From Office Drama To Panty Pranks
Claire spent the next few days burying herself in her work, determined to keep as much distance from Louis as possible.
Every time she saw his office door cracked open, she felt a pang of anger and hurt that twisted her insides.
She moved through the office like a ghost, her steps quick, her eyes always downcast, and her heart heavy with the weight of their last encounter. The humiliation of hearing those sounds, Priscilla's taunts, and Louis's dismissive words haunted her every waking moment.
Louis wasn't oblivious. He noticed every slight change in her routine—the way she avoided meeting his gaze, the hurried steps she took past his office, the way she refused to be alone with him.
He watched her, feeling a strange mix of guilt, frustration, and something else he couldn't quite name—a need to set things right, to break down the walls she was so determined to build.
But Claire's resolve was ironclad. She finished her tasks with the kind of ruthless efficiency that made it impossible for him to find any reason to keep her back.
Reports were turned in ahead of schedule, emails were promptly answered, and every file he asked for was delivered before he could even think to ask. It was almost as if she was daring him to find fault, to give her any excuse to leave his presence.
By Friday, Louis had had enough of the invisible wall she'd put between them.
He decided to pile her desk high with new assignments, impossible deadlines, and last-minute requests—anything to keep her tethered to him, to force her to stay just a little longer in the office.
It was petty and unprofessional, but he couldn't stand the thought of her leaving the building every evening with that same distant, cold look in her eyes.
"Claire, I need these documents reviewed by tonight," Louis said, dropping a thick stack of papers onto her desk. His tone was firm, masking the desperation simmering beneath. "And make sure you cross-check every figure. I can't afford any mistakes."
Claire looked up briefly, her expression unreadable. She simply nodded and pulled the stack closer, her fingers moving quickly as she began to sort through the pages without a word of protest.
Louis lingered, waiting for a reaction, a sign of defiance, anything that would force her to engage with him—but there was nothing. Just the rhythmic sound of paper shuffling and the faint click of her pen as she got to work.
Hours passed, and the office emptied out. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor, but Claire remained steadfast at her desk, refusing to give in to the fatigue weighing on her shoulders.
She worked relentlessly, her focus unwavering as she crossed off every task he threw at her. It was a battle of endurance, and Claire was determined not to break first.
Louis watched her from his office, the tension growing with every tick of the clock. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing restlessly as he debated what to say, how to bridge the gap that had grown between them.
But every time he opened his mouth, the words felt wrong, inadequate. He was a man of control, used to getting what he wanted, but Claire was different. She wasn't swayed by his authority or charm; she was angry, and she had every right to be.
Finally, as the clock near midnight, Claire stood, gathering her things. She'd finished every task, left no room for him to complain, and now she was ready to leave. She pulled on her coat, her movements sharp and precise, determined not to let him see the exhaustion etched into her face.
"Claire," Louis called, stepping out of his office just as she reached for her bag. His voice was softer this time, laced with a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to show. "Can we talk? Just for a minute."
Claire's shoulders stiffened, and she glanced at him, her eyes cold and guarded. "I've done everything you asked, Louis. There's nothing left to talk about."
"It's not about the work," he said, his tone pleading. "I want to talk about us."
"There is no 'us,' Louis," Claire snapped, her voice tight with barely restrained anger. "I'm your PA, remember? You made that very clear. What you do with Priscilla or anyone else is none of my business. So don't pretend like we're something we're not."
Louis flinched at her words, feeling the sting of each syllable. "I didn't mean it like that. I was upset, and—"
"I don't care how you meant it," Claire cut him off, her voice cracking slightly as she fought to keep her composure. "I heard enough that day, Louis. I don't need any more explanations. You made your choices, and I've made mine."
She turned away, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she headed for the elevator, desperate to escape the suffocating tension that clung to the air. But before she could reach the doors, Louis caught up to her, grabbing her arm gently but firmly, forcing her to face him.
"Claire, please," he whispered, his grip tightening as if he feared she would vanish if he let go. "I know I've messed up, but I can't stand this...this distance between us. It's driving me crazy."
Claire's eyes flashed with hurt and defiance. She yanked her arm free, her gaze burning into his. "And you think this isn't driving me crazy, Louis? You think I enjoy feeling like this? Like I'm just some side piece in your messed-up life?"
Louis opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. For the first time, he saw the depth of her pain—the raw, unfiltered emotion she'd been hiding behind her icy facade. It was more than just anger; it was heartbreak, betrayal, and something far more complicated.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never meant for any of this to happen. I didn't sleep with Priscilla; it was all just a game to her, a way to hurt you. But I see now that I hurt you too, and that's the last thing I ever wanted."
Claire blinked, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She wanted to believe him, wanted to let go of the knot of anger that had been tightening in her chest for days. But the wounds were still fresh, and forgiveness felt like a distant dream.
"I don't know if I can do this," Claire admitted, her voice trembling as she spoke. "I don't know if I can keep working for you, pretending like none of this matters."
