All That She Couldn't Control Ch. 02

NILA

I came to work the next morning feeling suspiciously good about myself.

Not happy, exactly. Not innocent, either.

Just... light.

There was something satisfying about knowing I'd done something outrageous and getting away with it. Twice, technically, if we counted the previous handkerchief.

I knew what I'd done. I knew the possible repercussions. And if Sloane had decided to sack me, I would have had absolutely no one to blame but myself.

But she hadn't.

In fact, she'd said nothing at all.

Which was interesting.

Very interesting.

I entered the office to find Sloane already seated behind her desk, typing away at her system with the sort of concentration usually reserved for surgeons and people trying to defuse bombs.

I wasn't surprised.

Sometimes, I genuinely wondered whether the woman lived in the office. Perhaps there was a secret bedroom behind her filing cabinet. A private kitchen somewhere beneath her desk. Maybe she charged her phone in the bathroom and called it a night.

Wouldn't put it past her.

"Good morning," I greeted.

"Hmm."

I stared at the back of her head for approximately two seconds.

This woman.

Was a proper greeting too much to ask for? Had the words good morning become an insult in whatever language she spoke?

I swallowed my commentary and settled at my desk.

Work first. Insulting my boss in my head was a full-time job, and I already had one of those.

The morning passed quietly. We worked in the same room, separated by a few desks and an increasingly ridiculous amount of unspoken tension.

Nothing unusual about that.

Except something felt different.

I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Sloane wasn't looking at me any more than usual, and she hadn't made any snide remarks about my work. She was simply... quieter.

And somehow, that was more suspicious than her usual temper.

I let it go.

At least, I tried to.

Immediately after lunch, she called me over.

"You're going to Daystar Logistics."

I looked up. "Okay?"

"I need you to confirm the gate-in status of the containers on this list. Cross-check the container numbers and update the records. I want the confirmed list before close of business."

I took the paper she extended towards me.

Daystar.

Two hours away, on a good day.

On a bad day, the journey could become a spiritual test of patience, morality and one's willingness to abandon civilization altogether.

I glanced at the list.

Then at her.

"Today?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you see another date on the paper?"

There she was.

"No, ma'am."

"Then why are you asking?"

"Just confirming."

"Confirm faster next time."

I pressed my lips together.

Yes, Sloane. Of course, Sloane. Anything else, Sloane? Would you like me to carry the entire shipping industry on my head while I'm at it?

I returned to my desk, collected my things and left.

The trip was every bit as miserable as I'd expected.

The traffic was horrendous, the road was worse, and by the time I arrived, I already regretted every decision that had led me to that office.

The confirmation itself was another ordeal.

I had to move between the gate and the operations desk, check container numbers, speak to different personnel and wait for updates that seemed to arrive only when the people responsible felt spiritually prepared to provide them.

The sun was merciless.

By the time I finished, my vintage shirt was sticking to my back, dust had settled on my clothes, and my Crocs had acquired a thin layer of mud that I suspected would require professional intervention.

I checked the time.

Lovely.

Just fucking lovely.

I was going to smell like a construction site by the time I got back.

And that was when the thought occurred to me.

Why me?

There were a million and one people who could have handled this task. Someone could have called ahead. Someone else could have helped confirm the containers. Hell, Sloane could have delegated it to one of the field personnel already working around the terminal.

But no.

It had to be me.

Was she deliberately trying to exhaust me? Was she simply being her usual insufferable self?

I couldn't tell.

And that annoyed me more than the assignment itself.

By 4:30 p. m., I finally returned to Bowen Resources.

I was dishevelled, dusty, sweaty and thoroughly pissed off. My hair had abandoned whatever sleek arrangement I'd given it that morning, my Crocs left faint muddy prints on the floor, and I was fairly certain my shirt had absorbed enough of the day's suffering to qualify as evidence in a workplace complaint.

I walked into the office, already preparing a mental speech about my working conditions.

Sloane was gone.

Of course she was.

Her desk was empty except for a neatly folded handkerchief.

I stopped.

Stared.

Then slowly looked towards the door, as though the woman might materialize out of thin air just to tell me I was standing incorrectly.

"The fucking bitch," I muttered.

I was tired. I was angry. And, apparently, I was still participating in whatever ridiculous game we'd started playing with handkerchiefs.

Fine.

If she wanted to play, we would play.

But I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of another carefully folded offering.

I picked up the handkerchief and used it to wipe the dust and sweat from my face and neck. Then I rubbed it against my armpits, making absolutely no effort to preserve its original condition.

