Ava didn't sleep.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the night like a film she hadn't agreed to star in.
Her face on a massive screen.
Her name linked to Lucan Corporation's "new era."
Vanessa Grant looking at her like a problem.
Reporters shouting questions she didn't even understand.
And Ethan.
Ethan saying, in front of everyone, "If anyone questions her, they question me."
It should have felt like protection.
It didn't.
It felt like possession.
By 6:10 a.m., she gave up on pretending she might rest and got dressed.
At 7:02 a.m., her phone buzzed.
From: Natalie
Be in Mr. Lucan's office. 7:30. Do not be late.
No "good morning." Of course.
Ava grabbed her notes from last night's gala space layout, tied her hair back, and told herself to breathe.
You're not prey, she told herself in the elevator. You're not an ornament. You are here because you're good.
The elevator doors opened on the 68th floor.
She stepped into Ethan Lucan's office.
He was already there.
Of course.
He was standing by the window again — always the window — jacket off, sleeves rolled, posture straight, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a file. Ethan Lucan in morning light looked worse than nighttime Ethan, because daylight should've made him less intimidating and somehow didn't.
"Ms. Hart," he said without turning.
"You do realize most people start meetings with something friendly, like 'hello,'" Ava said.
"I'm not most people."
"I've noticed."
He turned then — and the moment his eyes met hers, she felt again that strange, invisible pressure in the air. Calm. Assessing. Sharp.
Like he was already three moves ahead of her.
"Sit," he said.
"See," Ava said, setting her folder on his desk, "that sounds friendly if you ignore tone."
But she sat.
And then she saw what was already waiting in front of her.
Her contract.
Not the black folder version. Not the NDA. The contract from last night's presentation — the one projected behind him, the one that made her look like she was already the creative head of the company.
Her stomach went tight.
"What is this?" she asked quietly. "Why is there language in here I've never seen before?"
"Because the version you signed," Ethan said calmly, "and the version I showed them serve different purposes."
She stared. "You showed the board a contract I didn't sign."
"Yes."
"That feels illegal."
"It's not," he said smoothly, "if by the time the board challenges it, it is signed."
She went still.
"I'm sorry," she said slowly. "Did you just say you plan to make it true after the fact?"
Ethan leaned forward, placing both hands on the desk. "I offered you a position in public last night, Ava. Today, I'm offering it to you in private. With the actual terms."
"Actual terms," she repeated. "So this is the part where you tell me what I just got myself pulled into without permission."
His jaw flexed for half a second.
Anyone else would've missed it. Ava didn't.
"You weren't 'pulled.' You were placed," he said.
"That's not better."
"It is," he replied. "Because now you're not replaceable."
Her breath stalled.
Replaceable.
There it was.
A tiny, ruthless part of her — the part that had watched her ex steal her portfolio and sell it under his name — reacted to that word like a struck nerve.
He saw it. Of course he saw it.
"Read section four," Ethan said.
Ava flipped pages, found it, and felt her shoulders lock.
Section Four: Creative Autonomy.
Clause 4.1 — Lead Design Authority for all public-facing Lucan projects moving forward: branding, physical spaces, internal identity environments, investor event aesthetics, and executive image integration.
Clause 4.2 — No third-party approvals required from the current Board for design direction once Executive Approval is granted.
Clause 4.3 — Executive Approval is defined as the signed authorization of Ethan Lucan.
Her eyes lifted.
"So," she said. "Let me translate. I report to you and only you. The Board can't override me if you sign off. You are basically handing me an entire arm of this company."
"Yes."
"Why?" she demanded.
Ethan didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he watched her the way a chess player watches the only other person in the room who can see the whole board.
Finally, he said, "Because I can't trust anyone else with it."
"Flattering," she said. "Still sounds like a trap."
"It is a trap. But not for you."
Her heartbeat picked up. "For who, then?"
"For the board," he said simply.
Ava blinked.
He walked around the desk, slow, deliberate, and stopped at her side instead of behind it. He didn't sit. He leaned one hip against the edge of the desk, close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corner of his eyes and the way his tie was just barely loosened.
"When a company starts to shift," he said, voice low, "investors panic. The board wants stability. Something familiar. Something controlled. They don't like change unless they invented it."
"Okay," Ava said carefully.
"I don't want stability," Ethan continued. "I want acceleration. I need the public to see Lucan Corporation as evolving, and I need the board to believe that evolution is already paying off."
"And where do I come in?"
"You," he said, "are proof."
Her mouth went dry. "Proof of what?"
"Proof that I'm already building something they can't control."
Silence pressed between them.
He didn't look away.
That was the thing about Ethan Lucan — he didn't bluff eye contact. When he focused, it was complete.
"So I'm leverage," Ava said quietly. "You planted me in front of them like a live grenade."
