new wave of odors—cheap cologne, coffee breath, body odor—washing over me. The monotonous announcements crackled through speakers, barely audible over the rhythmic clatter of the train.
Finally, my stop arrived. I pushed my way out onto the platform, then up the stairs, emerging onto the street near my office building. The morning sun, now higher in the sky, glinted off the glass and steel structures towering above.
As I approached the office, I took a deep breath, straightening my tie. The chaos of the city faded behind me as I stepped into the climate-controlled lobby.
The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and I stepped out onto our floor. The familiar buzz of the office—ringing phones, clicking keyboards, murmured conversations—washed over me. Despite the normalcy of the scene, I felt on edge.
I made my way to my cubicle, nodding politely to a few coworkers as I passed. My eyes darted around, half-expecting to see Simon lurking nearby.
As more of my coworkers arrived, the office grew busier. The increased activity should have been comforting, a return to normalcy. Instead, each new arrival just made me tense.