Chapter 2 #2
"I knew," he said simply. He walked toward me, stopping five feet away. A safe distance for a normal person. For Elijah, it felt like he was pressing a knife to my throat. "I calculated the time it would take for the adrenaline to wear off, for the despair to set in, and for you to realize you had no other options. I estimated you’d be here by eleven. It’s 11:15. "
He took a sip of his drink, his blue eyes locking onto mine. "You hesitated at the door."
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
"I’m here to ask for my job back," I said, rushing the words before I lost my nerve. "What happened with Henderson... I know it was unprofessional. But he grabbed me. I can’t lose this income, Elijah. And the scholarship... I got an email. It’s gone. If I don't pay by Monday, I’m out."
I paused, waiting for a reaction. A flicker of sympathy. A nod. Anything.
His face remained a mask of stone. "I know."
"You... you know I lost the scholarship?"
"I know everything, Angela."
The way he said my name made my knees weak. It was a caress and a threat all at once. He turned and walked over to a sleek black desk, picking up a tablet.
"Angela Moretti. GPA 3.9. Principal dancer for the upcoming Giselle production.
Mother: Teresa Moretti, Stage 4 Renal Failure.
Outstanding medical debt: one hundred and twelve thousand dollars.
Outstanding tuition: forty-eight thousand.
Total immediate solvency requirement: roughly one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. "
He read the numbers like he was reading a grocery list.
I felt the blood drain from my face. "How... how do you have that? That’s private."
"Nothing is private," he said, setting the tablet down. "Not for people like you. You live on the edge. You leave a paper trail of desperation everywhere you go. Loan applications, hardship pleas, credit checks. It’s all data. And I own the data."
He walked back toward me, closing the distance. This time he didn't stop at five feet. He stopped at two. I could smell him—clean soap, scotch, and that sharp, ozone scent of power. I had to tilt my head back to look at him.
"Why are you doing this?" I whispered. "Why do you care?"
"I don't care," he corrected. "I want."
He circled me slowly. I felt like a prize show pony being inspected by a buyer. His eyes raked over my cheap coat, my messy hair, down to my boots.
"You need money," he stated. "You need protection. You need to disappear from the world that is trying to crush you."
He stopped behind me. I could feel the heat radiating off his chest against my back. He leaned down, his breath ghosting over my ear.
"And I need... silence."
I turned around quickly, nearly bumping into him. "What are you talking about?"
"I have a proposition," he said. He walked over to the coffee table and picked up a thick document bound in black leather. He held it out to me. "A contract."
I looked at it, then at him. "A contract for what?"
"Employment," he said. "But not catering. You’re terrible at service. You have too much of a temper."
"Then what?"
"You move in here," he said calmly. "Tonight. You stay for the duration of the hockey season. Four months."
My brain short-circuited. "Live here? With you?"
"In the guest suite," he clarified. "You will not speak unless spoken to. You will follow a strict schedule. You will be available to me whenever I am in the residence. You will do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you."
"Like... a maid?" I asked, confused.
His lips quirked. A microscopic, terrifying smile.
"No. Not a maid. A maid cleans. I have staff for that.
You will simply... exist. For me. You will be mine to control.
When I come home from a game and the noise in my head is too loud, I will focus on you.
I will tell you to sit, and you will sit.
I will tell you to dress, and you will dress.
I will tell you to come, and you will come. "
The sexual subtext hit me like a physical slap. My face flushed hot.
"You want a sex slave," I snapped, backing away. "You’re insane. I’m leaving."
"Read the last page, Angela."
I stopped. My hand was on the door of the elevator.
"The compensation," he said, his voice bored. "Read it."
I looked at the document in my hand. I flipped to the back page. My eyes scanned the legalese until they hit the bold numbers at the bottom.
Upon signature: immediate payoff of all outstanding university debts ($48,500).
Monthly stipend: $10,000.
Completion bonus: Payoff of all familial medical debts (approx. $112,000).
I stared at the numbers. The zeros swam before my eyes.
This wasn't a job offer. It was a lifeline. It was my mother’s life, printed on heavy bond paper.
"It’s a lot of money for a little obedience," Elijah said softly. He hadn't moved. He knew he had won.
"Why me?" I asked, my voice trembling. "You could have anyone. You could hire a professional."
"I don't want a professional. I want you." He took a step closer. "Because you hate me. And yet... you didn't leave when I fired you. You came back. You like the fight, Angela. You like the friction."
He reached out, his large, rough hand brushing a stray curl away from my face. His touch was electric. I flinched, but I didn't pull away.
"You’re drowning," he whispered. "Let me be the anchor."
"Or the weight that pulls me down," I countered.
"Maybe both."
He took the contract from my numb fingers and placed it on the table, next to a heavy silver pen.
"The storm is getting worse outside," he said, turning his back on me and walking toward the window. "The roads are icing over. If you leave now, you might not make it back down the hill. If you stay... your mother’s bills are paid by morning."
He stood there, staring out at the darkness, a statue of ice and arrogance. He wasn't forcing me. He was doing something much worse. He was giving me a choice that wasn't a choice at all.
I looked at the door. I looked at the pen.
I thought of the cold dorm room. I thought of the way the donor had grabbed me. I thought of the silence in my mother’s voice when she lied about her pain.
I took a breath. The air in the penthouse was cold, sterile, and expensive. It tasted like safety. And it tasted like danger.
I walked to the table. I picked up the pen. The metal was heavy in my hand.
Behind me, I heard the subtle clink of ice against glass. Elijah hadn't turned around, but I knew he was smiling.
I was the fly. And the spider had just closed the web.