---
It took me five days to answer.
Not because I didn't know what I wanted.
Because I did.
But that was the problem.
I wanted the wrong things.
---
The nights after Marshall's offer were sleepless. Not because I was shocked—men like him always offered control wrapped in velvet. It wasn't new.
But the look in his eyes when he said presence? That was new.
I should've thrown the contract away.
Should've disappeared.
But I didn't.
Instead, I reread the fine print. Again. And again.
It wasn't the money that swayed me. Not even the luxury apartment. It was the distance the deal gave me—from the world I was running from. The name I'd buried. The girl I used to be.
And maybe, just maybe, a chance to breathe.
So, I signed.
But I didn't deliver it in person.
I slid it into a black envelope, sealed it, and had it delivered to Blackwood Towers at exactly 7:07 a.m.
It felt like handing over a part of myself.
Because I knew. The second I said yes, nothing would ever be the same.
---
One Week Later
New Location: Midtown Penthouse Apartment
"Welcome home," the assistant said.
I stepped into the apartment like I was walking into someone else's life.
Marble floors. Soft lighting. Clean lines.
A scent like sandalwood and silence.
I didn't drop my bag.
Didn't breathe for a few seconds either.
This wasn't just a new address.
This was a transaction. A pause in the war I'd been fighting for years.
I didn't unpack.
I just stood there—wondering how long it would take for everything I was hiding to catch up to me.
---
That Night
Private Dinner, Location: A rooftop overlooking the East River
He didn't touch me.
Not once.
Marshall Blackwood was many things—arrogant, intense, dangerously observant—but he wasn't careless. He knew when to move. When to wait.
We ate beneath hanging lights, the wind playing with the curls I hadn't pinned back.
"I'm glad you came," he said.
"I haven't really come yet," I replied. "You just have my body. My mind's still back there, deciding if this was a mistake."
He gave a half-smile. "I don't mind a slow burn."
I sipped my wine.
"You will," I muttered under my breath.
Because I could feel it already.
This wasn't just an arrangement.
It was a noose. And each passing day, I'd pull it tighter.
---
Two Weeks Later
Events Attended: 3
Questions Asked: Too Many
Secrets Slipped: One Almost
"Where did you grow up?" Marshall asked one night, when the world had quieted.
I smiled. A fake one.
"Nowhere worth remembering."
His eyes didn't leave mine. "What's worth forgetting?"
I stood. Poured another drink. Took too long to answer.
"You think this is intimacy?" I asked. "Sharing scars over expensive scotch?"
He didn't answer.
Because he already knew—there were parts of me that weren't up for sale.
But it wouldn't stop him from digging.
---
My Secret
It wasn't about me being a bartender.
Or how I learned to mix a drink by age fifteen.
It wasn't about the lies I told to land that job, or the second phone I kept hidden in a hollow book.
It wasn't even about the way I changed my name at nineteen.
No.
It was about the man I used to belong to.
The one who branded me with his initials when I tried to leave.
The one still looking for me.
The one Marshall didn't know existed.
---
I stared at the scar every night in the bathroom mirror.
A faint burn mark. Just below the curve of my ribs.
Three letters. Seared into me.
Every time I touched it, I remembered: I don't get to be safe. I don't get to fall.
And I sure as hell don't get to want someone like Marshall Blackwood.
---
But he kept making it harder.
With the way he looked at me. The way he didn't ask for more than I could give, but still managed to make me want to give it anyway.
One night, I almost told him.
I almost said: There's someone who wants me dead.
But I stopped myself.
Because telling him would mean watching the way he saw me change.
And I couldn't take that.
Not yet.
---
Cliffhanger Ending
It was late.
He had fallen asleep on the couch—still in his suit jacket, one hand curled near his chin.
I should've gone to my room.
Should've left it alone.
But I sat beside him instead.
And whispered, "You shouldn't want me."
He stirred slightly but didn't wake.
So I reached into my purse. Pulled out a photo—creased and hidden for years.
The man in it had sharp eyes and a cruel smile.
I left it on the coffee table.
No note.
No explanation.
And then I walked away.
Because if Marshall was going to chase my secrets—he'd have to start with that face.
The man I once loved.
The man I betrayed.
The man who vowed to ruin me.
And he's already too close.
---