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CHAPTER EIGHT
Ashley POV
My shoulder blades tense.
"What's this?" I ask, tapping the paragraph.
"Standard," he says. "You will have access to sensitive information. That clause ensures you'll protect it."
I read silently.
No leaking. No sharing. No discussing his schedule, his movements, his meetings. No working for direct competitors for years if I leave.
Consequences.
Penalties.
More legal language than my brain wants to process.
"'In the event of a breach,'" I read aloud, "'the company reserves the right to pursue financial damages…'"
"That won't happen if you don't betray me," he says.
I snap my gaze up at him. "And if I just want out? Later?"
His expression doesn't change. "Then you complete your contract term like everyone else, we separate cleanly, and you walk away with enough money to reset your entire life."
"And if I want to out now?" I press.
"You can't," he says calmly. "We both know why."
Three million.
The number hangs between us like a brick.
"I don't appreciate being trapped," I whisper.
"No one does," he replies. "But most people don't get a golden cage. You do."
I clench my fists in my lap. "You have a terrible way of making things sound appealing."
His eyes glint faintly. "And yet, you're still here."
I glare at him. "Because you pinned me to a wall with paperwork."
"You could have refused this morning," he says.
"To what? Go home unemployed and owe your lawyers three million?"
He doesn't answer.
He doesn't need to.
We both know the answer
---
DAMIEN — POV
She's furious.
Good.
Anger is better than fear. Anger has edges. Anger fights. Fear collapses.
I watch her struggle between outrage and resignation.
She hates that she needs this job.
She hates that I hold the power.
She hates that some part of her — the part that is tired of scraping by — wants what I'm offering.
Money is human bait.
But it's not the only hook.
She is not like the others. She doesn't melt under attention. She doesn't preen when she's praised. She wants distance.
Her spirit recoils from my presence.
And perversely, that distance… pulls me in.
The darkness inside me presses against its invisible leash, tugging, testing, hungry for something it hasn't tasted before.
Light.
Real light.
It would be simple to lean into her, to entice her, to let the full force of my charm wash over her.
I do not.
Not yet.
Predators don't sprint at the first flinch. They wait. Watch. Measure.
And I intend to enjoy this.
---
ASHLEY — POV
"So what is this really?" I ask. "An offer? A threat? A… test?"
"It's a contract," he says. "Don't romanticize it."
"I'm not romanticizing anything," I snap. "I'm trying not to drown in fine print."
"Then let me simplify."
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. His gaze pins me in place.
"You work for me," he says. "You become the person I rely on. I give you information, authority, access. In return, you execute, you manage, you protect, and you stay loyal."
I hate the way a small, traitorous part of me responds to the word rely.
"You're saying you trust me," I say slowly.
"I'm saying I'm willing to," he corrects. "You'll decide whether that's justified."
"And if I fail?"
"You won't," he says.
"You sound very sure of yourself."
"I am very sure of myself."
His confidence would be obnoxious if it didn't feel so… real.
My fingers drum against my knee.
"I don't like you," I say finally.
His mouth twitches.
"You don't have to like me," he replies. "You just have to work for me."
"I don't trust you," I add.
"Wise," he says. "You should never trust new employers."
"That's not funny."
"I wasn't joking."
We stare at each other.
The more I talk to him, the more conflicted I feel. My spirit still reacts like it wants to flee out the window. My mind keeps replaying the bar — the instant wrongness when I saw him.
But my body refuses to collapse. My brain refuses to shut down. My mouth refuses to stay quiet.
"I'm not a puppet," I say. "You don't get to pull strings and expect me to just smile and nod."
"I don't want a puppet," he says. "Puppets break too easily. I want someone who doesn't fall apart the first time I raise my voice."
"You haven't raised your voice yet," I point out.
He holds my gaze. "Don't give me a reason to."
Something in his tone sends a shiver down my spine.
Not fear.
Caution.
He taps the folder again.
"Sign it," he says. "And this is no longer a conversation. It's an agreement."
"If I don't?"
His eyes cool by a few degrees.
"If you don't," he says quietly, "you walk back downstairs with no job, an active contract, and a penalty clause that will haunt any attempt you make to move forward. You'll be legally and financially strangled for years. I'm not threatening you, Ms. Dean. I'm just describing the reality you already know."
