The Ice King's Chubby Fixation

POV: Eryx Voltaire

The car moved through the lonely and wet streets effortlessly.

I sat in the back, my tablet in my hand, looking at numbers that meant more money than most men would see in their lifetime. The screen gave off a cold blue light. Outside, the city was dark and quiet. It had rained earlier today, the roads were black and shiny under the street lamps.

My driver Aldric, did not speak or try to engage me on a conversation, he knew better not to. He had been with me for six years now, and in that time he had learned that I do not make small talks or inquire about each others family. His job is simple... drive me where i need to be whenever I need to be there. I did not care about how the weather was, whether it's good or bad, I pay him well to drive the car whenever and wherever i want and keep his mouth shut while at it.

We were passing through a part of the city I did not usually go to, on a normal you wouldnt see me at places like that... ceap event halls,faded signs, littered roads and Cars that cost less than my shoes. I had come this way because a property deal needed looking at, an old building I was thinking of buying and tearing down. I liked tearing things down, it always made sense after cleaning everything up.

"Slow down and stop somewhere around here," I said calmly to him.

Aldric did not ask why, he did as i asked and slowed the car. I had seen something through the window of a low building with bright lights. A party of some sort. People dressed in their best, which does not always turn out very good and their was a woman there...

She stood beside a thin man in the middle of the room. Her dress was green. Soft green, like fresh leaves. It wrapped around her body and showed every of her curve. She was build differently... thick at the waist, round at the hips, with arms that looked soft and warm. She held a glass in her hand, and even from here I could see that her fingers were shaking.

The thin man was talking and the whole room was quiet. Then the doors opened and another woman walked in. This one was thin like a cane. She wore a red dress with a sharp face. She walked up to the man and kissed him, and the room burst into noise.

But I was not looking at the thin woman, my eyes keep going to the lady in green, she looks captivating i must say but at the same time sad.

Her face broke slowly, like watching an ice crack. Her mouth opened a little, her eyes went wide and wet. She stepped back, and the thin man dropped her hand like it was a dirty rag. The thin woman said something to her, and the room laughed.

I felt my jaw tighten and I ddnt know why... I know it was not pity. I did not feel pity, pity was a useless thing. What I felt was disgust at the small, cheap cruelty of these people. A room full of vultures picking at one soft woman because they could, because she was standing there in a green dress that cost her probably everything, and they had decided she was not good enough.

But there was something else about her, something about the way her dress pulled across her hips. The way her body shook when she tried not to cry. The softness of her, the fullness of her. Something in me stirred, something dark and hungry but i pushed it down.

"Drive," I said.

Aldric moved the car forward. We turned into the car park beside the hall. I told myself I wanted to see the property next door, that was a lie. I wanted to see her again.

She came out the back door running with no shoes. Her feet slapped on the wet ground. Her dress was torn at the side, and I could see the bare skin of her waist, her soft, dimpled, succulent skin. The kind of skin that would make any sane man go insane.

She stopped beside a large rubbish bin and bent over. Her shoulders shook like she was crying, but she made no sound. Just hot tears falling on the torn silk. Her hand pressed against the rip, trying to hold herself together. The green fabric was dark with rain and sweat and shame.

"Stop the car," I said.

Aldric stopped. I rolled down my window. The cold air came in. It smelled of rain and rotting flowers and the cheap fish they must have served inside.

She looked up.

Her eyes were gold. Not brown. Gold. Like the colour of honey held up to the light. They were swollen from crying, but she did not look away. She looked right at me, and something in my chest tightened like a fist.

I let her look. I let her see me. The dark car. The expensive suit. The silver eyes that gave nothing back. I looked at her torn dress, her bare feet, the curve of her hip pushing through the ripped seam. I looked at her the way I looked at things I was thinking of buying. Cold. Measuring. Without feeling.

Then I rolled the window up.

"Go," I said.

The car pulled away. I did not look back. But I could still see her in my mind. The gold eyes. The soft body. The way she stood there shaking, holding herself together with one hand, and still did not look away from me.

