The days leading up to the fateful Friday Happy Hour crawled by with the speed of a dial-up download, each hour marked by a nervous twitch in my left eye. The prospect of the social event loomed over me like the Sword of Damocles, except instead of a sword, it was probably a glass of warm beer about to be spilled on me by some overly enthusiastic colleague. Every morning at Studio S.A. was an exercise in survival on high alert.
My usual paranoia, already an old acquaintance, had found new and exciting targets. The Marketing glass fishbowl became my primary observation point – from a distance, of course, through the slits of my cubicle partition or during strategic, quick trips to the water cooler, always with my heart in my throat. Dante and his friends were there, a vortex of loud energy, forced laughter, and broad gestures. I noticed their glances in my direction more often now.
They weren't looks of genuine interest; they were appraising, curious gazes, almost like entomologists examining a particularly strange insect before pinning it. A shiver ran down my spine every time their eyes met mine (or rather, the back of my neck, since I instantly looked away). The word "tamed" still echoed in my mind. They were watching me. The hunt, apparently, was on.
And then there was Steven. The Walking Enigma. After the laconic "Okay" and the water cooler incident, he seemed to have retreated into his own silent orbit. Our interactions were limited to barely perceptible nods in the hallway – which looked more like involuntary spasms on both sides – or short, technical replies on the communicator about work. But I watched him too, in the gaps of my own anxiety. Trying to decipher that puzzle.
He was quiet amidst the office chaos, absorbed in his complex level layouts across multiple monitors, headphones often in place, a subtle barrier against the outside world. He talked to some colleagues on his team, always calmly, directly, almost minimally. No apparent resemblance to the vibrant, socially dominant figure Marina was. How did they...? The question ricocheted in my head like an out-of-control pinball, tangling my already confused thoughts about him, about the code, about everything.
The relative peace (read: absence of social predators in my immediate vicinity, a window of maybe fifteen minutes) lasted less time than my old phone's battery. On Wednesday, there he was again, materializing beside my cubicle like a poorly rendered game character, with his cloying scent of expensive cologne and dubious intentions. Dante.
Dante forced his "standard charm level 3" smile. Mission: approach the Weirdo. His friends were watching from the Marketing fishbowl; he could feel their mocking gazes. What a pain. She was just an awkward nerd.
But a bet was a bet, and he didn't like losing. Besides, the more uninterested and skittish she seemed, the more it poked at his competitive ego. Maybe there was a challenge here after all. Taming the beast. Or, in this case, making the dull houseplant bloom... or something. Pathetic, but it was a game.
"Surviving the jungle, Bia?" he asked, his voice laced with false intimacy, as he leaned over the partition, invading my personal airspace. "Saw you were focused on those... digital pebbles." He gestured towards my screen with a studied hand movement, his fingers accidentally brushing my shoulder in the process.
I recoiled instinctively in my chair, feeling a shiver of revulsion. The touch, however brief, seemed to burn like acid. "It's texture," I corrected through gritted teeth, my voice coming out lower and rougher than intended, without taking my eyes off the screen where I was battling a particularly rebellious UV map.
"Texture, drawings... same thing to a people person," he retorted with an annoying wink. He noticed her recoil, the discomfort. Perfect. A little resistance made the hunt more fun. He'd push a little harder. "But seriously, you look tense. Too much work? Or is it just the environment here that's a bit... gray for someone with so much... hidden artistic potential?" His gaze swept quickly down my body, a rapid, assessing scan, before returning to my face with a smile he probably thought was irresistible.
Artistic potential? Tense? Was he analyzing me like I was a sale item? "I'm fine, thank you," I replied, trying to inject ice into my voice, aiming for the tone of a robot with a faulty emotion unit.
"Fine? You sure?" He chuckled softly, a hollow sound, joyless, pure rehearsed superiority. "An artist like you shouldn't be stuck just doing this." He leaned in a little closer, the cologne scent getting stronger, lowering his voice as if sharing a vital secret.
"You know, the Marketing folks are having lunch today at a new place, a charming little bistro nearby. Good food, beautiful people..." He paused, his gaze fixed on mine, waiting for me to take the bait. "...and maybe a more... inspiring... atmosphere for you. Why don't you come with us? I'll introduce you to everyone. They'd love to meet our new... inspiring muse from Art."
Inspiring muse? Charming bistro? Beautiful people? His words dripped with falsehood. The way he said "love," with that subtle emphasis, made my stomach churn. I pictured the scene: him dragging me into the middle of his marketing pack, showing me off like a bizarre trophy. "Look everyone, the Weirdo I'm trying to 'tame'! Isn't she cute?". The urge to vomit my non-existent breakfast was strong.
"I can't. I have... too much work," I repeated the lie, now with conviction born of pure disgust and social panic.
