Charlise and Max
The tap of heels on tile echoed faintly as Charlise stood in the foyer, heart racing in time with the rhythmic pulse of anxiety. She shouldn’t have stayed this late. The silence of the empty mansion unnerved her, but something else stirred deeper beneath her skin, a sensation she couldn’t entirely name but had come to recognize over the last few months.
It was him—Max. The perfect blend of unattainable and tempting.
She always noticed when he lingered late, although the others often shrugged it off as dedication to the estate. But Charlise saw the way his hands brushed through his dark hair when he was stressed, how he tapped his pen against his desk during meetings, the way his eyes occasionally met hers and quickly darted away.
He knows, she often thought, convincing herself that he, too, felt the magnetic pull.
Max wasn’t just another man at the estate. He was the man. Polished, handsome in that effortless way that hinted he didn’t fully realize his allure, and, worst of all, engaged. His fiance—a slender, picture-perfect woman—was a frequent topic of small talk among the staff, and the glimpse of her photos on his desk sent Charlise spiraling into waves of self-loathing. She could never compare.
But that knowledge didn’t stop the fantasies.
Late at night, Charlise would replay every interaction she had with Max, inventing alternate versions where his gaze lingered longer, his smile more intimate, his voice lower, whispering her name. In her mind, she constructed scenarios where they were alone—an accidental touch, a shared joke—and then, inevitably, he would close the distance between them, pulling her into an illicit embrace. His fingers would trace her skin, sending shivers down her spine, while the rest of the world fell away. In her fantasies, she was irresistible, powerful, the object of his desire.
But here, now, standing in the dimly lit foyer, that power felt fragile.
Charlise’s hand hovered near her phone. She could send him a message—something innocent. Hey, are you still here? Or maybe something bolder. But she quickly dismissed the idea, fear mixing with guilt. Even if he responded, it would never lead to anything real. What was the point of playing with fire she had no right to touch?
She bit her lip, gripping her phone tightly, her mind spinning with fragments of past interactions. There was that one time, months ago, when they’d brushed shoulders in the foyer, and he’d mumbled an apology with a smile. That smile—she clung to it like a secret promise.
“Hey, Charlise.”
Her heart stopped. The voice came from behind her, smooth and familiar. She didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.
Max.
She swallowed, trying to compose herself before facing him. When she turned, her smile felt tight, her skin too warm. “Max, I didn’t realize anyone else was still here.”
“I had some last-minute reports to go over. You?”
“Oh, just finishing up a few things…” she trailed off, her throat dry, thoughts already skidding toward dangerous territory. What if…
He stood a few feet away, casual, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable. The distance between them suddenly felt vast and suffocating all at once.
For a moment, they stood in silence, the kind that prickled with unspoken tension. She tried to read his face, hoping for some signal, some crack in his perfectly professional demeanor that mirrored her own yearning. But his expression remained neutral, polite.
“I should head out,” he said, breaking the silence. “It’s getting late.”
She nodded, the rational part of her mind urging her to say goodbye and walk away, but her feet remained planted on the ground. As he turned to leave, the words slipped out before she could stop them.
“Max, wait.”
He paused, glancing back. “Yeah?”
Her heart pounded in her chest, loud and erratic. She didn’t know what she was about to say—she just knew she couldn’t let him walk away. Not again.
“I was wondering…” She faltered, the weight of her impulse crashing down on her. What are you doing? her mind screamed, but she couldn’t stop. “If maybe we could grab a drink sometime. You know, just to unwind.”
The air between them thickened, and Max’s brows furrowed, just slightly, but enough to make her stomach drop.
“Uh… I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Charlise.” His voice was calm, careful. “You know… Everleigh, my fiance—“
“Right. Of course.” She forced a laugh, but it came out jagged and brittle. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just—colleagues. Casual.”
His smile was sympathetic, but it made her feel small, foolish. “I appreciate the offer, really. But I should get going. You too.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the quiet hallway.
Charlise stood frozen, the rejection settling like lead in her stomach. Her face burned with shame, the weight of her misstep crushing her. Why did you do that? Her mind buzzed with self-recrimination, replaying the brief exchange over and over, each repetition worse than the last.
It was always the same. No matter how vivid her fantasies, no matter how much she tried to convince herself there was something between them, reality always snapped back into place, reminding her of what she couldn’t have.
She hated herself for wanting him. But even more, she hated that she couldn’t stop.
That night, Charlise lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the room dark and suffocating. The encounter with Max replayed in her mind, each detail sharp and stinging. His rejection wasn’t unexpected, but it still hurt, cutting deeper than she cared to admit.
She turned over, closing her eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Instead, her mind wandered—back to Max, to the mansion, to the fantasy she could never escape.
In her mind, the scene rewound and shifted. This time, when she asked him for a drink, he said yes. They went to a dimly lit bar, where the air was thick with tension. He leaned in close, his voice low and intimate, telling her how he had wanted her for so long, how he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
In her mind, she became everything he wanted—bold, irresistible, intoxicating. And when he kissed her, it was perfect. Everything she had ever imagined and more.
But even in her fantasies, something always went wrong.
Suddenly, his face shifted, distorted, and his eyes, once warm, turned cold, distant. His voice grew sharp, accusing, telling her that she was a fool for ever thinking he could want her. The bar dissolved, replaced by the harsh lights of the mansion’s conference room, and she was left alone, humiliated.
Charlise woke with a start, her chest tight, her heart pounding. The room was too hot, her sheets tangled around her legs. She sat up, gasping for air, the remnants of the dream clinging to her skin like a fever.
She needed to stop. This obsession was eating her alive, warping her sense of reality. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the hold Max had on her.
The following days passed in a blur, Charlise avoiding Max whenever possible. But it didn’t matter. He was always there, in the corners of her mind, lurking behind every thought, every glance. The fantasies continued, more vivid, more consuming, until they began to bleed into her waking hours.
She would catch glimpses of him in the mansion—his hand brushing hers as he passed by, a fleeting look that lingered longer than it should. She knew it wasn’t real, but in those moments, it didn’t matter. The lines between fantasy and reality blurred until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
One evening, as Charlise stood by the window of her apartment, staring out at the city lights, she felt it again—that pull, that unrelenting ache for something she could never have.
In the reflection of the glass, she saw him. Max. Standing behind her, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable. She turned, her breath hitching, but the room was empty.
Her mind was playing tricks on her.
Or maybe it wasn’t.
Charlise stared into the darkness, her heart racing, as the shadows shifted and twisted around her, taking on shapes she couldn’t quite recognize.
And in that moment, she realized she was no longer in control.
The fantasies had taken over.
And they were never letting her go.
