32. What You Keep Under (the Turtleneck)

Jude turns up to the office in casual knitwear, instantly setting the floor buzzing with gossip. When Bells makes a light-hearted quip, harmless banter spirals into a charged confrontation.

Written by:

Darkly Dreaming Klar Nett

Narrated:

TheArmchairDweller 🦂

Edited (audio):

Darkly Dreaming Klar Nett

Editorial assistance (text) :

imarkanx || istvan markan 🍁

and

Chris

Music credit in the intro: Eels - “Fresh Blood” (instrumental)

---

Readers’ Note:

Massive thanks to

TheArmchairDweller 🦂

for the phenomenal voiceover! He brought such personality to these characters, especially the office banter / gossip part and then the charged confrontation scene! Then he also managed to bring that highly attractive tone and timbre to Jude’s lines, I was swooning while listening!

I hope you all love the narration as much as we enjoyed creating it together (well, mainly D. with me just dropping annoying notes every now and again. Sorry D.!)

Feel free to get in touch with him by the way!!! He said he liked this activity plenty and would consider doing a project here and there with one of us indie writers. Gotta love him!

Working with

TheArmchairDweller 🦂

has been a wonderful reminder of how collaboration can elevate creative work beyond what any of us could achieve alone.

---

[Narrated: 3^rd limited, adjacent to Bells’ perspective]

The morning

Monday morning arrived like a debt collector at her door, grey and unforgiving. Bells sat still at her desk, deep in client proposals while her mind churned through the weekend's events. Theo’s quiet triumph when she’d handed over the USB drive, his forensic accountant Emma already penetrating in the files by Sunday evening.

"Interesting discrepancies," Emma announced via loudspeaker. "Shell companies, creative accounting. This could be enough." They had a review meeting scheduled with her right after work.

Ever since that call, Bells had been feeling… conflicted. With Theo's suspicions validated, she should have been delighted in the knowledge of doing the right thing. So then why did her chest feel carved out by a rusty spoon.

She persuaded herself it was about ethics, professionalism, abiding by the letter of the law, just like her great grandfather believed. But if she was painfully honest, it was also about proving her brain could override her baser instincts, that she wasn’t just some lustful idiot thawing whenever she caught his scent.

So she took his data, like a socially responsible whistle-blower. About to expose the devil for who he really was… But this devil had a face she’d kissed, and that complicated things.

---

The gossip

Around ten-thirty, she needed a distraction from her spiralling thoughts. She wandered toward the office kitchen, drawn by the promise of caffeine. Noticed two women already stood there. Annette and Sarah from Finance had claimed territory by the fancy espresso machine, voices pitched low in the unmistakable frequency of office gossip. Bells caught the tail end of it as she approached.

"…never seen him in anything but those crisp shirts," Annette was saying, stirring sugar into her cup with vigor. As if trying to dissolve her sexual frustration along with the crystals. "But Christ, that turtleneck is doing him favours."

Sarah nodded, practically salivating, like she hadn't been touched in months, maybe years. "Right? I walked past his office earlier and nearly walked into the glass door. Those shoulders could carry the national debt…"

Those shoulders. The women discussing him like livestock at auction, rating the breeding potential.

"Morning, ladies," Bells interjected, reaching for a mug.

"Oh, Bells!" Annette's cheeks flushed pink, caught in the act. "We were just... I mean, have you seen Jude today? He's been looking particularly..." She gestured vaguely, as if the right word might materialise from thin air.

Fuckable. It rose unbidden in Bells' mind, sharp and unwelcome. She'd not seen him today, no. But he’d embodied that particular quality even at his worst, drunk and reeking of tobacco after the awards ceremony, or dishevelled and desperate when he offered her millions of reasons to stay. Something about him just bypassed rational thought, hitting at the reptilian brain instead. One choosing mates based on who could hunt down a bison, and protect the cave.

"Looking particularly what?" Bells asked, feigning ignorance.

"Fit," Sarah supplied helpfully. "That black turtleneck is just... criminal. Should be against company policy."

"He's our boss, hardly appropriate workplace conversation." Bells uttered with seriousness of a nun interrupted mid prayer.

Annette's eyes glittered with malice wrapped in humor - the special cruelty of a woman who'd found a weakness worth exploiting. "Since when have you cared about appropriate? Everyone knows you two have some sort of... arrangement."

Arrangement. The word landed like a slap. Was it that obvious? What did they know? What had they seen?

