Page 13 of Mutual Desire

The Spectator

If there was ever a moment Damien wished he could vanish into thin air, it was this one. Knowing the man he had “assaulted” with coffee—twice—was still in the room didn’t help. That the man remained seated, seemingly unbothered, only made Damien’s anxiety worse.

He couldn’t leave. Not without jeopardizing Nick’s career, and Damien couldn’t do that to his friend. Not to mention, the idea of standing up in front of all these people and making a swift exit was laughable. So, Damien remained rooted to his chair as presentation after presentation dragged on, his stomach twisting with every passing moment. Nick’s colleagues stayed even after they presented, which only worsened Damien’s predicament. Were they genuinely curious about the other projects, or were they just being polite?

The seven men leading the session peppered each presenter with questions and criticism, their feedback merciless. They took turns asking brutally honest questions, offering criticisms so harsh that Damien wondered if they took pleasure in tearing people down. Only one of them offered occasional compliments. The rest didn’t hold back. Their brutal honesty left one of Nick’s female colleagues on the verge of tears after a particularly scathing remark.

Yet, despite the harshness, the gray-eyed man remained silent throughout. Damien couldn't decide whether or not that was a good thing. But the heavy tension in the room grew with every wordless second Gray-Eyes spent watching the proceedings, like a predator observing its prey.

Finally, Nick’s name was called. The moment had arrived. Damien caught his friend’s eye, exchanging a nervous, tight-lipped smile before they rose from their seats. Nick grabbed his closed laptop, and Damien clutched his iPad like a lifeline as they made their way to the front of the room.

As Damien turned to face the audience, his gaze briefly locked onto Gray-Eyes. The man sat in his chair with the casual ease of a king on a throne, one leg crossed over the other. He was positioned farther back than the other executives—an observer more than a participant. Yet somehow, his presence filled the room.

Nick’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he pulled up the PowerPoint, and Damien switched off the lights, leaving only the screen to illuminate the room. The familiar glow gave him a momentary sense of comfort. He was a teacher, after all. Presentations were second nature to him, right?

But just as Nick began to speak, two soft knocks interrupted.

The door creaked open, revealing a tall blonde. “Apologies, Mr.…” She hesitated, addressing the gray-eyed man. “Mr. Crawford is on the line and requesting to speak with you. He says it’sregarding the meeting which was canceled today.”

The man barely reacted. His eyes remained on the front of the room, cold and unreadable.“I’m busy,” he replied coolly.

The blonde shifted nervously. “Should I tell him you’ll call back later?”

“Yes,” the man said simply, dismissing her without another glance.

Damien’s stomach twisted. The way the blonde had spoken to him—the deferential tone, the implied importance—sent a flicker of unease through Damien’s mind. Who exactly was this man? Another high-ranking executive as he thought, or someone more dangerous?

One of the other executives—an older man with a stern face—cleared his throat. “If you need to take the call, we could take a short break,” he offered, his voice slightly deferential as well.

“No need,” the gray-eyed man replied smoothly. “They’ve waited long enough.”

The blondegave a slight bow and exited, leaving the room heavy with unspoken tension. Damien felt a chill crawl up his spine. Whoever this man was, he seemed to carry more weight here than Damien initially thought.But he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on that terrifying possibility—he had a presentation to execute flawlessly.

Nick cleared his throat awkwardly. “Let’s… let’s begin.”

Damien returned to his spot beside Nick, pretending to scroll through his iPad as Nick kicked off the presentation. He kept his eyes firmly on the screen, trying to focus, but his mind raced with questions.

The man’s presence at the far end of the table, his silent command of the room—none of it aligned with what Damien had assumed. Was he just another senior executive? Or was there more to him? Damien’s unease deepened.

As the presentation unfolded, Damien contributed when necessary, adding brief explanations to support Nick’s points. For a moment, he allowed himself to slip into the familiar rhythm of teaching. But every so often, his gaze would flicker toward the man—gray eyes glinting in the dim light, lips set in a faint, unreadable curve.

The room felt heavier each time Damien glanced his way, as if the man’s presence consumed all the air. And then the thought hit him, a sudden realization that made his stomach drop: What if he wastheboss of the seven men?

No. That couldn’t be right. Could it? Nick hadn’t mentioned no one like him.Yet the respectful way the other executive had spoken to the gray-eyed man—the way even the blonde woman had addressed him—suggested something more.

Damien’s hands grew clammy as the implications set in. If this man really was the superior of Nick’s superiors, Damien might have just jeopardized his best friend’s entire career with that ridiculous coffee incident.He had assumed the eight executives — Nabokov included — would collectively decide, perhaps through some kind of democratic vote, on which project to greenlight.That assumption had offered him some comfort—until now.His pulse quickened, and he struggled to focus on Nick’s words as his mind spiraled.

The presentation neared its end, and the seven senior executives launched into their questions. Nick fielded them easily, his confidence shining through. Damien tried to mirror Nick’s composure, but the weight of his mistake hung over him like a storm cloud. As Nick finished answering the last of the questions, an older executive sitting near the front adjusted his glasses and leaned slightly toward the gray-eyed man. His tone was careful, almost submissive, as he addressed him.

“So, Mr. Nabokov, what are your final thoughts on the presentations?”

Damien’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of the name.

Nabokov.

Now he had a name to put to the striking, arrogant man with those piercing eyes. For reasons Damien couldn’t quite explain, the discovery of Nabokov’s last name made him feel oddly happy—like solving a riddle that had been bothering him all day. But that fleeting sense of satisfaction quickly dissolved when it hit him: Nabokovisthe boss. The boss.

Not just some executive in the room, not another high-level suit—he’s the one in charge of all of this. The realization sent a cold shock down Damien’s spine, the weight of it settling uncomfortably on his chest.

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