Page 285 of Hateful Games

For now.

I flick my chin to the chair opposite my desk. “Take a seat.”

He enters, gaze flickering around my office and sticking on the bookshelf a tad longer. Swallowing apprehensively, he closes the gap and settles down.

I remain standing, expression neutral. “How was your day?”

“It was same old.” He visibly relaxes at the casual question. “Busy and demanding.”

“Nothing interesting?”

“No, Mr. D’Cruz.”

I rub my chin, smiling coldly. “No cafeteria gossip, perhaps?”

His throat bobs, a light sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. He stammers for an answer, tugging at his collar.

“Do you read, Arun?” He pales. “Because I heard you give the best recommendations. I would like your opinion on what’s good literature. Something that isn’t trash.”

“Mr. D’Cruz… I didn’t mean it,” he splutters out. “It was a joke.”

“Are you saying my wife’s writing is a joke now?” My tone loses the calm veneer. I reach my desk and rest my fists on it, leaning over him. “You joke about fucking my wife?”

“I’m s-so sorry. Please. It won’t happen again.”

“You had lot more balls behind my back, Arun.”

“It was inappropriate, sir. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Of course it won’t. But I’m afraid you don’t realize the enormity of your indiscretions. You hurt my wife deeply and an apology isn’t going to cut it.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“You’re fired, along with the others. Goes without saying.”

Relief pours over him as he assumes that’s all I’m doing.

My protectiveness for Rosalie runs far deeper and darker in my veins. I’ve stopped fighting the moral instincts.

Today, I swim in its depths.

Circling my desk, I approach and stand behind him while pulling out the ink pen from the breast pocket of my suit jacket. Pulling the lid off, I grab the front of his neck and yank his head back.

“Since you obviously hate reading filth yet find yourself reading it anyways and offering useless opinions that make my wife cry,” he squirms but my grip is stronger, “I’ve found the perfect solution. I wouldn’t be a good boss if I didn’t provide a conflict resolution to your predicament.”

I twist my arm in a chokehold around his neck and cut his air supply, watching his face turn red as his lungs fight for oxygen. His fingers helplessly dig into my arm, trying to dislodge my grip like a fish fresh out of water.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn.

“Noo—”

I raise my arm and poke his right eye with the tip of the fountain pen. He howls in pain, body bucking in my hold while blood trickles down his cheek. His screams echo, melding into one another when I ram the tip into his left eye and twist.

“You’re perfectly safe from trash now.”

A blind man can’t read, after all.

Loosening my hold, I step back. He doubles over onto the floor, clutching his bleeding face. Ignoring his cries, I round to the front of my desk and call the security guard to escort him out.

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