Part 1: "The Choice That Isn't"
Lila survived the forbidden floor. But survival doesn't mean escape. As dawn breaks over Blackwell Tower, Damien summons her again—not with threats, but with something worse: a choice. In the sterile stillness of his penthouse boardroom, he offers her the one thing she thought she wanted—control. But it comes at a price written in blood and obsession. This isn't just business anymore. It's intimacy weaponized.
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LAST MOMENT:
But he let her go.
This time.
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The elevator doors opened with a whisper, and for the first time in days, Lila hesitated to move.
The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a sterile wash of cold light across the white marble of Damien's executive floor. Outside the walls of glass, the city yawned itself awake, unaware of the war happening inside one woman's body.
Her knees still ached from where she had fallen the night before. Her fingers bore tiny cuts from shattered glass. But the worst wounds were internal.
She stepped out.
The room was silent.
Too silent.
No hum of the espresso machine. No tap of executive shoes. No buzz of assistants. No sounds at all.
Just him.
Damien.
At the far end of the floor-length table.
A black folder sat before him.
The only thing between them.
He didn't rise when she entered.
Didn't gesture.
Didn't speak.
He just watched.
Lila walked forward slowly. The soles of her boots made the only sound in the world. Her eyes didn't leave his. Not even for a moment.
She stopped opposite him.
"What now?" she said.
He pushed the folder forward.
"Now," he said, "you decide."
She didn't open it.
She didn't need to.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice cold.
"Everything."
"I want to hear you say it."
His expression was unreadable. But his voice held something between reverence and regret.
"A contract. For exclusive rights to your work, presence, and image. In exchange—full creative control, complete financial freedom, and…" he paused, "truth."
Her fingers itched.
Not with temptation.
With fury.
"You think you can buy me?"
"I think I already did. I'm just formalizing it now."
She leaned forward.
"This isn't a contract. It's a collar."
"No," he said. "It's a mirror."
She opened the folder.
And there it was.
Her name. Already typed. Already waiting.
The clauses were written like scripture.
Each one more invasive than the last.
Each one a confession wrapped in business language.
Her hand hovered over the pen resting beside it.
"You really believe I'll sign this?"
He finally stood.
Walked to her side.
Too close.
The sun hit half of his face, leaving the other in shadow.
He leaned down, voice a whisper in her ear.
"I believe you already have."
She turned to him.
"I'm not Evelyne."
"I know," he said.
"She died trying to escape you."
"She died," he corrected, "trying to escape herself."
Lila's hand trembled.
She put the pen down.
Then looked at him.
"No."
He blinked.
"No?"
"I'd rather destroy everything I create than let you claim it."
A beat.
Then—
He smiled.
Softly. Sadly.
"Good," he said. "That means you're ready."
He turned and walked away.
Lila looked down.
And saw it:
At the bottom of the contract, a final line—scribbled in red ink:
"Every masterpiece begins with blood."
And beneath it—her own signature.
Already written.
Already dated.
Already bled.
She hadn't signed it.
But somehow—
She had.
Her knees buckled, catching the edge of the leather chair to stay upright. The cold seeped through her clothing. She glanced toward Damien, but he had vanished beyond the conference room into the glass shadows.
Behind her, the floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the morning like it was already watching her unravel. The skyline bent under glass distortion, warping into claws of steel and light.
She closed the folder. Slowly.
But when she lifted her fingers, the edge of the contract was wet.
Red.
Her thumb—cut.
Paper? Or… something older?
She backed away. Past the table. Past the chairs where other deals were made—contracts that probably never meant as much.
And as she reached the elevator, her phone buzzed.
A message. Unknown number.
"Now you begin."
She stared at it. Typed a reply.
"What do you want from me?"
No answer.
The elevator doors opened. Empty.
But on the mirrored wall inside—
Her reflection smiled.
She did not.