"Professional arrangement," Bells corrected, sharply. Defensive in a way that only confirmed their suspicions.

"Of course." Sarah's smile was all teeth. "Very professional. All those late night ‘strategy sessions' behind close doors”

“Some of us have to work twice as hard to make up for the slacking of others” Bells said pointedly glancing back at her.

Anette offered, undeterred “Sarah, remember when he practically kissed Bells at Henderson's leaving party.“

Bells remembered that. God, how she remembered. How he'd steadied her when she'd stumbled, drunk, both laughing at something that wasn’t even funny. The kind of laughter that was really about proximity and possibility. Then he leaned in, face so close she could count his eyelashes. Murmured something about how beautiful she'd looked that night. She'd so wished he'd just close the distance but of course he hadn't. Always leaving her to wonder if she'd imagined the heat between them. Until he wasn’t …

“Oh that was so hard to look away from.” Sarah added excitedly. “But how about when she sat in his lap at the last Christmas do, pissed and shouting ‘Santa's grotto?’"

"Argh! Subtle!” . Both women laughed like hyenas who'd found fresh carrion, and Bells stood there mortified.

She had hoped people would think nothing of it… It was a joke fuelled by champagne and seasonal insanity. Seemed hilarious at the time. Yet, she remembered how his hands settled on her thighs like they belonged there... How her body curved into his, and when she shifted, he inhaled, the tension between them stiffened, both wrong and right. He remained seated for a long moment after she'd come off.

“I mean, I don’t blame you.” Sarah continued, unaware of Bells' internal turmoil. “I wish I’d beaten you to it”

Annette laughed " The man just looks like he stepped out of some Nordic noir drama."

"All brooding intensity and dangerous cheekbones," Sarah added dreamily.

Dangerous. If they only knew how apt that word was, Bells thought.

Then.

"Slow workday, is it?"

The voice came from behind them cutting through their laughter. Anette and Sarah froze, coffee cups suspended mid-sip, faces cycling through varying shades of mortification, a slideshow of professional suicide. Bells inhaled sharply. They all turned slowly to face him.

Jude Larssen in the flesh, standing with a stillness that meant he'd been listening. The black turtleneck clung to him like a second skin, the soft wool emphasizing every line of his torso, every angle of his shoulders.

Christ. The women hadn't been exaggerating. If anything, they'd undersold it. But she’d composed herself, smiled and quipped, jovially.

"Your turtleneck today… Channelling the 'British Steve Jobs' vibe?"

A call-back to that CityAM article some months back. Professional banter that created distance instead of intimacy.

Yet, the silence that followed felt chilling. He studied her face carefully, unamused.

"My office, in ten."

Annette and Sarah exchanged glances and scattered like roaches when the boot comes down, abandoning Bells to face the music alone. Jude didn’t give them a second look.

“Sure” Bells replied. Uncertain what to expect.

He departed, leaving her standing there, sipping her coffee. Suddenly parched.

---

“Close the door”

Twelve minutes later she’d arrived in his office. The lateness a small and pathetic act of resistance, even to her. But she needed something, anything, to maintain the illusion of control.

She found him with his elbow planted on the desk, thumb on his jaw, fingers splayed across his forehead. Tired.

"Close the door."

He didn't look up from his laptop. Bells hesitated, then complied.

The click of the latch felt final.

"Please sit."

"I will stand, thanks."

She stood, back erect in defiance.

He glared at her, eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

"Do you want to tell me what Friday night was about?"

"Do I need to spell it out for you?"

His hand moved away from his face, gaze piercing.

"Please. Especially the part where fifteen gigs of data gets ripped out of SAP."

The accusation hit like a blade between her ribs. Her fingers found the chair back, gripping it until her knuckles bleached white.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He shook his head.

"Don't insult me."

He'd waited, searching her face for clues. Drew a blank.

"I saw the systems logs."

A pause stretched, her stomach clenched, the coffee surging back up her throat mixed with bile.

"Thirty-six minutes exec access override while you kept me, ah...”

His eyes darted sideways, searching for a phrase.

“…otherwise occupied.”

“That's one way to put it…”

“If it wasn’t for Yamamoto, I’d have had security escort you out already.”

"If it wasn't for the thirty gross I'd have been out of the door by now on my own volition, thanks."

He'd gone dead-still, eyes fixed on her face.

"That and me keeping some of your drunken indiscretions buried. And there's more leverage piling up now, Bells."

