Chapter 6 Night Games

8:11 a.m.

The boardroom smells of fresh espresso and ambition—two things rarely found in the same person. I sit at the head of the table, legs crossed, watching the junior team fumble through their weekly metrics. Sales are up, and the new teaser for "Obsession" is outperforming projections.

They think this is my win, but it isn’t.

“Trim the ad spot by seven seconds,” I say, interrupting a proud digital strategist. “Start with the shoulder turn. End with the pulse point. Voiceover only.” He blinks and nods, “Yes, Dr. Volke.”

I barely hear the rest of the report; my mind is on the text I received this morning—not from 004G, but from Subject 014B.

6:39 a.m.

"Was it okay? Being with me the other day?"

Subject 014B was quiet during our first meeting, his eyes darting nervously. I wore the slightest trace of the formula, yet he lingered like he didn’t want to leave. Now, he’s texting me as if I’ve touched him. I haven’t yet.

I dismissed the board meeting and returned to my desk, flipping open the blue folder I had prepared the night before. I know Subject 014B's weaknesses by heart: thirty-four, divorced five years ago, soft-spoken, dislikes conflict, struggles with sleep, and has a history of romantic abandonment.

He won’t need to be seduced; he’ll seduce himself.

I look at the new vial. This formula is richer, designed to soothe and create a sense of safety.

I say to the empty room, “Let’s see what happens when I give him everything.” And then take it all away.

7:46 p.m.

He arrives three minutes early. Of course he does.

I watch from the kitchen window as he parks and checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. His movements are tentative—hands smoothing his collar, adjusting his sleeves, then undoing it all and trying again. Like he’s worried I’ll notice the wrong choice and walk away.

He knocks once. Then hesitates. Knocks again. I open the door before the third.

His breath catches. I’m barefoot. The dress I chose is soft cream, one-shouldered and low-backed, loose enough to whisper but tight enough to outline every curve. The fabric clings to the slope of my hips and dips just low enough to show the edge of the black lace beneath. Subtle. But deliberate.

He swallows and steps inside. “You didn’t have to go to any trouble,” he says, eyeing the soft candlelight and the wine open on the counter. “I didn’t,” I lie. “This is just how I wind down.” His eyes are already trailing over my shoulder, toward the couch. Toward comfort. Toward contact. I let him take in the room. Soft jazz is playing low. The scent of vanilla mixed with the deeper notes from the formula I placed just below my jawline.

He breathes deeply. Perfect. “You smell,” he starts. “Good. I mean, really good.” “I’m glad,” I say softly.

I pour the wine. He watches the glass, not me, like he’s afraid of wanting too much. We sit. Close, but not touching. The silence stretches, not awkward, but weighty. He’s trying to figure out what this is. I don’t help him.

Instead, I tilt my head, letting my hair fall to one side, the movement sends a gentle scent wave to him. I glance at his hand, and he’s gripping his glass too tightly. Knuckles pale.

“Rough day?” I ask. He nods. “Just… I don’t know. I’ve been on edge.” “Anxious?” I ask. “Restless.”

I nod, encouraging without confirming. I place my hand on the cushion between us, open, inviting, but not reaching. He shifts closer. His leg brushes mine. It’s tentative. Barely there. He stops breathing again when he realizes it. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to.” “Relax,” I say gently. “You’re fine.” He exhales, relieved. Like I’ve absolved him. His hand edges toward mine, but I don’t take it. I let the air hum between our skin. Let him wonder what it means. “I feel like I can be honest with you,” he says after a moment. “That’s weird, right? We barely know each other.” “That’s not weird,” I say. “That’s chemistry.”

His eyes light up. That’s what he needed. He leans in, breath away, and lingers. Waiting for permission.

I don’t give it. Instead, I stand. “I’ll be right back,” I say softly. “Make yourself comfortable.” When I return, he’s still sitting there, hands in his lap, trying not to look like he’s waiting. But he is.

Perfect. He hasn’t moved. Not in the way that matters.

014B is still sitting in the same position on the couch, legs tucked in, hands cupped around the now-warm wineglass like it’s the last thing keeping him grounded. His eyes lift the moment I step back into view, as if he’s been holding his breath.

I sit closer this time. Not touching. Not yet.

Just enough for him to feel the warmth of my skin through the air.

He tries to keep the conversation going, asking me about my work and what inspires me. I give him little pieces. Curated truths. Not enough to trace, but enough to hold.

He leans in more now. Close enough that his thigh brushes mine and stays there.

His hand hovers. I let it. Then I tilt my head, exposing my neck. It’s subtle. Intentional. An invitation. He moves. Slowly. His fingertips brush the bare skin of my arm, then move up to the curve of my shoulder. His breath hitches when he reaches my jawline, just beneath my ear. He’s trying to smell me again. He doesn’t realize it. I turn my head so he can.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers. I smile. Soft. Tragic. “You don’t want to.” His brow furrows. “I… I do.” “No,” I murmur. “You want to feel wanted.” He blinks. Like I’ve exposed something he wasn’t ready to see.

Before he can speak, I slide my hand up his chest, slowly, then over the back of his neck, threading my fingers into his hair. His eyes close. He leans in. I tighten my grip. Hold him there, inches from my mouth. “Not tonight,” I whisper. He shudders. I don’t release him. I keep my hand in his hair, holding him steady, letting him breathe me in and letting the ache settle into him. His cock is hard. I can see it straining against the fabric. He’s panting now, but trying not to make it obvious. I ease my grip. Let my fingers trail down the back of his neck.

I stand. “Text me when you get home.” He’s dazed. Flushed. Confused.

I open the door for him. I put my hair behind my ear, revealing my neck, to let the scent reach him one last time.

He nods. And leaves. I lock the door.

Then I walk straight to my desk and press the record button.

“Subject 014B. Day three. Rapid attachment confirmed. Emotional vulnerability is present. Physical escalation was achieved but not completed. Sexual tension: elevated. Compliance: increasing. Tonight’s result: Controlled denial. Response to follow within twelve hours.”

I stopped the recording. File it. Encrypt it. Then I smirk. It’s not the climax he wanted. It’s exactly what I needed.