They didn't call it a collar.
They called it "alternative resolution."
They called it "structured supervision."
They called it a "creative partnership under controlled conditions."
But the longer Adrien talked, the more Amara heard metal closing.
The meeting was in a smaller conference room on a lower floor—a space that tried to look neutral and failed. Frosted glass walls. Polished table. A view of another building's brick flank, which somehow made the whole thing feel even more trapped.
No judge. No court reporter. Just:
Adrien at one end of the table, sleeves neatly rolled once, tie loosened exactly two centimeters to signal informal but serious.
Patel at the other end, notes spread, glasses low on his nose, jaw tight.
Amara in the middle, the axis the whole mess turned around.
Lucian was not there. His absence felt loud.
Adrien slid a thin folder toward them. No thick stack of demands this time. Just a few stapled pages, a single paperclip shining like punctuation.
"First," Adrien said, "let me be clear: this is not our official written settlement offer. Consider it a term sheet. A proposal, contingent on a few things—your agreement, my client's final sign-off, the judge's… tolerance."
Patel gave a dry little snort. "Always reassuring to start with caveats."
Adrien smiled as if that were a compliment. "It's the lawyer's love language," he said lightly. "We are trying, Mr. Patel. You asked for something that doesn't grind your client into paste. My client has authorized me to explore an alternative to mutual annihilation."
"Those were not the words I used," Patel murmured.
"Close enough," Adrien said. His gaze shifted to Amara. "May I walk you through it, Ms. Reyes?"
She didn't trust her voice, so she nodded.
He flipped the first page over with two fingers. No title, just sections labeled in clean, legal fonts.
"Point one," he said. "The plaintiffs would agree to withdraw the claim for monetary damages beyond a nominal amount. No ruinous judgment. No multi-year repayment plans. We eat our own attorneys' fees."
Patel's eyebrows shot up despite himself. "That's… generous," he said slowly. "Especially given the hours you've clearly been logging."
"Tell my partners that," Adrien said. "They'll be thrilled I'm donating their time."
His eyes flicked back to Amara.
She sat very still, hands knotted in her lap. No crushing damages sounded like the part of a fairy tale where you woke up and the giant decided not to eat you. But fairy tales always had a price hidden in the small print.
"Point two," Adrien continued. "We drop the demand for assignment of existing character rights, provided you agree to cease publishing Alpha of the Boardroom in its current form on all public platforms."
The words bit, even though she'd expected them. "So I kill it," she said. "Officially."
"You archive it," he corrected. "Privately. You retain ownership of what exists. You simply agree not to display or monetize it publicly in its present configuration."
"Functionally, that's killing it," she said. "Readers can't see it. It stops breathing."
Adrien conceded that with a small tilt of his head. "Words matter," he said. "Legal ones, especially. So let's say: you put it into… stasis."
Patel's pen scratched something. "What about derivative works?" he asked. "Can she build something new on those bones?"
Adrien turned a page. "Which brings us to the third point," he said. "My client is prepared to fund, promote, and—crucially—protect a revised version of your story. Under certain conditions."
There it was. The price.
"Protect how?" she asked.
"From other lawsuits," he said. "From takedowns. From being buried in the algorithms. Valtor Group's media arm has connections with WebVerse, with streaming platforms, with—"
"Wait," she cut in. "You have a media arm?"
"Several," he said. "Subsidiaries. Partners. You wouldn't be the first creator we've… invested in."
"Co-opted," Patel said under his breath.
Adrien smiled. "Tomato, tomahto," he said. "The point is, you're not being offered silence and starvation. You're being offered resources. Legal shelter. Editorial support. An opportunity to reshape your work in a way that keeps you out of courtrooms."
"And the conditions?" Patel asked, every syllable guarded.
Adrien folded his hands. "The revised story," he said, "would be developed under Valtor Group's supervision. My client would have approval rights over elements that might impact his brand—character design drift, corporate references, that sort of thing. Think of it as a co-produced adaptation of your original idea into something… safer."
Safer.
The word dropped like a stone.
"You mean censored," Amara said.
"Curated," Adrien said. "Calibrated."
"That's worse," she muttered.
He held her gaze. "You keep creative control over tone, pacing, plot within reason," he said. "But yes, the 'Alpha' character— name, likeness, certain personality traits—would be redesigned in collaboration with us. You can build a whole new world around him. Just not one that equates him one-to-one with my client."
"So the monster becomes a brand asset," she said. "Great."
"You already made him a brand," Adrien said. "We're simply formalizing it."
Patel tapped the table with his pen. "And if she refuses creative supervision?" he asked.
"Then we're back to the previous track," Adrien said easily. "Full injunction, damages, years of litigation. I'm sure neither of us wants that."
Silence stretched.
The fluorescent light above them flickered once, then steadied.
"Let's skip to what you're dancing around," Patel said. "The residence clause."
Adrien's smile thinned. "You read ahead," he said.
"I have eyes," Patel said. "And I've seen some strange stipulations, but this… is new."
He turned the page around so Amara could see. One section had been highlighted in pale yellow, like a polite warning.