By the time I was done, it was damp, visibly soiled and thoroughly used.

I examined it.

Beautiful.

A work of art, really.

I dropped it on her desk without folding it, packed my things and clocked out.

Let her decide what to do with that.

I wasn't staying a minute longer.

---

SLOANE

I stayed back after the meeting.

Not because I had work to finish.

I had work to finish, obviously. I always had work to finish. The company did not run on air and good intentions, despite the questionable competence of some of the people I employed.

But that wasn't why I stayed.

I needed to avoid Nila.

More specifically, I needed to avoid being in the office when she discovered the handkerchief I'd left for her.

The handkerchief.

My handkerchief.

The one she'd contaminated with her sweat and whatever else had made me behave like a woman who had lost every shred of dignity.

I still couldn't explain what had happened the previous evening.

I wasn't attracted to Nila.

I didn't like Nila.

I certainly didn't want anything from Nila.

And yet, I'd spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about her scent.

It was infuriating.

I'd decided the only sensible course of action was to put an end to the nonsense before it escalated into something even more humiliating.

Leaving the handkerchief for her had been a mistake.

A temporary lapse in judgment.

Nothing more.

I could handle this.

I was Head of Operations at Bowen Resources Limited. I managed shipments, deadlines, staff and the general incompetence of an entire department. I did not lose control because of a handkerchief.

I checked my watch.

5:13 p. m.

Time to go.

I returned to the office, expecting to find Nila at her desk, probably wearing that irritating little smile of hers.

Instead, the office was empty.

My eyes went straight to my desk.

Then I noticed the handkerchief

Except it wasn't neatly folded.

It had been tossed onto my desk like a discarded rag. There were visible marks on the fabric, and it looked as though it had been dragged through half of Lagos.

I stared at it.

My first reaction was anger.

My second was outrage.

My third was to pick it up and throw it into the nearest bin.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered.

I meant it.

This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. Whatever strange psychological warfare Nila thought she was waging, I was done participating.

I reached for the handkerchief to trash it.

Just one last sniff.

That was all.

One tiny sniff, and then I would throw it away.

I brought it closer.

And stopped.

Oh.

My steps faltered.

The scent was stronger than before, heavy with the day's heat, dust and sweat. It was earthy and unmistakably hers, carrying the sort of raw, musky quality that seemed to bypass my judgment entirely.

I inhaled again before I could stop myself.

Fuck.

Why?

Why did it have to smell like that?

I should have been disgusted. The handkerchief was visibly dirty. Any reasonable person would have dropped it, washed their hands and moved on with their life.

Instead, I stood in the middle of my office, holding it against my face like an absolute lunatic.

I could almost hear my own common sense screaming at me.

Put it down, Sloane.

Throw it away.

Burn it, for all I cared.

Anything but this.

I lowered it, staring at the fabric in my hand.

Then, as though that would somehow make the situation less pathetic, I folded it and placed it inside my desk drawer.

Out of sight.

Out of mind.

Problem solved.

Except I knew it wasn't.

I shut the drawer, grabbed my bag and left the office with my jaw clenched.

Tomorrow, this would end.

One way or another.

---

NILA

I arrived at work the following morning in a foul mood.

The road had been terrible, the traffic had been worse, and I was five minutes late.

Five minutes.

At any other workplace, that might have been a minor inconvenience. At Bowen Resources, it was practically a criminal offence.

I entered the office and found Sloane already waiting to tear me apart.

I could see it in her face.

Her jaw was tight, her eyes narrowed, and her mouth had opened just enough for me to know I was about to receive a lecture about punctuality, professionalism and the collapse of civilization.

"You're late," she snapped.

I put my bag down.

"Good morning to you too."

Her eyes flashed.

"Nila--"

I looked directly at her.

Not an apologetic glance. Not the nervous smile she probably expected. Just a steady, level stare that said I had neither the time nor the patience for whatever she was about to do.

Not now.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then she shut her mouth.

I turned to my computer and logged in.

The silence that followed was almost beautiful.

Almost.

Because I could feel her irritation from across the room, and I knew she wasn't used to having someone look at her that way.

The rest of the day passed in a strange, quiet haze.

Sloane worked. I worked. We exchanged the bare minimum of words required to keep the department running.

At close of business, I noticed something on her desk.

A handkerchief.

Neatly folded.

Her handkerchief.

I didn't go over to collect it. I didn't give her my scent she so crave, and I certainly didn't give her the satisfaction of acknowledging that I'd noticed.