Leverage. The word sent chills down her spine. Air hissed through her teeth.

"What are you on about?"

She almost wished she hadn't asked.

"There are cameras on premises."

The world stopped. She curled inward.

"In my office?"

"In everyone's office. I'd advise against future misconduct with colleagues here."

The implication hit like a sledgehammer. Friday night - they'd been recorded. The tape filed away, timestamped and primed for future blackmail. The thought disgusted her.

"You wish, you sick fuck”, the words tore out of her, defensive and raw.

A pause stretched, thick with tension. His lips turned into a line.

"Let's circle back."

His fingers drummed against the desk.

”Why did you extract five years' worth of financial data? Very fucking thorough scrape, I give you that. Full ledger. Invoices. Even pending purchase orders. What was it for? Who are you working with?"

"You're paranoid."

He shoved back his chair and stood at once, all coiled violence and barely restrained fury, a predator done playing with its prey.

"WHO WAS IT FOR, BELLS?!"

The shout reverberated off the glass walls like a shot in a cathedral. Through the blinds, she saw staff turn around to watch.

"I don't have to answer that. Not when you're like this. You need to calm down. The turtleneck making you overheat???"

He moved so fast she startled, actually flinched backward like he'd raised a hand to her.

Two strides, and he was towering over her, a reminder of all the ways she was smaller. Weaker. Vulnerable.

"Don't touch me."

The words breathless, betraying her - the fear, the arousal.

Then he tugged down the turtleneck's collar.

Deep purple bruises circled his throat. A noose of broken blood vessels and ruptured capillaries. Her handiwork. Guilt flooded over her, heavy and all consuming.

"Yeah”, his voice was rough, intimate, “It does make me 'heat up.' Now talk."

"I... didn't re..."

"Not realised? I DON'T GIVE A FUCK about this, Bells."

His fingers traced the edge of the bruises absently. Gesture unconsciously erotic. Voice dropped a register.

"You want to press leather to my throat to settle the score? Fine.”

Then rose again, business-like, vulnerability aborted.

“What I do care about is data leaking out of here. And I will know where that leak goes."

The words should have stung, but she did not let herself falter. The bruises were proof. She could make him submit, hers for those thirty-six minutes. Her guilt now treaded with something else.

Something darker.

Pride. Satisfaction. The true primal pleasure of having marked her territory in deep purple and blue.

"Good luck with that."

The silence stretched between them. She watched him recalibrate. Then he sat back down slowly, his expression shifting to begrudging respect.

"Well played."

"You thought this intimidation routine would work, didn't you?”

His eyes narrowed as if he was seeing her for the first time. Maybe he was. Maybe they were finally seeing each other clearly - two predators recognising their own kind.

"Clause 8. It’s a stalemate"

"Indeed. You’re out of moves. Terms of Engagement. You signed it. You release anything to Theo and I walk. And you won't see a yen from Yamamoto without me. Both you and I know he only endorsed you because I was there. Smoothing over your sharp edges. Putting my reputation on the line."

"You stole from me Bells. You broke my trust. And now you're acting in bad faith."

There was genuine hurt in his voice, and that surprised her. She hadn't expected him to care about trust.

"And you robbed me of my dignity. I guess we're even."

The words tasted like ashes and victory. Was it even? Could she ever really balance the scales of humiliation, weigh betrayal against his violations and come out with anything resembling justice?

"I have paid my dues now a thousand times over."

Jude clearly thought so, but she wasn’t convinced.

"If you're clean, you've got nothing to worry about."

He rubbed his eyes, and for a moment looked older than his years. Worn down by secrets and the weight of keeping so many plates spinning. When he looked at her again, his eyes held something she'd never seen before: defeat. Maybe heartbreak.

"I’ll never be clean enough for you Bells."

---

I’m also deeply grateful to

Chris

and

imarkanx || istvan markan 🍁

for their invaluable feedback on this chapter - particularly the confrontation scene (“Close the door”). Their insights represent the kind of thoughtful engagement that makes the writing community so essential to the creative process.

For this scene, I attempted something a bit ambitious: paring down the prose to create stronger momentum and dynamism. However, I wasn’t certain whether this streamlined approach still conveyed enough information for readers to feel Bells’ anxiety in the moment and track her shifting internal states as Jude’s revelations unfold. The feedback I received helped me understand whether that balance was working - something I couldn’t have determined in isolation.

Thank you both for taking the time to engage so meaningfully with the text.