Page 36 of Grumpy Orc CEO

But underneath the anger lies that deep-seated fear of being hurt again. The fear that letting someone in will only lead to more pain and betrayal. I thought Jarvin was different. I wanted him to be different. I trusted him, I could feel my walls coming down.

I take a shaky breath and force myself to stand up straight. This isn't the place to fall apart. I have work to do, responsibilities to uphold. I can't let this—whatever it is—get in the way.

But as I walk back to my desk, each step feels heavier than the last. The doubts linger, and despite my best efforts to focus on work, my mind keeps drifting back to that image of her hand on his arm.

I sit down at my desk and place the reports carefully on top of a neat stack of papers. My hands are still trembling slightly as I try to refocus on the tasks at hand. But no matter how hard I try, the questions won't go away: What does this mean for us? And can I really trust him?

I decide to pull back from Jarvin. What I walked into earlier was just too much, a harsh reminder of past betrayals I'd rather not go through again.

I begin to avoid him at work, finding excuses to steer clear of his office and our usual lunch meetings. My desk becomes my sanctuary, a place where I can bury myself in work and keep my distance.

I just can't face him after what I saw. My face burns at the memory replaying in my mind. I can't get the image out. I feel so stupid and should have stuck to my guns. I told him things would get complicated, and this is exactly what I meant.

When he sends messages, I hesitate before replying. Each response is brief, curt, devoid of the warmth we once shared. It feels wrong, but I can't help it. The need to protect myself is too strong.

His concern comes through in his texts— “Everything okay?” “Missed you at lunch today”—but I ignore the twinge in my heart and reply with neutral statements about being busy or having other commitments.

The first time I skipped our lunch, it felt like a betrayal of something special we had started to build. But the image of him with that woman keeps replaying in my mind, and I remind myself why I'm doing this. Better to pull away now than get hurt later.

In meetings, I avoid his gaze, and when our eyes do meet by accident, I quickly look away, pretending to be engrossed in my notes or the presentation slides. The tension between us is palpable, but I force myself to stay composed.

I hate pulling away so abruptly, especially when he continues to reach out with small gestures—a coffee left on my desk, a friendly smile in passing—but the fear of getting hurt again overshadows everything else. Each kind act feels like a trap, a way to lure me into vulnerability only to break me later.

One afternoon, as I'm leaving the office late, Jarvin catches up with me near the elevators. "Lucy," he calls out, his voice tinged with concern.

I stiffen but force a polite smile as I turn to face him. "Yes, Mr. Thraknar?"

"Is everything okay? You seem... distant lately."

I nod quickly, avoiding his eyes. "Just busy," I say, trying to keep my tone light and casual.

He frowns slightly but doesn't press further. "Alright," he says quietly. "If you need anything..."

I nod again and step into the elevator as soon as it arrives, grateful for the escape. As the doors close behind me, I let out a shaky breath.

At my desk the next day, I focus intently on my tasks, keeping my interactions with him strictly professional and minimal. The space between us grows wider each day, but it's what I need right now– distance between me and the pain.

Each message from him now feels like a test of my resolve. "Missed you at lunch again," reads one text. Another says simply, "Hope you're doing okay." My replies remain short: "Busy day," or "All good here."

The guilt is an incessant ache that won't let up. Every time I glance at my phone and see a missed message, it feels like a punch to the gut. I miss our conversations—the easy banter, the way he listened intently, making me feel seen and valued. But the image of him is tainted and refuses to leave my mind.

I should say something to him, but what? I barely let him in to begin with, and as soon as I did, look what happened.

I sit at my desk, staring blankly at the screen, trying to push the thoughts away. My work is piling up, but my mind keeps drifting back to him. What if I'm making a mistake? What if it wasn’t what it looked like?

I scoff to myself, thinking it is always what it looks like.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I consider sending him a message. Just a simple text to check in, maybe suggest meeting for lunch again. But then the memory flashes—her laughter, her hand on his arm—and my resolve crumbles. The fear of being hurt again looms too large.

I let out a sigh, closing my eyes for a moment. The office hums with activity around me, but I feel isolated in my turmoil. The connection we were building felt so real, so promising. Yet here I am, pulling back out of fear.

A part of me knows I'm being unfair to him—to us—but the scars from my past run deep. The things my ex did have left me wary, and seeing Jarvin in a similar light triggered all those old insecurities. It doesn't matter that logically I know it could have been an innocent conversation; emotionally, it's a different story.

I glance at his office door, wondering what he's doing right now. Is he thinking about me too? Does he miss our lunches and conversations? The uncertainty gnaws at me, adding another layer of guilt.

I miss him more than I'd like to admit. His presence brought a lightness to my days that I hadn't felt in a long time. But every time I think about approaching him again, that image reappears—vivid, painful, and impossible to ignore. It's like a thorn lodged in my heart, twisting deeper every time I remember.

Am I letting my past control my present? Probably. But breaking free from that fear feels impossible right now.

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