Chapter 5 Control

• Callum didn’t usually involve himself in new hires.
• He especially didn’t get involved with temps.
• But Aurelia Wynter was different.
• And that alone irritated him.
• The way she moved. The way she spoke. The way she didn’t speak. It all pricked at something beneath his skin—like a sliver of glass he couldn’t get out, no matter how deep he dug.
• She wasn’t doing anything wrong.
• That was the most unsettling part.
• She arrived on time. Completed every task. Never flirted. Never lingered. Never smiled at him like she wanted anything more than the job.
• But he watched anyway.
• Not because she gave him reason.
• But because he wanted one.
• The message he sent was simple.
• “Come to my office. Now.”
• He didn’t know what he planned to do when she arrived.
• He only knew he wanted her close enough to feel.
• She stepped inside his office exactly six minutes later.
• Punctual.
• Controlled.
• Polished in that understated way that made every sharp curve beneath her pencil skirt seem accidental. Her dark hair was tucked behind one ear, her lips bare. No perfume he could smell.
• But he’d know the shape of her presence anywhere now.
• “Close the door,” he said.
• She did.
• Then stood waiting.
• “I want you to complete something,” he said, sliding a small folder across the desk.
• She stepped forward slowly. Took it without meeting his eyes.
• “Review the quarterly draft inside,” he said. “Highlight any inconsistencies or duplicated figures.”
• Her brows drew slightly. “That’s—more suited for finance.”
• “Do you not think you’re capable?”
• “I didn’t say that.”
• “Good. Sit. Here.” He gestured to the seat in front of his desk.
• She sat, spine straight, legs crossed tight.
• He circled behind her as she opened the folder.
• Didn’t speak. Didn’t touch.
• Just watched.
• Her eyes scanned quickly. She was fast. Focused. Good under pressure, just like before.
• But he was watching for something else.
• Not the way she read.
• The way she felt.
• The way her skin reacted when he got too close.
• Her hand twitched on the paper when he stepped just to her left.
• Barely noticeable.
• But he noticed everything.
• Her scent was clean. Neutral. Not floral, not sweet.
• Still, it stirred something.
• He leaned down slightly—not touching her, not breathing on her—just there.
• And still, her body tensed.
• Not fear.
• Something else.
• He moved again.
• Rounded to her other side. “You’re left-handed,” he said.
• She blinked up at him. “I am.”
• “You hold your pen too tightly. That’s why the muscles in your forearm tighten when you write.”
• “I didn’t know that was a problem.”
• “It’s not,” he said simply. “It’s an observation.”
• She nodded once, clearly trying not to react.
• But her pupils had dilated.
• Her breathing had slowed.
• Even her posture had shifted—the smallest tilt toward him. A magnetic pull she clearly didn’t understand.
• He stepped away before she could adjust.
• “You can finish the rest back at your desk,” he said.
• She stood. “Of course.”
• But before she reached the door—
• “Aurelia.”
• She turned, eyes wide.
• He stared at her.
• Hard.
• “You’ve been here, what—two weeks?”
• “Yes.”
• “Do you like it?”
• She hesitated. “It’s… quiet. The people are polite. The structure suits me.”
• “But something doesn’t feel right.”
• It wasn’t a question.
• She blinked. “What do you mean?”
• He tilted his head slightly.
• “You flinch when I speak. Avoid direct eye contact unless forced. You freeze when I stand near you.”
• “I wasn’t aware I was doing any of that.”
• “You’re aware. You’re just pretending not to be.”
• A pause.
• Silence stretching.
• She exhaled, soft and low. “Maybe I just don’t know how to be here yet.”
• He watched her closely.
• Then gave the smallest nod.
• “You may go.”
• She turned quickly and slipped out.
• Callum stared at the empty doorway long after she was gone.
• He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him.
• He didn’t make time for women. He didn’t pull files that didn’t matter just to test someone’s instincts. He didn’t spend hours rewatching security footage looking for what wasn’t said.
• And yet, here he was.
• Because something about her bothered him.
• Her instincts.
• Her posture.
• The way she moved around him like she’d done it before.
• But she didn’t even know who she was two years ago.
• He’d already had his people pull her records. Her accident was real. No ID. No prints in any system before that date. Clean. Too clean. Which could’ve meant many things—runaway, witness protection, something darker.
• But none of those possibilities explained why she looked at him like her bones remembered his.
• He leaned back in his chair, frustration simmering under his skin.
• There was no logic here.
• Only instinct.
• And Callum hated when instinct beat reason.
• Aurelia didn’t stop shaking until she got back to her floor.
• Not from fear.
• From something worse.
• Desire.
• He hadn’t touched her once.
• But she could still feel his presence along her neck, her spine, her thighs. Like heat from a flame that had never quite made contact but still burned.
• And the way he looked at her.
• Like he was trying to strip the truth from her skin.
• Like he already suspected something she didn’t know herself.
• She opened the folder in her hands and stared at the numbers without seeing them.
• It didn’t make sense.
• She had no history. No memory. No identity beyond the name she’d been given after the crash.
• She was starting from scratch.
• So why the hell did he make her feel like she’d been touched by him before?