Page 15 of The Associate
Samuel didn’t stop. He drank until the glass was empty.
Not because he was thirsty. But because something deep and instinctual said:this is what is expected.
He set the glass down only when it was completely empty.
His hand trembled slightly as he released it.
Gael’s voice came again. Low. Even. That same controlled cadence that made every word he spoke feel heavier than the last. “Good. Now pack your things and go home. Get some actual sleep.”
A deliberate, weighted pause.
“I expect you here, at your desk, on time in the morning. Tardiness is not tolerated. Is that understood?”
Samuel nodded, the motion sharp.
Gael didn’t move a muscle. “I expect a verbal response when I ask you a direct question, Mr. Ruiz.”
Samuel’s heart stuttered against his ribs. He straightened his spine instinctively, his back pulling into a rigid posture. His voice when it finally came, was quiet, slightly breathless. “Yes, Sir. Understood.”
Gael inclined his head. Just barely. A small flicker of something flew through his gaze, too quick for Sam to understand. Then he turned again, without another word, and walked away.
Samuel sat completely frozen in the palpable aftermath. The air around his desk still felt different. Charged. He stared at the empty, water-beaded glass.
And for one long, unguarded moment, he wondered what it was about Gael Wise that made his blood rush and mind go blank.
Chapter 4
Gael
Gael stepped out of the private elevator into the hallway, the muted lighting catching on the fine grain of the dark wood floor.
He unlocked the heavy door and pushed it open.
The apartment greeted him with the quiet it always held, a cold, meticulously curated stillness. The smart-lights warmed automatically as he stepped across the threshold, rising from a low amber to a steady white that revealed the space exactly as he'd left it that morning: the steel-edged console table against the wall, the single, large abstract painting he’d hung with a level, the shallow glass bowl that served no purpose other than symmetry. Even the air smelled untouched.
He set his keys in the small, black ceramic dish on the console, three separate pieces of metal, each placed without touching the others, and lowered his leather briefcase onto the narrow, backless bench beside it.
He loosened the knot of his tie with one hand as he moved deeper into the apartment's open plan. The space unfolded around him into clean lines and cool, hard surfaces: a sprawling slate-gray sectional that looked barely used, a massive glasscoffee table supporting nothing but a single, black remote control aligned parallel to the table’s edge, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering city grid like a vast photograph.
Nothing in the room hinted at a life being actively lived here; no scattered mail, no suit jacket casually draped over a chair, no half-finished book.
He crossed the living room without turning on any additional lights, his footsteps soundless against the polished floorboards. The kitchen, visible from the open floor plan, was equally immaculate: stainless steel appliances wiped clean, a minimalist knife block perfectly centered on the vast stone countertop, a bowl of identical green apples arranged with a rigid, unnatural order.
Gael paused in the center of the living space, letting the deep silence settle around him.
It was a perfect mirror of the guarded quiet he carried inwardly. He exhaled a slow, measured breath, finally loosening the last button of his crisp white cuff, the day's tensions still clinging faintly to his skin.
He walked down the wide hallway toward the master bedroom, passing the open door to his study; his desk was tidy, the triple monitors dark, the high-backed chair pushed in flush with the desk edge. The guest room door farther down remained closed. He hadn’t opened it in months.
Every room was pristine, untouched. Exactly how he’d left it that morning. Exactly how he expected it to be.
And yet, despite the late hour, despite the fatigue settling behind his eyes, despite the faint echo of Samuel Ruiz’s trembling voice lingering in his mind, Gael felt the quiet hum of a different tension beneath the apartment's perfect stillness. The space wasa testament to control. And yet, tonight, that very perfection made the surrounding silence feel louder, more accusatory.
Gael crossed the bedroom in a few steps, each one muted by the thick wool rug. He reached the low, wide dresser and unfastened his watch, sliding the platinum band free of his wrist. It was the same ritual every night; the same unvarying order, a sequence as fixed as breath.
He set the watch down, the cool metal catching a sliver of city light, and aligned it precisely parallel to the dresser’s front edge. A single millimeter off would have bothered him. The imperfection would have followed him. He checked the alignment once, adjusted it by a minuscule fraction, and only then did he step back.
Next came the cufflinks.