"Yes."
"And I'm supposed to… what? Smile, stand there, and look symbolic while you go to war with your own board?"
"No," he said. "You're supposed to win."
Her laugh was small and humorless. "You say that like you're offering me something other than exposure and enemies."
"Read section seven," he said.
She flipped.
Section Seven: Compensation.
Ava froze.
She read the first line twice just to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.
"This number," she whispered. "This is—this can't be right. This is more than I've made in my entire career."
"It's not salary," Ethan said. "It's leverage."
Her eyes flicked to him. "You keep using that word."
"Because it's the only currency I respect," he replied.
She swallowed. "And the clause under it?"
"Ah," he said lightly. "That one matters."
Clause 7.2 — A fixed transfer to cover outstanding medical obligations of one registered dependent, effective on signing.
Her throat tightened.
Mother.
He knew.
He'd known since the beginning.
Anger flared through her so fast she almost didn't feel the sting.
"So that was it," she said quietly. "That's why you knew I'd sign the first contract. You did your homework on me and found the softest place to put a knife."
Ethan didn't deny it.
He didn't apologize, either.
"Your mother doesn't have insurance coverage that meets procedure standards," he said calmly. "The hospital denied the request twice. They'll approve under corporate guarantee. I'm the corporate guarantee."
Her vision blurred for one brief second.
Not because she was weak.
Because she was human.
It lasted that long — one second — and then she forced herself to steady.
"You don't get to do that," she whispered. "You don't get to walk into my life and fix things just so you can own the rest."
"I don't own you," he said.
Her laugh cracked. "You put my name on a screen in front of the city and told the richest people in the room I belonged to you."
His eyes sharpened. "That's not what I said."
"It's what they heard."
"They can hear whatever keeps them quiet," Ethan said. "What matters is what you are."
Her pulse kicked. "And what am I, Mr. Lucan?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Mine," he said.
Her breath caught.
Not romantic. Not sweet.
Strategic.
A declaration to the room, not to her.
Property, not intimacy.
It should've made her angry.
It did make her angry.
But underneath the anger was something else — something she didn't want to name yet. Something that sounded like danger and felt like heat.
She met his gaze head-on. "If I take this, I'm stepping into a fight I didn't start."
"Yes."
"And I'll become a target."
"You already are."
"And if I refuse?"
"I'll find another way," he said. "I always do."
That stung more than it should have.
"So I'm not irreplaceable after all," she said, voice tight.
"For them?" Ethan said. "No one is irreplaceable."
His eyes held hers.
"For me?" he added softly. "Don't test it."
Her chest tightened in a way she hated.
He straightened, the moment snapping.
"You have until noon," he said. "Sign it, and you lead creative autonomy for every public-facing Lucan project and you walk into every room with my protection. Don't sign it, and I'll handle the board another way."
"And my mother?" Ava asked.
"She'll still be covered," he said.
Her eyes widened. "Even if I don't sign?"
"Yes."
She blinked. "Why?"
His mouth curved, just barely. "Because I don't negotiate with medical emergencies. That would be cruel."
A beat.
"Wow," she said quietly. "There is a soul in there somewhere."
"Don't spread that," he said.
Her lips almost, almost lifted.
Almost.
"By noon," he repeated. "My office. Bring your answer, not your emotions."
"Do you give that speech to all your employees?"
"Only the ones I intend to weaponize."
He started to turn away, then paused.
"Oh," he added, almost as an afterthought. "One more thing."
Ava braced. "What now?"
"You'll be meeting the board this afternoon."
Her stomach dropped. "I'm sorry, what?"
"They requested it after the gala. They want to see you in person."
"And you're just telling me this now?"
"I'm telling you," he said, "before they tell you."
Her heartbeat kicked fast. "What exactly am I supposed to do in a room full of billionaires who already hate me?"
Ethan looked at her like the answer should have been obvious all along.
"Simple," he said.
"Make them afraid to touch you."
Her mouth went dry. "And how do I do that?"
He held her gaze, calm, unshaken, like this was always the plan.
"You're smart," he said. "Figure it out."
He started walking away.
"Ethan," she called after him.
He stopped.
She didn't know why she said his name. She didn't even realize she'd said it until it was out.
He turned his head slightly.
Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. "And if I say yes… if I sign… what does that make us?"
He didn't blink.
"That," he said, "depends on whether you disappoint me."
And then he was gone.
Ava stared at the contract.
Her pulse wouldn't slow.
Her hands wouldn't steady.
Her mind wouldn't quiet.
By noon, she had to choose between becoming a weapon in his war… or walking away from the only man in the city who had just made the board afraid, the press hungry, and her name impossible to erase.
She let out a shaky breath.
"Terms of war," she whispered. "That's what this is."
Then she pulled the contract closer.