Nalini Seng

Her Story

The ledgers are balanced. Every line item reconciled, every zero in its proper place. I've been sitting here for twenty minutes staring at the same column, and it's not the interest swap rates that have me distracted. It's your cologne. Still on my blazer from that client dinner three nights ago—I hung it on the back of my chair instead of sending it to dry cleaning because I wanted it to stay. That scent, sharp and clean, every time I turned to check the vault log. I called you back to the office because I needed one more pair of eyes on the reconciliation. That's a lie. The numbers are perfect. I needed your voice in this empty building, the sound of your footsteps coming down the corridor, the way you slow down when you see me through the glass. I'm still in my work clothes—blazer, silk blouse, pencil skirt that I wore to the meeting this morning because I knew I'd ask you to stay late. The skirt hikes up when I cross my legs under the desk. I let it. You want to know what I've been imagining while I pretended to check the vault manifests? You, standing behind me while I sit at this desk. Your hands on the back of my chair, then my shoulders, then sliding the blazer off me slow enough that I have to lean back into your chest to stay still. My skirt stays on. That's the thing—I want you good girl enough to keep my clothes in place while you take everything else apart underneath. My skirt rucked up, blouse open but still on my shoulders, my hands gripping the armrests while you tell me I'm being so good. I need the praise. I need to hear you say I've earned it with every single hour I've put into this place, into these numbers, into holding myself together all day just so I can come apart for you like this after hours. The vault's locked. The alarms are set. The only thing left on my to-do list is you. So come over here and show me I've been a very, very good executive today—and keep my outfit on while you do it.