Dante sighed, a sigh worthy of an Oscar for Best Dramatic Performance in a Corporate Environment. Ah, Biazinha, suit yourself. Tough one, huh? he thought, frustration growing like an annoying itch. His friends were already blowing up the group chat. 'So, Dantinho, struck out with the nerd again?'. That bruised his ego. He needed to win this stupid bet. Her difficulty, her refusal, only made him want it more. It was a game, and he was going to win. He'd have to change tactics, maybe something more direct, more... unexpected.
"Okay, okay. Got the message. But hey, don't disappear, okay?" He leaned in again, his face dangerously close to mine, the predatory smile back. "And get ready for Happy Hour on Friday. I want to see if all that concentration works with a little loud music and... interesting distractions."
He gave another wink, longer this time, almost an invasive and totally unwanted visual caress, before straightening up with an air of smug victory, as if he'd just scored an imaginary goal.
At the exact moment he turned to leave, triumphant in his own sick mind, I minimally raised my eyes and my gaze met Steven's as he passed down the hall.
He had seen Dante there, so close. He had seen the lingering wink. Steven's expression hardened visibly, his jaw tightening, an icy spark in his eyes before he abruptly averted his gaze and continued on his way, his steps quicker and heavier than usual.
Jealousy? It definitely wasn't just my imagination this time. That was... contained anger? But why? Because of me? Impossible. He barely spoke to me.
Steven, for his part, felt his blood boil witnessing the scene. Dante leaning over Bia, the predatory smile, the sleazy wink. That idiot was clearly bothering her, invading her space. And Bia looked like a cornered little animal, shrunk in her chair, visibly uncomfortable. The urge to go over there and drag Dante away by the collar was almost uncontrollable.
He knew Dante's reputation, especially after dating Marina – knew he had no scruples and collected conquests like trophies. The idea of him harassing Bia, however subtly, was intolerable. He clenched his fists inside his pockets, forcing himself to keep walking, anger and a protective concern mixing with the jealousy he was still trying to understand.
I took a deep breath as Dante finally disappeared from view, trying to calm the tremor in my hands and the nausea in my stomach. His approach had been different. More invasive, more suggestive, almost... threatening in its falseness. The innuendos, the "accidental" touches, the stares... This wasn't just a stupid bet or a clumsy attempt at socialization. There was something more there. Something predatory. I felt a different kind of fear towards him, not just social discomfort, but a real warning signal of danger.
But then, a treacherous little voice, fueled by years of self-deprecation and invisibility, whispered in the back of my mind: What if...?
What if it's not just the bet? What if he, in some bizarre, inexplicable way, is... interested? The idea was so absurd, so outside my reality, it almost made me choke. Him? Dante? Perfect Marina's boyfriend? The popular Marketing guy... interested in me?
For a horrible, involuntary microsecond, my traitorous mind projected a scene worthy of the worst cheap fanfic script. Dante, no longer with that fake smile, but with an intense, hungry gaze (cliché!), pressing me against the cubicle partition.
The fluorescent office lights creating a... zero romantic mood, actually, but the fantasy didn't care about details. His hand sliding up my waist under my cardigan, his hot breath on my neck, whispering something sleazy like, "Knew there was fire underneath that scared nerd face...". My fantasy self, pathetically, might moan, "Oh, Dante... not here...", while he'd already be unbuttoning his own impeccable shirt with the other hand, revealing abs that were probably the result of lots of whey protein and zero carbs...
My entire face caught fire. NO! What the hell kind of thought was that?! I shook my head hard, as if trying to physically dislodge the disgusting, cliché image from my mind. It was Dante! The superficial guy making bets about me! Marina's boyfriend! What kind of short circuit was my virgin, desperate brain having?! Traitorous hoo-ha! Are you that desperate for sausage you can't even resist a douchebag in a dress shirt?! Settle down, you wet and clueless rebel! I think I'll have to silence you later with some advanced virgin-level-hard fingering techniques, just to teach you how to behave!
It was ridiculous. It was impossible. It was a stupid thought born from my chronic neediness and my total lack of experience in being... looked at that way, even if it was a fake, predatory look. The unwanted fantasy only served to leave me even more disgusted – with him, and with myself for having even thought it, and with my own apparently standard-less biology with terrible taste in fantasies.
I knew, in my logical core, that it was probably the bet, or boredom, or some cruel inside joke. He was a scumbag with a nice smile, end of story. There was nothing desirable there, let alone genuine. The fantasy was just... a bug in my system, a bizarre reflection of my own inexperience and the unwanted attention.
But the seed of confused doubt about his intentions (even if the attraction was zero) had been planted. Now, besides the fear and repulsion, there was this extra layer of nauseating confusion and self-questioning. Was I the target of a cruel bet or, somehow unbelievably, the object of a sleazy flirtation that my idiot brain almost mistook for desire? Which scenario was worse? And how the hell was I going to survive Happy Hour with this mental confusion eating away at me, added to Steven's enigmatic presence and the dangerous secret of the spy code?
Neurosis bubbled, boiling in my stomach. That Friday promised to be a horror show on every imaginable level.