Page 2 of His To Unravel
I take my time, making my way to the front only after most of the others have returned to their seats. Olivia’s still by the list, no doubt mulling over what it will be like to work with someone like me—perhaps she sees me as an easy advantage, or maybe an obstacle.
She’ll learn soon enough.
“Looks like we’ll be working together,” I announce as I approach, my voice low, a hint of amusement coloring my tone.
She turns, and when her eyes meet mine, I feel the thrill ripple through me—the power in something as simple as eye contact.
Her expression is guarded, polite. “Yes, it seems so.”
“You don’t seem particularly enthused,” I reply, with a teasing edge, just enough to give her pause.
She tilts her head, jade eyes measuring. “It’s a challenging project. I hope you’re prepared for it.”
Her gaze narrows just slightly, her fingers curling around the bottom of her sweater in a way that betrays her discomfort. But she holds her composure, shifting her attention back to the board as if she can brush me off like another passing student.
I almost smile, the corner of my mouth twitching in acknowledgment. It’s almost endearing, this belief that she can keep herself unaffected.
But before I can respond, Professor Jones clears his throat, calling the class to order. I simply offer Olivia a nod before returning to my seat. I’ll let her hold onto that illusion…for now.
Eventually, the class draws to a close and the lecture hall begins to empty, students filing out in clusters, absorbed in their own conversations and distractions. Olivia lingers by the door, scrolling through her phone, perhaps planning her next steps for the day.
“Olivia,” I call softly, just enough to catch her attention without intruding as I make my way over to her.
She glances up, surprised. There’s a polite but impersonal edge to her expression, the guarded exterior I’ve come to expect. She plays into my design, unaware that I know her patterns as well as she knows them herself.
“Hi, Nathaniel.” Her voice is calm, civil, and I can sense the careful restraint in her gaze, as though she’s already bracing for some transactional exchange.
She underestimates me.
“Thought we could set a time to start working on the project,” I say, keeping my tone light, almost aloof, though the undertone is anything but. “Strategic management, decision-making models, market analysis…they’re all rather broad concepts. We’ll need to sharpen our focus.”
She nods, brow furrowed as she considers. “Agreed. It’ll be easier once we decide on a market.”
I watch her as she speaks, noting the way she stands—her posture almost defiant, yet somehow softened by her natural grace. Everything about her speaks of a quiet resilience, a restrained intensity that intrigues me more than anyone else I’ve encountered at Halford.
“Do you have any initial ideas?” she asks, her tone purely professional. Her gaze flickers to me, aventurine eyes sharp, focused, as if testing to see if I’ll meet her expectations.
I allow a small smile, keeping my reply measured, controlled. “I do. But I’d rather hear your perspective first. There’s value in starting from where we both stand.”
She tilts her head, a slight, surprised smile forming at the edge of her lips. That flicker of approval now that I’ve presented myself as an equal, rather than an authority, is precisely what I wanted—an invitation that she doesn’t even realize she’s giving.
Her voice softens as she speaks, her tone more engaged, and I can sense her slipping into the discussion without her usual armor. “I was thinking…maybe something to do with emerging tech markets? There’s a lot of potential, and the unpredictability makes it challenging to analyze.”
“Interesting,” I pause, letting my gaze linger on her. “There’s a certain…art, I suppose, to predicting outcomes in a field that changes so quickly.”
She nods, pleased, and I can see her relax just slightly, her stance less guarded. I revel in it—how unaware she is of the way I’ve thoughtfully positioned myself, carefully steering her thoughts, her comfort, her sense of control.
I keep the conversation moving, letting her talk, occasionally interjecting with calculated insights that align with her ideas and will allow her to feel seen, understood. She doesn’t know it yet, but this is all part of a larger game—an intricate structure that I’m building, one layer at a time, with her at the center.
“It sounds like we’re on the same page,” I say finally, giving her a look that suggests camaraderie, a shared vision. She offers a polite smile, disarmed.
There’s satisfaction in the simplicity of it. With this seemingly innocuous exchange, I’ve already begun to weave myself into her thoughts, inching closer to the core. I let the silence settle, watching her as she gathers her things, preparing to leave, her expression a mix of determination and deep introspection.
“See you soon, Olivia,” I say, letting my voice drop to a low, knowing murmur. I catch the shift in her expression, and then she nods, offering a quick goodbye before slipping out of the room.
I watch her go, a thrill rippling through me. She has no clue of what she’s set in motion, no concept of the forces shaping her every move.
But she will.