That night, in my penthouse, I could not think.

I poured a whiskey. The glass was heavy and cold. I stood at the window and looked down at the city lights. Everything below me was small. Everything was something I could buy or break or ignore.

But not her. Not the woman in the green dress.

My mother's voice came back to me. It always came back in the quiet moments. "Emotion is a chain, Eryx. Anyone who holds it owns you. Never let them see what you feel. Never let them know what you want."

Odessa Voltaire had taught me that lesson with her silk gloves and her cold smile. She had raised me in a house of marble and silence. Love was weakness. Want was a door you left open for someone to walk through and take everything.

I had never been weak. I had never left the door open.

So why could I not stop seeing that woman's face?

I drank the whiskey. It burned going down. I poured another. The ice made a small sound against the glass. I thought of the tear in her dress. The bare skin. The way her stomach curved softly over the waistband of her dress. The way her thighs pressed together when she ran.

I wanted her.

The thought came like a slap. I did not want soft things. I wanted deals. Buildings. Numbers that added up. Women were for one night and then gone. I did not keep them. I did not think about them after.

But this one. This soft, crying, barefoot woman with nothing to her name. She had done something to me. And I hated her for it.

I finished the second whiskey. Then a third. It did not help. The image was still there, burned into the back of my eyes.

I went to bed angry. Angry at her for making me feel. Angry at myself for letting it happen. Angry at the thin man and the thin woman and the whole cheap, cruel room for putting her in my path.

I told myself it would pass. It always passed.

It did not pass.

Three weeks later, I was in my office.

The room was big and cold, all glass and dark wood. The windows looked out over the city. My desk was clean. Everything in its place. I liked things in their place.

Cleo, the woman in charge of hiring, stood in front of my desk with a tablet in her hand. She was nervous. People were always nervous around me. That was how I liked it.

"The shortlist for the executive secretary position, Mr. Voltaire," she said. "I have five candidates. All of them are very good."

I did not look up from my screen. "I do not need five. Give me the best one."

Cleo cleared her throat. "There is one who is... unusual. Her name is Elowen Hart. She has very good experience. Almost too much for this job. She worked at a small law office before, but she has been out of work for three weeks. Her references are strong."

The name meant nothing to me. I had not asked for the crying woman's name. I had not tried to find her.

"She seems solid," Cleo went on. "Quiet. Not the kind of person we usually hire. She is a bit... soft-spoken."

Soft.

The word caught me. I looked up. Cleo took a small step back. I held out my hand. "The file."

She gave me the tablet. I looked at the photo.

It was her.

The same gold eyes. The same round face. The same softness that had been keeping me awake for three weeks. She was wearing a plain shirt in the photo, her hair pulled back, a small smile on her lips. A professional smile. But I had seen her without the smile. I had seen her broken open and bare.

Something moved in my chest. I did not let it show on my face.

I handed the tablet back.

"Hire her," I said.

Cleo blinked. "May I ask why, sir? There are other candidates with more-"

"No," I said. My voice was flat. Cold. Final. "You may not ask. She starts Monday."

Cleo nodded quickly and left the room. The door closed with a soft click.

I stood and walked to the window. The city lay below me, grey and busy and full of small people with small lives. Somewhere out there, the woman in the green dress was probably sitting in a cheap apartment, not knowing that her life had just changed.

Not knowing that she was about to walk into my world.

I did not know why I had hired her. I told myself it was because she was qualified. Because the other candidates were not as good. That was a lie. It was not her qualifications I was thinking about.

I was thinking about the torn dress. The bare skin. The gold eyes that did not look away.

I wanted to see her again. I wanted to see if she would flinch when she saw me. If she would remember the man in the black car who had looked at her like she was nothing.

A small, cold smile touched my lips.

She would remember. And when she walked through my door on Monday, she would understand that the man in the car was not just a stranger passing by.

He was her new boss.

And I was not done with her. Not even close.