TEMPORARY RELOCATION & SECURITY ARRANGEMENTS
For the duration of the initial twelve-week creative redevelopment period, Ms. Reyes agrees to reside in a secure accommodation designated and controlled by Valtor Group, for purposes of:
(a) ensuring confidentiality of sensitive information;
(b) facilitating on-site collaboration and supervision;
(c) maintaining the integrity of proprietary processes.
The words went on. Legal padding around a hard core.
"You want me to move in?" she said slowly. "With him?"
Adrien shook his head. "Not with him," he said. "Into a secure facility under his company's control. A guest residence at one of our properties, staffed, monitored. Discreet. You'd have your own space. Your own room. Not some dungeon."
Her skin crawled anyway.
"Why?" she asked. "Zoom exists. Email exists. Why do I need to be… relocated?"
"Several reasons," Adrien said smoothly. "One: privacy. This matter has drawn significant attention. Keeping you in a controlled environment reduces the risk of leaks, of third parties inserting themselves into the narrative. Two: safety. You've received threats."
She blinked. "What?"
He slid another sheet across the table.
Screenshots. Comments from last night. DMs from accounts with wolves in their icons and names like ValtorDefender.
"If she ruins his reputation she deserves what's coming."
"People like her make up lies and destroy careers."
"Hope Lucian sues her into the street, then the street finishes the job."
Her stomach twisted.
She hadn't looked at her notifications since collapsing into bed. She'd assumed the noise was more memes, more edits, more jokes about her art.
She hadn't considered the other tide.
"My client takes security very seriously," Adrien said. "He would prefer not to see you harassed—or worse—because of this. We can manage that better if you're somewhere we control."
The words sounded almost kind if she didn't examine them too closely.
"And three?" Patel asked. "You said several reasons."
Adrien hesitated a fraction. It was small, but Amara was watching too closely to miss it.
"Three," he said, "is that my client wants… visibility. Into the process. Into you."
The last two words hung strangely in the air.
"Being in proximity," Adrien went on, smoothing the crease he'd just made, "allows him to observe, to verify that no further… unexpected overlaps occur. We'd establish clear boundaries, of course. Schedules. No midnight raids on your sketchbook."
"You want to put her in a corporate artist terrarium," Patel said. "Where he can tap the glass and see how she reacts."
"That's a dramatic way to put it," Adrien said mildly. "Though I appreciate the image."
Amara's throat felt tight. "So let me get this straight," she said. "In exchange for not bankrupting me and not stealing my characters outright, he wants to… own my time. My environment. My… process. And lock me in one of his gilded cages while he watches?"
"You'd be paid," Adrien said quickly. "A substantial stipend. Healthcare. Resources. You'd be under contract, not in captivity."
"Forgive me if the distinction feels thin," she said.
He sighed, the first crack in his smoothness. "Look," he said. "Off the record? He doesn't trust this to be handled at arm's length anymore."
"Because of the scar," she said quietly.
Adrien's eyes flicked to her hand unconsciously, as if the memory of Lucian's bare ring finger still hung there. "Because of a few too many coincidences," he said. "Because he feels… exposed in ways he doesn't like. He believes distance hasn't mitigated that. He wants control."
"Of course he does," she muttered.
"And," Adrien added carefully, "he believes you know something—or could know something—that might impact more than just his brand."
Her skin prickled. "Such as?" she asked, playing dumb because the alternative was admitting she had no vocabulary for what she'd seen in that hallway.
Adrien's gaze held hers, weighing what he could say.
Then he smiled, thin and professional. "Such as internal dynamics you shouldn't have access to," he said. "Call it… risk management. He prefers to keep potential variables close."
Variables.
She wasn't a person in this sentence.
She was a variable. A problem to be contained.
"And the confidentiality clause?" Patel asked, tapping another highlighted block. "You're asking for a complete gag order on the terms, the residence, the supervision, the entire arrangement. She can't talk about it to press, to fans, not even to friends. That's… sweeping."
Adrien shrugged lightly. "We're not going to parade her around with a 'Lucian's Pet Artist' sign," he said. "This is meant to dial down the circus, remember? Publicly, the narrative would be simple: matter resolved, parties reached an agreement, Ms. Reyes is working on new projects. The rest stays private."
"No mention of the part where I'm effectively on a leash," Amara said.
"I'd choose a different metaphor," Adrien said. "But yes. Discretion is key."
Patel leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. "You realize how this looks," he said. "To any neutral observer. It sounds like you're offering to trade financial devastation for… something dangerously close to coercion."
"Nothing about this is forced," Adrien said. "She can say no. She can reject the entire proposal and take her chances at trial. We're not holding a gun to her head. We're offering a way out that avoids destroying her and protects my client."
He looked at Amara. "You're not stupid," he said softly. "You know how this game plays. They don't make movies about quiet settlements. They don't write fanfics about NDAs. They move on. You go home. You try to build something new with less visibility and less money and more fear."
