Page 20 of Say You'll Stay

I pause, a report catching my eye - numbers that refuse to add up, no matter how many times I review them. My stomach twists with a visceral response to the inevitable fallout that awaits, the air in the room feeling thinner, as if the glass walls are closing in, trapping me in a suffocating aquarium where I’m both predator and prey.

But it’s exhausting, this charade - every fake smile, every staged photograph, a piece of my authentic self slipping away, sacrificed upon the altar of public perception and familial duty.

The silence remains, a mocking companion to my solitary confinement at the pinnacle of this towering edifice.

I allow myself a moment of weakness, leaning back in the chair, my head in my hands as the weight of the Deveaux legacy presses down upon me with a relentless, crushing force.

In this gilded cage, I find myself envying Cara - her freedom, her escape from the shackles that now bind me. A bitter laugh escapes my lips, the sound hollow and foreign. Love, freedom, choice - such luxuries are the domain of those unburdened by the thorned crowns and golden fetters that define my existence.

I rise, a mechanical motion, and catch sight of my reflection in the glass - a stranger cloaked in bespoke suits and unearned authority.

The city below, with its twinkling lights and shadowed streets, feels a world away, a mosaic of lives untouched by the tempest that rages within my ivory tower.

But it’s in this moment of profound isolation, with the night encroaching upon the empire of glass and steel, that a spark of defiance ignites within me. I am June Deveaux, yes, but I will be so on my own terms, not as a mere pawn in this game of dynasties and deception.

With a renewed sense of direction, I turn to face the night skyline, the city no longer a witness to my faltering, but a challenge to be met. The road ahead is fraught with battles, both internal and external,but I’m done being a mere pawn in a game of dynasties and deception.

“I will find a way,” I whisper to the city, to myself. “For you, Dad. For me.”

Restlessness is my constant companion as I pace the confines of my office, the stormy thoughts churning in my mind an incessant undercurrent that refuses to be silenced. In the privacy of this space, under the cloak of night, I battle with the memories, the remnants of a past that cling to me like a stubborn veil.

In my pocket, Cara’s panties - a fragment I’m both desperate to hold onto, and terrified to acknowledge - serve as a visceral reminder of the complexity that now defines my existence.

It’s just a skimpy scrap of fabric, yet it represents so much more: the memories we’ve made, the desires we’ve shared, the regrets that now haunt me.

The scent of Cara that had once clung to the delicate lace has long since been replaced by the bitter, isolating reality of my current circumstances.

It’s a cruel, taunting reminder that the world I once knew, the life I shared with the woman I love, has been irreversibly altered.

I’m a man divided, torn between the gnawing need to move forward and the inescapable pull of the past. Cara’s image haunts me, an indelible mark seared into the very fabric of my being.

I miss her, more than I’ve ever allowed myself to admit - the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her touch, the radiant light that shone in her eyes.

All snapshots of a time that now seems both impossibly distant and hauntingly close.

My laptop sits upon the desk, an unassuming portal to a multitude of responsibilities and, paradoxically, a means of escape. I hesitate, caught in the grip of an internal turmoil that finds me grappling with the ethics of my intended course of action.

I’m not here for company secrets or business strategies; no, my purpose is far more selfish, far more desperate. I seek a balm for the ache that has settled deep within my soul - a cure for the longing that threatens to consume me whole.

The blurred line between concern and invasion has left me navigating a murky moral landscape I never intended to enter.

A part of me recoils at the very idea, screaming for me to stop, to turn away. This isn’t the man I want to be - skulking in shadows, clinging to a past that, by all rights, should remain just that.

The thought of betraying Cara’s trust, of infringing upon her privacy in such a fundamental way, should be a wake-up call, a glaring red flag warning me away from this path. And yet, desperation has a way of eroding even the strongest of my resolve.

I rationalize the action, convincing myself that it’s mere concern, a check-in to ensure her safety, nothing more.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly, before giving in to the compulsion that drives me. The screen flickers to life, revealing the scenes of a life that had once been so intimately intertwined with my own.

There she is - Cara, her vibrant presence a balm to the fire that rages within me, even through the grainy lens of the hidden cameras. I tell myself it’s concern, that the tightening in my chest is fear for her well-being, and not the desperate echo of a longing I’ve tried in vain to extinguish.

She’s blissfully unaware of the eyes upon her, living in a bubble of privacy that I’ve shattered with my own selfish actions. Guilt gnaws at the edges of my consciousness, but it’s drowned out by the louder, more insistent voice of desperation, of aching need. I watch, telling myself that this will be the last time, even as I’ve uttered that same lie to myself time and time again.

My fingers fumble with the belt, the clinking sound echoing in the silence of the office like a prelude to the symphony of pleasure that awaits. As I unfasten my pants, freeing my aching cock from its confines, a shiver of anticipation runs down my spine, stoking the base instincts that now threaten to consume me.

I wrap my hand around the throbbing length, savoring every inch as if it were Cara’s own soft touch surrounding me.

A slow stroke starts at the base, trailing up along the thick vein that pulsates with each heartbeat until reaching the swollen tip slick with pre-cum. With agonizing slowness, I begin to stroke, each pump of my fist a mimicry of the delicate movements I remember from our past trysts.