Ivy's POV
The room felt smaller the moment he said those words. You won't survive the night.
My throat tightened, and I struggled to breathe normally. I wanted to believe he was bluffing, trying to scare me into compliance. But the shadowy figure under the streetlamp said otherwise. The way he stood… still, patient, like a hunter waiting for the right moment.
My palms grew cold.
Damian didn't look at me right away. He kept staring out the window, as if calculating ten different outcomes I didn't understand. Everything about him felt controlled—his breathing, his posture, even the way he folded the contract back into his coat with slow precision. It terrified me more than the rooftop incident itself.
Finally, he turned.
A glimmer of frustration—no, urgency—flashed in his steel-cold eyes. "Ivy, listen very carefully. You are in danger because they already know your face. The moment you took that picture, you became a liability to them."
That word again. Liability. Not a person. Not a victim. Just a problem to eliminate.
"And you expect me to trust you?" I asked, my voice thin but steady.
"No," he answered immediately. "I expect you to trust your instinct to stay alive."
He stepped closer, and I instinctively backed up until my calves hit my desk chair. He didn't trap me—he stopped a short distance away, giving me space. That small gesture surprised me more than it should have.
"You don't know what kind of men those are," he said softly. "You haven't seen what they do to people who get in their way."
"Tell me then," I challenged—though my voice wobbled. "Tell me who they are."
His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching. "People you should never know existed. The less you know, the better."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you without putting you in even more danger."
He wasn't lying. I could feel it. I hated that I could feel it.
I crossed my arms, partly to hide my shaking. "And this contract? What does it say, exactly? That I'm your prisoner until further notice?"
His eyes flicked to mine. "My responsibility," he corrected. "Not my prisoner."
"No difference," I muttered.
"There is," he said quietly. "And you'll understand soon enough."
He pulled the contract out again and placed it gently on my table—as if it were something fragile. I stared at it warily. The paper looked ordinary, but the weight behind it wasn't.
"Read it," he said.
I hated him in that moment because he knew exactly what I would do. I grabbed the contract with shaking hands and began reading.
It was written in clean, professional language, almost clinical:
— Mandatory protection
— Temporary relocation
— Restricted movement for safety
— 24-hour surveillance (with consent)
— No contact with the outside without approval
— Cooperation in ongoing investigations
It wasn't a kidnapping contract. It wasn't ownership. It was… protection. Strict, suffocating protection, but still protection.
My eyes paused on one line near the bottom:
In the event of imminent danger, Cross Dominion assumes full responsibility for the safety of Ivy Maleka, regardless of cost or consequence.
My breath hitched.
This wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
A frightening one.
"I don't want to sign this," I whispered.
"I know." Damian's voice softened. "But you must."
"If I go with you… does that mean I can't leave? At all?"
"For now, yes."
"I'll be trapped."
"You'll be alive."
He stepped back slightly, giving me space again. He always seemed to know when I needed it.
But the walls were closing in anyway. My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to escape first. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away furiously. I would not break in front of him.
"I have a life," I said. "A job. Clients. A brother who sometimes visits."
He went very still. "You have a brother?"
"Yes. Mpho. He stays in Maun. He—"
"Does he know you were on that rooftop tonight?"
"No."
"Don't contact him," Damian said sharply. "For his safety."
My chest tightened. "You're taking everything from me."
"I'm saving everything that matters," he replied, voice gravel-soft but firm.
We stared at each other, neither willing to break. But I already knew—deep down—I had no choice. I looked at the contract again. The words blurred slightly as fear pulsed in my temples.
"If I sign this… what happens next?"
"You pack only what you need," he said. "Your camera. Your essentials. I take you to my penthouse. It's secure. No one can reach you there."
"And if I don't sign?"
His silence was the answer.
A sudden noise made me jump—footsteps echoing from the hallway outside my door. Slow, deliberate, shifting weight like a prowling animal. I froze. Damian's head snapped to the door instantly, his body tensing like a weapon ready to strike.
The footsteps stopped directly outside my apartment.
I covered my mouth with my hand.
Damian moved before I could blink. He strode to the door, pressed his ear against it for two seconds, then looked back at me.
His eyes were cold, dangerous.
"They're early," he said quietly.
My entire body flooded with terror.
"They're here?" I whispered.
"Yes," he said. "Watching. Listening."
"Do they know I'm inside?"
"They suspect." His gaze hardened. "We don't have more time, Ivy."
He stepped away from the door and returned to me, his expression unreadable but urgent.
"Sign it," he said. "Right now."
My heart raced so fast I thought I'd faint. This was too fast, too unreal, too much like one of those nightmares that didn't end when you woke up.
"I… I can't—"
"You can," he said sharply, but not unkindly. "You must."
His voice dropped to a low rumble, the first crack of emotion leaking through. "I won't let them touch you. But my protection only begins after you sign."
My hand shook violently as I picked up the pen.
His eyes softened. Just barely. "Ivy… look at me."
I lifted my gaze, meeting his.
"You will be safe," he said. "I promise you."
Something in me cracked. Not trust. Not belief. But survival instinct.
I pressed the pen to the paper and signed my name.
I had barely lifted the pen when Damian grabbed the contract, folded it, and slid it into his coat. His movements were faster now, more urgent.
"Pack your bag," he ordered. "Five minutes."
I rushed to my bedroom, grabbing clothes, toiletries, chargers, and my camera equipment. My hands trembled so badly I dropped half of it. Damian appeared in the doorway, watching silently—not impatiently, not coldly, just… assessing.
"You can take three bags," he said. "No more."
I stuffed everything into two.
When I returned to the living room, he was already scanning the hallway with a small, sleek device. He pocketed it as soon as he saw me.
"Stay behind me. Do not speak."
"What if—"
"Don't speak," he repeated.
He opened the door slowly.
The hallway was empty but humming with a tension that made the hair on my arms rise. I clutched my bag straps like lifelines and followed Damian down the stairs toward the waiting black car.
Every step felt like walking toward a new life I hadn't asked for.
But as we reached the car, he placed a steadying hand on my back—not forceful, not claiming. Just guiding.
"Get in," he said softly.
And I did.
Because whatever waited behind us was far worse than the man I was going with.