When the curtain closed, I didn't move.
Not for a long time.
I stood beneath that flickering lamp, watching the outline of her silhouette blur behind the glass. She'd invited me here without inviting me in. Left the door locked and the question burning.
Sofia didn't play games. She ruled them.
And I wanted in.
So the next morning, I made a call.
Power meant nothing if I couldn't bend the rules around her. If I couldn't shift time, space, and convenience to put her where I wanted. But it wasn't about control—at least, not the usual kind.
It was about proximity.
I needed her in a room with no noise. No bar. No excuses to slip away. Just me. Just her. And a conversation that couldn't be brushed off with a cocktail napkin.
I called the Luxe bar's upper management. They owed me favors. Too many.
"I want her pulled from tonight's shift," I said. "I'll cover whatever costs. Make it look like a scheduling error."
A pause. Then: "And where should she be scheduled instead?"
I smiled. "Don't worry. I'll take care of that part."
I arranged a private suite at the Westmont—discreet, quiet, luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows and velvet shadows. A place that whispered intimacy without asking for it.
Then I made another call.
This one went to her.
Not a text. A voice message.
I didn't care if she answered.
"Sofia. I'd like to see you tonight. Room 1704, Westmont Hotel. You're not obligated to come. But I hope you do. If not for me—then for the truth between us."
No reply.
I waited anyway.
And when the hour came—9:03 p.m.—a soft knock echoed on the suite door.
I opened it.
And there she stood.
Sofia, wrapped in a long tan coat, her eyes unreadable.
"You really don't take no for an answer," she said, stepping inside.
"I don't believe in final answers."
She paused by the doorway, one hand still on the knob as if she hadn't fully committed to being here.
"I'm not here to sleep with you," she warned.
I nodded. "Understood."
She let go of the handle and walked past me, taking in the space. Her eyes flicked over the wine on the table. The view. The chair pulled out for her.
"This isn't a date," she added.
"Noted."
She turned to face me fully then, arms folded, posture guarded.
"Then why am I here?"
I didn't step closer. Not yet.
"Because there's something between us you keep pretending doesn't exist," I said calmly. "And I'm giving you space to acknowledge it."
"That sounds a lot like manipulation."
"No. This…" I gestured between us. "This is negotiation."
She tilted her head. "What exactly are you offering?"
I reached into my jacket and pulled out the folder.
She didn't take it immediately. Just stared at it.
"A contract?" she asked, incredulous.
"A proposal," I corrected. "Six months. You'll accompany me to private events, dinners, weekends away when required. Nothing intimate unless you choose it. In return, I'll pay you triple your current salary, provide a private apartment, and full security."
She blinked, lips parting.
"And if I say no?"
I shrugged. "Then this night ends. And I walk away. But I think you're curious. Maybe not about the contract. But about me."
Sofia moved to the window, back to me, staring out at the skyline. The glow of the city danced across her skin.
"Why me?" she asked quietly. "You don't even know me."
I stepped closer now. Slow. Controlled.
"I've seen hundreds of beautiful women, Sofia. None of them made me want to peel back their layers. None of them stared at me like I wasn't worth the time of day. You don't try to impress. You try to escape. And that—"
I stopped.
She turned to face me again. Her voice was softer now. "And that?"
"That makes me want to know what you're running from."
Silence fell.
She stepped toward the table, opened the folder, and scanned the pages.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"Possibly."
"You think money can buy this?"
"No. But maybe it can buy time. And in time, you might see this isn't about power. It's about presence."
Sofia looked up sharply.
"You want my presence?"
I nodded. "Exactly."
She stared at me for a long time, fingers tightening around the edge of the folder.
"Six months," she repeated.
"Yes."
"And you'll let me walk away after?"
"If you still want to."
Her eyes narrowed. "And if I walk away before that?"
I hesitated. "Then I let you go."
She stepped closer—close enough I could smell the faint trail of jasmine in her hair.
"You're dangerous, Mr. Blackwood."
"I've been told."
"I should walk away now."
"Then do it."
The air between us tightened.
But she didn't move.
She placed the folder back on the table, fingers brushing over it like she was taming fire.
Finally, she whispered:
"I'll think about it."
And then she turned and left—coat trailing, heels clicking like a countdown to madness.
I didn't stop her.
Because the deal was already sealed.
She would come back.
Not for the money.
Not for the power.
For the feeling.
The one she'd buried long ago.
The one I was going to drag into the light—
whether she was ready or not.
Absolutely—here's a 300-word cliffhanger continuation of the story, where Sofia returns, signs the contract—but not without tilting the power dynamic. It sets the stage for everything to come.
She showed up at exactly 3:00 p.m.
Not a second early. Not a breath late.
Sofia Reyes walked into my office in a sleek navy suit and red lipstick sharp enough to draw blood.
She didn't sit. Didn't greet.
Instead, she placed the signed contract on my desk with two fingers, like it disgusted her to touch it.
"You'll get six months," she said. "On my terms."
I didn't smile. Didn't blink.
"I'm listening."
"No questions about my past. No forced intimacy. I don't parade. I don't pretend. And if I want out, I walk."
I nodded slowly. "Accepted."
She turned to leave, but paused at the door—her voice like velvet and razorblades.
"Just one more thing, Mr. Blackwood…"
I looked up.
"If you think I'm going to fall for you, you're more arrogant than I thought."
I leaned back in my chair, watching her with quiet amusement.
"I don't need you to fall," I murmured. "Just stay close enough to burn."
She didn't answer.
The door closed behind her like the sound of a match being struck.
And I knew—this wasn't the beginning of a contract.
It was the beginning of a war.
One that wouldn't end with a signature.
Only surrender.
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