Chapter 5
By Friday, the rumours had teeth.
They slithered through the halls of Blackwood Empire in whispers and sideways looks, growing sharper every hour. I felt them before I heard them—an odd pause when I walked past, a sudden hush at the coffee station, phones angled just a little too obviously in my direction.
I told myself I was imagining it.
I wasn't.
Mara leaned against my desk mid-morning, arms crossed, expression tight. "You're trending," she said under her breath.
I frowned. "On what? Twitter?"
She slid her phone across my desk.
There it was.
A grainy photo from the restaurant. Adrian stepping protectively in front of me. His hand at my lower back, guiding me out. My face turned toward him, lips parted mid-sentence.
The headline screamed:
BLACKWOOD CEO SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY WOMAN — REBOUND OR STRATEGY?
My stomach dropped.
"I didn't agree to this," I whispered.
Mara sighed. "You didn't have to. When it's Adrian, the narrative writes itself."
The intercom buzzed.
"Ms Monroe," his voice came through, calm as ever. "Inside. Now."
My heart thudded painfully as I stood.
This wasn't a coincidence.
This was fallout.
His office felt different today. Tenser. Darker. The blinds were half-drawn, shadows cutting across his face when he looked up at me.
He didn't ask me to sit.
"Close the door," he said.
I did.
Then I turned on him. "You knew this would happen."
"Yes."
"You still took me there."
"Yes."
"That wasn't fair."
"No," he agreed. "It wasn't."
The admission startled me.
"I'm not your scandal buffer," I said, voice shaking despite my effort to steady it. "I didn't sign up to be dragged into your reputation."
"You signed up to work for Blackwood Empire," he replied. "This is part of it."
"That's not in my job description."
He studied me, eyes sharp but conflicted.
"It is now."
Anger flared hot and fast. "You don't get to change the rules whenever it suits you."
"I do," he said quietly. "That's the problem."
He moved around his desk, stopping a few feet away. Too close again. He always did this when things mattered—invaded space, forced attention.
"There's a board meeting in forty minutes," he continued. "And three major investors threatening to pull out."
"Because of a photo?"
"Because of perception," he corrected. "They think I'm unstable. Distracted."
"God forbid you're human," I snapped.
His jaw tightened. "They don't pay me to be human."
I folded my arms. "Then handle it yourself."
"I am."
My pulse skipped. "What does that mean?"
"It means", he said slowly, "we control the narrative."
A terrible understanding began to form.
"No," I said immediately. "Absolutely not."
"I haven't even told you the plan."
"I don't need to hear it."
"Elara."
"No," I repeated, louder. "Whatever you're about to suggest, the answer is no."
He exhaled, something like frustration bleeding through his control.
"You don't get it," he said. "This isn't optional."
"For you," I shot back. "But it is for me."
I reached for the door.
His hand slammed against it, stopping me inches short.
The sound echoed.
My breath caught.
"Don't," I warned quietly.
He didn't touch me. Didn't need to. His presence was enough: towering, contained, dangerous.
"I won't force you," he said. "But you should listen."
My heart pounded as I turned back to face him. "You have one minute."
He nodded once.
"Vivian is back," he said. "Publicly."
I stiffened.
"She's aligning herself with my cousin. They're leaking stories. Painting me as reckless. Emotional."
"And you think I fix that?" I asked bitterly.
"I think," he said carefully, "that a stable, committed relationship does."
I stared at him.
"You want me to pretend to date you."
"Yes."
The word landed heavy. Absolute.
I laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "You've lost your mind."
"It's temporary."
"No."
"It's contractual."
"No."
"You'd be compensated."
"Still no."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "This benefits you too."
"How?"
"Your debts," he said quietly. "Your mother's medical bills."
My blood ran cold.
"You looked into that?" I whispered.
"I told you," he replied. "I don't hire liabilities."
"You invaded my life."
"I protected my company."
I shook my head, backing away. "This is manipulation."
"It's negotiation."
"You're using my desperation against me."
"Yes," he said honestly. "And I hate that it works."
The honesty knocked the wind out of me.
I laughed weakly. "You think I'd sell my dignity for money?"
"No," he said. "I think you'd sacrifice yourself to keep other people afloat."
The words cut too deep.
"You don't know me," I said.
"I know enough," he replied.
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
"Spell it out," I said finally, exhaustion seeping into my bones. "Your plan."
He turned, picked up a folder from his desk, and handed it to me.
A contract.
My name stared back at me from the first page.
"Six months," he said. "Public appearances. No intimacy clause unless mutually agreed. Absolute discretion."
I flipped through the pages with trembling fingers.
"This is insane."
"It's controlled."
"You want to choreograph affection," I scoffed.
"I want to protect what I've built."
"And what about me?" I demanded. "What happens when this ends?"
His gaze softened, just slightly. "You walk away with financial security."
"And a reputation I didn't ask for."
"People will forget."
I met his eyes. "You never do."
Something flickered—pain, maybe.
"Sign it," he said quietly. "And this ends the speculation."
"And if I don't?"
He didn't hesitate. "The pressure won't stop."
The implication hung heavy.
I closed the folder slowly.
"I need time."
"You have until the board meeting ends," he replied. "Then the story breaks either way."
I stared at him, really looked. At the cracks beneath the control. The fear he never voiced.
"This is your mistake," I said softly.
"Yes," he agreed. "But you're the solution."
I walked out without another word.
I didn't go back to my desk.
I went to the restroom, locked myself in a stall, and sat on the closed lid, staring at the contract in my hands.
Six months.
Six months of pretending. Of lies. Of being consumed by his world.
I thought of my mother's tired smile. The hospital bills. The overdue notices are hidden in my bag.
I thought of Adrian's hand at my back. The way his voice softened when he said my name.
This was dangerous.
But so was everything else.
When I returned to his office, the board meeting was underway. Voices murmured behind closed doors.
I waited.
When the door finally opened, Adrian stepped out, tension etched into every line of him.
He looked at me.
I held up the signed contract.
His breath caught.
"I'll do it," I said quietly. "But don't confuse compliance with consent."
He took the folder from my hands, fingers brushing mine.
"I won't," he said.
But the look in his eyes said otherwise.
As the door closed behind us, sealing the deal, I had the sudden, sinking realisation—
I hadn't just signed a contract.
I'd signed myself into his empire.
And I wasn't sure I'd survive the mistake.