I simply packed my things and left.

Let her wonder.

---

SLOANE

How dare she?

I stared at the neatly folded handkerchief on my desk.

Nothing.

No fresh scent. No trace of the previous day's heat and sweat. Just a piece of fabric there on my desk same way i left it

How fucking dare she?

I should have been relieved.

This was what I'd wanted, wasn't it? An end to the nonsense. A return to normality. No more secret indulgences, no more ridiculous fixation, no more standing alone in my office questioning my own sanity.

Except I wasn't relieved.

I was irritated.

Furious, actually.

And the most infuriating part was that I couldn't even justify my anger.

I had decided to put an end to it. I had made that decision myself.

So why did I feel as though Nila had somehow taken the decision away from me?

I picked up the handkerchief, folded it again, then put it down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I was not going to become dependent on a subordinate's body odour.

I was not going to start looking forward to something as absurd as a handkerchief.

And I certainly wasn't going to allow Nila to dictate the terms of anything in my office.

If this ended, it would end because I said so.

Not because that short, irritating woman decided she'd had enough.

The thought made my blood boil.

By the following morning, everyone in Bowen Resources had become a potential target.

A booking was submitted late.

I tore into the person responsible.

A driver asked a question I'd already answered twice.

I made him regret asking a third.

Dan's assistant came to deliver a document and left my office with tears in her eyes.

Even the transporters outside felt the full force of my temper.

I didn't care.

Or rather, I cared very much, but I was too angry to examine why.

By Wednesday, I was worse.

A minor error in a shipping instruction became a lecture. An incomplete booking became a departmental crisis. A colleague's perfectly reasonable question nearly earned him a week's worth of extra work.

I even fired Jeff.

Jeff was an idiot, admittedly, but I didn't make impulsive decisions. I preferred to examine a problem, consider the consequences and act when I was certain.

This time, I'd barely considered anything.

The decision had come out of my mouth before I'd properly thought it through.

And now, with Jeff gone and the department walking on eggshells, I was more irritable than ever.

Nila, meanwhile, remained infuriatingly calm.

She did her work. She answered questions. She occasionally smiled at something on her screen, and sometimes I caught her exchanging jokes with colleagues.

She seemed perfectly fine.

Unbothered.

Unimpressed.

As though the entire office wasn't suffering because I had apparently misplaced my last shred of patience.

I hated her.

I hated her confidence, her composure, her ridiculous little Crocs and the way she could look at me without immediately looking away.

And I absolutely did not miss her scent.

Not even a little.

The fact that I had started thinking about it at random intervals was irrelevant.

Completely irrelevant.

By Thursday, I'd reached my limit.

---

NILA

I left my bag open during lunch.

Not dramatically. Not in a way that would make anyone suspicious.

I simply left it where it was, with my handkerchief visible among my things.

It wasn't particularly strong. I'd used it that morning, but it hadn't spent hours collecting sweat under the sun.

Still, it was enough.

Enough to remind her.

Enough to make her wonder.

Enough to leave a question hanging in the air without having to say a word.

I didn't need to sneak into Sloane's office to know she would notice it.

I knew her type.

All that pent-up frustration, all that perfectionism, all that anger she seemed to carry around like an accessory. People like Sloane needed control. They needed routines, rules and the comforting belief that everything could be managed if they were sufficiently strict about it.

And when something slipped beyond their control?

They became unbearable.

I suspected the past few days had been particularly unpleasant for everyone around her.

I was even surprised when I heard she'd fired Jeff.

Jeff was an idiot, yes, but Sloane wasn't usually impulsive enough to make such a decision without exhausting every possible alternative first.

Perhaps I'd gotten to her more than I'd expected.

I wasn't worried, though.

For some reason, I knew she wanted to piss me off far more than she wanted to get rid of me.

There was a difference.

And I intended to find out just how much of one.

I returned from lunch ten minutes late.

That was deliberate, too.

Normally, I would have expected a lecture, perhaps a warning about my attitude or a reminder that my job wasn't a charity.

Instead, I walked into the office to find Sloane sitting behind her desk, looking marginally less murderous than she had the previous morning.

Interesting.

I glanced at my bag.

The handkerchief was no longer positioned exactly as I'd left it.

I looked back at Sloane.

She was typing.

Very intently.

Almost aggressively, in fact.

I bit back a smile.

Oh, Sloane.

The untouchable Head of Operations, who could reduce grown men to silence with a single look, had apparently found herself sneaking into my bag for a whiff of my pit and sweat.

