Enslaving My Ex-Boss

Bleeding Heart

[Hazel]

Miranda’s face flushed crimson. Her whole body seemed to deflate under the weight of her guilt.

"Yes," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. "I was sleeping with him."

Elijah gave a bitter nod, his jaw clenched so hard it seemed like his teeth might crack. "Great," he said, his voice hammered with disappointment. Without looking at her, he turned toward the table, grasping the divorce papers lying there. He stepped forward and placed them in her trembling palm. "Thanks for being honest... at least in our very last conversation."

"No, Elijah..." Miranda's voice cracked as her eyes locked onto the cold signatures at the bottom of the page. She sank to her knees, clutching at his sleeve, her grip desperate. "Please, don't do this. I promise I’ll break up with him. I’ll never see him again." Her voice was thick with sobs. "Please. I love you, Elijah."

"Love," Elijah scoffed. "Nice one. You love me, yet you weren’t just having an affair—you were in a relationship with him." His hands gripped Miranda’s shoulders, firm but devoid of tenderness. "At least let one of us have a happy ending."

"Elij—"

"Don’t." Elijah’s voice sliced through her attempt. "Consider yourself lucky I’m not suing you for breaking the contract."

Without waiting for her response, he grabbed her arm, his grip unyielding yet not cruel, and pulled her toward the door. Miranda stumbled, her protests stifled by the cold finality in his actions. "And here’s a last offer for you, Miranda," he continued, his voice eerily calm. "If I find the divorce papers on my desk tomorrow morning, you’ll get your alimony. No mess, no public scandal."

Then, I heard the door slam with a thud so loud it made me gasp. I jumped, bumping my head, my hand flying to my mouth as my pulse thundered in my ears.

The room fell into a thick, oppressive stillness. Elijah stood silent by the door for a moment before I heard his slow, steady footsteps returning into the room. He walked toward the bed, his steps heavy, each one dragging the weight of his exhaustion with it. His broad shoulders sagged, his head hung low, and the strong facade crumbled with each step. As he sat on the edge, his hands rested limply on his thighs, fingers twitching.

I stayed frozen, my breath shallow, barely audible. Hidden inside the closet, my heart pounded in my chest as I wrestled with indecision.

Should I go out? Or should I stay here?

My boss is out there sitting on the bed, waking up to the painful reality along with the harsh UV rays of consequences working on his heart like cancer, while here I'm, inside this closet, surrounded by the darkness of uncertainty, hearing the sounds of his quiet, soundless cries and feeling the tears of his bleeding heart as if it's my own.

------

I don't know when the silence in the room worked like a lullaby for me, and I dozed off until a few moments later when the door handle shifted, and I heard a soft click reverberating through the tiny space.

The door began to move. Light seeped in, splitting the surrounding darkness. My eyes adjusted painfully, squinting against the sudden brightness.

And then... he stood there.

His silhouette filled the doorway, casting a long shadow over me. His frame was backlit by the dim light of the room, but I could still make out the tight lines of his face. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto mine. The raw vulnerability he once bled into his expression was gone; his stance was firm—controlled.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

Time stopped as we stood there, caught between the light and the dark, the past and the present.

"What are you doing? Come out." His voice was low but steady, his head tilting slightly as if inviting me without softening his expression.

"Ah... um, yeah, I was about to," I mumbled as I stepped out of the closet, my feet shuffling against the floor.

He turned towards the bed and sat on the edge like before, his fingers curling and uncurling against his thighs. I stood awkwardly, my heart drumming in my chest. The situation he was in, and the fact that we’ve known each other for five years, told me I should comfort him—like a friend. But the reality of our professional relationship kept tugging at my conscience. I’d never seen him like this before—vulnerable to his own emotions—and I didn’t know which side of myself to offer. The secretary or the friend?

Out of habit—habit to help, I blurted, “Do... do... do you need a hug?” My voice wavered, my arms twitching as if they were already halfway into the embrace. The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them, heat rushing to my face.

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"Nothing!" I swallowed, feeling my pulse in my throat. “I mean... A hug?” I repeated, my voice barely audible. As I always did before, my gaze locked onto his, searching for any hint of what he might say next.

"No," he said firmly.

“No? Okay, noted.” I nodded quickly, biting my lower lip, wishing I could rewind time. “So…” I hesitated, fingers twisting the hem of my shirt. “Do you need something? Are you gonna stay here? Or, should... should I leave?”

His gaze shifted to me for a brief moment, his eyes dark and unreadable. It was as if he was wrestling with something inside, and then he spoke, his voice softer now, quieter than before. “Yeah, please, do the last one.” He turned away, his shoulders heavy with the weight of whatever thoughts were consuming him. He lay down on the bed, curling up as though trying to disappear beneath the layers of his emotions.

I stepped closer, instinctively wanting to help, but unsure how to do so without overstepping. I bent down, my fingers brushing the blanket, careful not to touch him too much. "Okay, so…” My voice came out softer than I intended. “Bye, Mr. Davenport.”

He didn’t respond. Neither did I expect him to.

I slipped out of the room, tiptoeing with each step. The door creaked slightly as I pushed it shut, and despite my best efforts, the faint sound of it closing echoed in the stillness.

THE VERY NEXT DAY...

Standing in the corridor, I checked my wristwatch rapidly, waiting for Elijah—even though there was a 99% chance he might not come. After the chaotic events of last night, if I were in his place, I wouldn’t have come to the office. But he did. At 8:59, the elevator doors clinked open, and there he was, as fresh as if nothing had happened. His suit was perfectly pressed, every crease sharp, his movements measured and confident as he walked toward his office.

"Good morning, Mr. Davenport," I greeted as he stepped into the office, his posture sharp and unwavering.

"Good morning," he replied, his tone smooth, void of any trace of the chaos from last night. It was as if he had clicked the pen from Men in Black and erased all his memories from last night.

He walked into his cabin, his footsteps purposeful, and I returned to my desk, trying to ignore the thudding of my heart. The silence stretched on, heavy, before exactly 25 seconds later, the intercom buzzed sharply.

"Come to my office," his voice crackled, crisp and authoritative.

"Right there," I responded, standing up like a soldier on command.

"Come in," his voice was flat, unwelcoming, though a slight rasp betrayed his exhaustion.

I stepped inside, trying to steady my breath. "How can I help you today, Mr. Davenport?"

There he was, sitting at his desk, jaw clenched and gaze fixed on the papers before him. I could see the faint tremor of his hands, despite his firm demeanor.

"Mr. Davenport?" I called softly.

"Hmm?" He snapped his head up, eyes momentarily unfocused, before landing on me with sharpness that startled me.

"Yeah?"

"You... you called me,"

"Yeah..." he muttered absentmindedly, his gaze lost beyond the papers. "Yeah, I did. Sorry." His movements became mechanical as he quickly scooped the papers into the envelope and tossed it back onto the table with a sharp motion.

"Submit these divorce papers to the court. I want it filed today. Right now. Right at this moment," he ordered, his voice strong but the faint tremor in his lower lip betrayed his stoic facade.

"On my way, sir," I nodded, carefully taking the envelope.

As soon as I stepped out of his cabin, I exhaled, my lungs aching from holding my breath.

Even though he didn’t show it, I could feel that last night’s events still haunted him. The pain, the sorrow—they lingered, buried deep beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest mistake. So, out of fear, I didn’t dare to breathe, thinking my breath might trigger his anger.

Normally, Elijah isn’t the kind of person with anger issues. He’s calm and collected. But it's my first time dealing with his heart-broken self, so I couldn’t take the risk. The person with a bleeding heart tends to do the least expected things.

To be continued...