My throat closes.
Because he's right.
He doesn't have to lie, or bluff, or coax.
The facts are enough.
"So this is an offer I can't refuse," I say bitterly.
He inclines his head. "Correct."
I stare at the folder. The numbers blur on the page. My name at the top looks small. Fragile.
I don't want this.
That's the honest truth.
I don't want to spend my days in the same space as this man who feels like a walking shadow wrapped in designer clothing.
I don't want to feel my spirit flinch every time he stands too close.
But I also don't want to go back to scraping together rent money and pretending I'm not drowning.
I don't want to watch my life shrink because I said no out of fear.
I pick up the pen.
The weight of it feels wrong.
I exhale slowly and meet his eyes one last time.
"Fine," I say. "I'll sign."
"For the record," he says, "I didn't doubt that you would."
"Arrogant," I mutter.
"Accurate," he counters.
I press the pen to paper and sign my name.
A clean, harmless gesture.
A trap closing around me.
He takes the file, scans it, then closes it and sets it aside.
"Welcome, Ms. Dean," he says quietly. "As of now, you belong to my office."
"Touchy choice of words," I say.
He watches my face for a moment. "You know that's a metaphor."
"Funny," I reply. "Doesn't feel like one."
---
DAMIEN — POV
There it is.
Her name, attached to mine by ink and intention.
I've bound hundreds of employees to contracts. It has never felt like this.
The room hums. Not with electricity. With something older. Darker. Hungrier.
It senses her light the way I do, even if she doesn't.
She thinks I see her as a piece on a board. She's not wrong. But she is also more than that: an anomaly. A radiant, resisting anomaly.
She wants distance.
She won't get it.
Not anymore.
"Report at eight," I say. "My schedule will be sent to your email. You'll receive system access before you leave today."
She nods, jaw tight.
"And Ashley—" I add.
She reluctantly looks back at me.
"Don't run out of rooms when you see me again," I say. "It sets the wrong tone."
"It wasn't about you," she lies.
We both know it was.
I let her keep that shred of denial. For now.
"Then make sure it doesn't happen again," I say. "Dismissed."
She turns away.
Her shoulders are stiff, but her steps are steady.
She's not broken.
Good.
Broken things bore me.
---
ASHLEY — POV
The moment the door clicks shut behind me, my lungs finally remember how to function. I drag in air like I've just surfaced from deep water.
The hallway feels longer than before.
I don't look back.
If I do, I might see him watching, and I can't handle that right now.
I press the elevator button. My finger trembles. The light glows red. It feels like a warning sign.
When the doors slide open, I step inside and hit the floor for PR.
As the elevator descends, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall.
I don't look like someone who just got a massive pay raise. I look like someone who signed a pact she doesn't understand.
A soft laugh bubbles up in my throat, humorless.
"Congratulations," I whisper to myself. "You just sold your peace of mind in exchange for health insurance and a shiny title."
The doors open.
The noise of the lower floors rushes in — phones ringing, people talking, printers whining. Normal office chaos.
It almost feels safe compared to the tomb-like quiet upstairs.
Almost.
Harper spots me the moment I step into PR. She all but sprints over.
"You're alive!" she says. "Good. Blink if you're traumatized."
I blink.
She winces. "Oh, that's not good."
"I signed," I say simply.
Her face falls. "Oh no, Ashley…"
"What was I supposed to do?" I ask quietly. "Walk out and owe the company more money than I'll ever see in my life?"
She shuts her mouth. She doesn't have an answer for that.
"Is he…" she starts. "Is he awful?"
I think of his voice, his eyes, the way the room felt smaller with him in it. The calm way he pinned me in place with words alone.
"Yes," I say.
Her eyes widen.
"And no," I add reluctantly. "He's… composed. Cold. Smart. He doesn't yell. He doesn't bluster. He doesn't need to." I shiver. "That's worse."
She exhales. "So you're stuck."
"Looks like it."
She links her arm through mine.
"Then he'll have to go through me," she says. "And I talk a lot."
A small, real smile slips out of me. "I'm serious, Harper."
"So am I," she replies. "If he makes you cry, I'm pouring coff