Louis's heart sank. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, his touch gentle and tentative. "You matter, Claire. More than you know. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to prove that to you."
Claire hesitated, her emotions warring within her. She wanted to pull away, to leave and never look back, but the sincerity in his eyes held her captive. She could feel the heat of his touch, the way his fingers lingered just a moment too long, and it sent a shiver down her spine.
"I can't make any promises," she said finally, her voice breaking. "But I'll think about it."
Louis nodded, relief washing over him. It wasn't a resolution, but it was a start—a fragile truce in the middle of their silent war. As Claire stepped into the elevator, her eyes lingered on him for just a second longer, and in that brief moment, he saw a flicker of hope.
The doors closed, and Claire was gone, but the battle was far from over.
Louis stood there, staring at the empty elevator shaft, knowing that winning Claire back would be the hardest fight of his life. But he was ready to try, because losing her wasn't an option he was willing to accept.
*****
Claire walked home with her head low, her thoughts swirling in a storm of exhaustion and bitterness.
The conversation with Louis had replayed in her mind a hundred times.
She could still feel his touch, the way his fingers brushed against her skin, the desperation in his voice as he pleaded with her to understand.
But no matter how sincere his apologies sounded, she couldn't erase the image of Priscilla's smug face or the mocking sound of her voice echoing through his office.
As Claire reached her apartment building, the familiar sense of relief began to settle in—home was her sanctuary, her escape from the chaos of work and the tangled mess of emotions Louis stirred within her.
She fished out her keys, sighing heavily, just wanting to kick off her heels, sink into her couch, and let the day fade into the background. But the moment she reached her doorstep, her heart sank.
There it was—right in front of her door. A pair of ripped, stained panties, sprawled carelessly on the welcome mat. Claire's face twisted in disgust.
It wasn't just the sight of them that sent a rush of nausea through her; it was the foul, unmistakable stench of fish, pungent and sharp, that filled the air.
"What the hell?" Claire whispered to herself, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and confusion.
She glanced around, half-expecting someone to jump out from the shadows, laughing at her, but the hallway was eerily quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the building's fluorescent lights.
Her eyes flickered down to a crumpled piece of paper pinned beneath the panties, fluttering slightly as the air conditioning kicked on.
She grabbed a nearby stick—a discarded umbrella she'd left by her door for rainy days—and cautiously poked at the panties, lifting the note gingerly to read the words scrawled in harsh, angry letters:
**"SL*T! THIS IS HOW YOUR P*SSY SMELLS LIKE FISH!"**
Claire's breath hitched, her chest tightening as the cruel words burned into her mind. She didn't need to guess who was behind this. The viciousness, the pettiness—it all reeked of Priscilla. This was her handiwork, her twisted way of getting under Claire's skin, of reminding her that she was nothing more than an unwanted intruder in Louis's life.
"God, this woman is sick," Claire muttered, feeling a mix of revulsion and rage bubbling up inside her. She poked the panties again, turning them over, confirming her suspicions.
The overpowering smell of tuna hit her again, making her gag. This wasn't just a prank—it was a calculated, deliberate attack meant to humiliate her in the most personal and degrading way possible.
She fought back tears, refusing to let Priscilla win by breaking down. This was what Priscilla wanted—to see Claire cry, to watch her crumble under the weight of her cruelty. But Claire was stronger than that. She wouldn't give Priscilla the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she'd struck.
Gritting her teeth, Claire used the umbrella to scoop the rancid garment into a plastic bag, tying it tightly before shoving it into the trash bin at the end of the hall.
She wiped her hands on her skirt, even though she hadn't touched the panties directly; the feeling of filth clung to her skin, as if Priscilla's malice had stained her in some invisible way.
Claire barged into her apartment, ready to drown her sorrows in the only therapy she could afford—binge-watching trashy rom-coms. She kicked off her shoes, slipped into the world's comfiest oversized shirt that could double as a tent, and flopped onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn, wearing nothing but her panties.
Her phone buzzed, interrupting a dramatic kiss scene. She glanced at the screen—Louis. She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly got stuck.
"Nope," she muttered, rejecting the call with the enthusiasm of a toddler refusing broccoli. She hit play again, laughing at a cheesy punchline just as her phone buzzed once more. Then again. And again. Louis was calling like his life depended on it, or worse, like hers did.
By the tenth call, Claire's patience was thinner than her self-control around chocolate.
She snatched the phone, prepared to unleash a world of sass, but before she could even breathe, Louis barked, "I want you at my house in 30 minutes. I'm sending a driver. No buts. I'm your boss, and I said so."
Before she could fire back, he hung up. Claire stared at the screen, open-mouthed, her popcorn momentarily forgotten.
"The nerve!" she scoffed, tossing her phone onto the couch. "This man thinks he's the king of England. And I'm Cinderella running to scrub his floors? The audacity of this… arrogant son of a—!" She grabbed a handful of popcorn and stuffed it in her mouth, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Well, he better have snacks," she mumbled through a mouthful, rolling her eyes again.