He spread his hands. "This—" he tapped the papers "—is messy. Complicated. But it gives you tools. It gives you proximity to the man whose shadow you accidentally wrote yourself into. You might even decide you like some of those tools."
"Is that what you think?" she asked. "That I want to be… close to him?"
"I think," Adrien said slowly, "that some part of you is already tangled up with him whether you want it or not. Legally. Creatively. Psychologically. This arrangement doesn't create that. It acknowledges it and tries to put a fence around it."
A collar, she thought. A fence that moves with you.
Her pulse beat hard in her ears.
She pictured it for a second, because her brain insisted.
A "secure residence" with tall glass windows and controlled entries, staff who pretended not to see everything. A desk with her tablet, new monitors, state-of-the-art tools. A schedule: mornings drafting, afternoons "check-ins" with Lucian or his proxies, evenings writing under the watchful eye of cameras. No more freelancing. No more worrying about rent.
And him.
Somewhere in that building. On another floor, or down the hall, or in the same kitchen at midnight.
Maybe she'd see him only in conference rooms. Maybe she'd pass him once in a corridor and feel that hum in the air again. Maybe she'd never be alone with him like that again.
She didn't believe that last one.
You don't move a variable into your orbit just to ignore it.
Patel closed the folder with a soft thwap. "We'll need time," he said. "To review. To consider. To drink heavily."
Adrien's mouth quirked. "Within reason," he said. "There's a window. My client's willing to hold off on certain motions while we discuss, but he won't wait forever."
"How long?" Amara asked.
"A week," Adrien said. "Maybe less, depending on how the judge moves."
Patel bristled. "That's—"
"More than the court will give," Adrien said. "You heard her schedule. She wants this off her docket. We're buying you time, Ms. Reyes, even as we ask you to sell us some."
Poetic.
She hated that it was poetic.
He pushed the folder back toward her, closer this time. "Read it," he said. "All of it. Mark it up with Mr. Patel. Ask questions. I'll answer what I can."
"And if I say no?" she asked.
He didn't flinch. "Then we go back into court," he said. "And we all keep pretending this is just about a comic."
Her chest tightened.
He stood, smoothing his sleeves. "For what it's worth," he added, "this wasn't my idea."
"Whose, then?" she asked, even though she knew.
Adrien smiled faintly. "You know whose," he said. "He rarely offers anyone an alternative to losing. Consider that before you answer."
He left them there with the offer and the hum of the air conditioner.
The door whispered shut behind him.
Silence settled, thick as fog.
Patel stared at the folder like it might bite. "Well," he said finally. "That's… not in any of the case textbooks."
"You're not seriously considering this," she said. It came out sharper than she meant.
He removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and looked every one of his years. "I am seriously considering that my client is being offered a way to avoid bankruptcy and keep her characters," he said. "I am also seriously considering that the way involves moving into the lion's den with a dotted line around her neck."
"Wolf's den," she said automatically.
He gave her a look. "This is not funny," he said.
"I know," she whispered.
He sighed. "On paper," he said slowly, "there are safeguards. Clear term. Twelve weeks, renewable only by mutual consent. Written exit clauses. Stipend. A clause that says they can't use knowledge of your process to lock you out of your own future work. I can beef those up. I can add teeth."
"Teeth." Her laugh came out brittle. "They've got enough of those."
He ignored the pun. "Emotionally," he went on, "it's something else. It's… proximity to power. To the person who can hurt you most. That does things to people. Makes them say yes to things they'd never consider in a vacuum."
She thought of Lucian's eyes in the hallway, gold burning through gray. Of his breath at her throat. Of the marks in the wall that maintenance would soon paint over.
"He's dangerous," she said softly.
"I'm a lawyer, not a therapist," Patel said. "I don't know him beyond what I see in court. But I know this: people like him don't like uncertainty. You're an uncertainty. He wants you where he can see you. This whole thing reeks of control."
"And your advice?" she asked, voice small.
His expression softened. "My advice is that we assume this is real, not a bluff," he said. "We take the terms home. We poke holes. We see what survives. And you ask yourself some hard questions."
"Like what?"
"Like: what are you willing to trade to keep writing?" he said. "And what are you not willing to trade, no matter how pretty they make the collar look?"
The word landed between them, naked now.
Collar.
Twelve weeks in a cage with windows.
Legal protection in exchange for being watched by a man who could turn his hands into weapons and his eyes into warnings.
She looked at the folder again.
The top page was still blank on the back, waiting for signatures that could change everything.
Her fingers curled away from it, as if it were hot.
"I don't know," she said honestly.
Patel nodded. "That's better than pretending you do," he said. "We'll figure it out. Slowly. Carefully. Not today."
As they gathered their things to leave, she caught a glimpse through the frosted glass.
Tall shadow in the corridor. Familiar outline.
Lucian didn't come in. He stood there for a moment, as if gauging whether to open the door, then turned away.
For a second, the frosted glass caught his movement like a panel in her comic—blurred edges, sharp intention.
Then he was gone.
She tucked the folder under her arm.
It was thin.
It weighed more than all the lawsuit papers combined.