I returned to my desk.

For the rest of the afternoon, I made sure to look Sloane directly in the eye whenever she assigned me a task.

She, on the other hand, seemed to have developed a sudden interest in everything except my face.

Her computer.

Her files.

The clock.

A random spot on the wall.

Anything but me.

I found it fascinating.

Then she called me over to review a container report.

I walked to her desk.

She barely looked up.

"The empty containers list," she began, "doesn't indicate the containers with demurrage."

I glanced at the document.

"You asked me to input the gate-in and departure details."

"And?"

"That's what I did."

She lifted her head.

"Don't you know you're supposed to use your initiative? The purpose of the task is to calculate demurrage, not simply enter numbers into a spreadsheet!"

Her voice rose with every word.

There it was.

My familiar, delightful Sloane.

I kept my expression neutral.

"I didn't realize that was part of the assignment. I'll update it now."

"That's all you ever do!"

I blinked.

"Sorry?"

"Apologize and submit half-baked work! What exactly is your purpose here, Nila?"

She struck the desk with her palm and stood up.

The sound made a couple of people in the adjoining workspace go quiet.

Sloane was tall enough to make the gesture intimidating. At five-foot-nine, she had nearly half a foot on me, and she knew how to use her height to dominate a room.

She leaned forward, glaring at me.

"Do I have to spell out every single thing for you? Do I have to hold your hand through every assignment?"

I looked at her.

Really looked at her.

Inside, I was furious.

I swear, one day, I'm going to make you swallow every single humiliation you've put me through.

But my face remained still.

I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose my temper.

Not today.

Not when she was already doing such an excellent job of losing hers.

I tilted my head slightly, looking at her with the patient, unimpressed expression one might reserve for a particularly spoilt child.

Then I spoke.

"Is there anything else you want me to correct?"

Sloane stared at me.

For one brief moment, I thought she might actually explode.

Instead, her mouth tightened.

"Just fix it."

"Alright."

I turned and walked back to my desk.

Behind me, the office remained silent for a few seconds longer than necessary.

I sat down, opened the spreadsheet and began making the corrections.

My hands were steady.

My expression was calm.

And I could practically feel Sloane burning holes into the back of my head.

Good.

Let her wonder.

---

SLOANE

Why did I always do that?

I stood there for a moment after Nila walked away, staring at her back as she returned to her desk.

I'd wanted to shout at her.

I'd wanted her to look embarrassed, perhaps even a little frightened. I wanted her to understand that she couldn't simply stroll into my office, do the bare minimum and expect me to tolerate it.

Instead, I'd ended the confrontation by telling her to fix the document.

And she'd answered with a perfectly ordinary alright.

Alone, that shouldn't have bothered me.

But it did.

Because she'd looked at me as though I were a child throwing a tantrum.

Me.

Sloane.

I was the Head of Operations. I was the person people came to when a shipment went wrong, when a deadline was missed, when someone needed a decision made quickly.

I did not stand in my office feeling small because a five-foot-three woman had looked at me with mild disappointment.

And yet, there I was.

I sat down slowly.

Across the room, Nila continued working as though nothing had happened.

She didn't look at me.

She didn't smirk.

She didn't even seem particularly pleased with herself.

That was what made it worse.

If she'd been visibly smug, I could have called her out. If she'd rolled her eyes or made a sarcastic remark, I could have reprimanded her.

But she hadn't.

She'd simply looked at me, asked what else needed correcting, and returned to work.

How was I supposed to fight someone who refused to give me anything to fight?

I opened a file on my computer.

Read the first line.

Read it again.

I hadn't absorbed a single word.

My gaze drifted towards Nila's desk.

She was typing, her posture relaxed, her expression unreadable.

I looked away immediately.

This was getting out of hand.

I hated Nila.

Let me be clear about that.

This was not some ridiculous love-hate situation. I wasn't secretly falling for her, and I wasn't going to wake up one morning with a sudden appreciation for her personality.

I hated her confidence.

I hated her composure.

I hated the way she seemed entirely comfortable in a workplace where everyone else knew better than to challenge me.

And yes, perhaps I had developed an unfortunate fondness for her scent.

That was a separate issue.

A biological inconvenience.

Nothing more.

I was not attracted to her.

I did not want her.

And I certainly wasn't going to let her find out that she could get under my skin simply by existing.

I turned back to my computer and forced myself to work.

Across the room, Nila laughed at something on her screen.

I gripped my mouse a little tighter.

God, I fucking hated that woman.