Rain clawed at the glass skin of Blackwell Tower, the sky split by veins of lightning. From the street below, the skyscraper loomed like a black monolith—silent, watchful, omnipotent. It was the kind of building that didn't just house power; it devoured anyone foolish enough to walk in uninvited. Lila Hart wasn't sure what that made her.
She stood at the base of the lobby escalators, water dripping from the hem of her thrifted trench coat, clutching the portfolio that had survived three subway transfers and a broken heel. The receptionist had looked at her like she'd walked in off a different planet, but after a tight phone call and a hard stare, she was waved through.
"Thirty-seventh floor," the woman said. "Mr. Blackwell doesn't like to wait."
Neither do wolves, Lila thought.
The elevator was a glass box that rose through darkness. No Muzak, no buttons to press—just a sensor that read her badge and took her where someone wanted her to go. The silence was thick. Her own reflection stared back at her: damp hair in a messy twist, smudged eyeliner, the collar of her coat wilted. Her lips pressed into a line.
She should've said no. But then again, when a summons came from Damien Blackwell's office, you didn't decline. You braced.
The doors slid open with a whisper.
His office was carved from shadow and glass. Black marble floors stretched beneath low lights, and stormlight rolled across the high windows like bruises in the sky. A single modern painting—a violent red slash across a black canvas—hung on the far wall. Minimalist, severe.
He stood at the window, back to her.
Damien Blackwell. Billionaire. Visionary. Rumor.
Her breath caught before she even realized it.
He turned. Slowly. His suit was midnight tailored, his frame tall and unnervingly still. That face—too perfect, too clean-cut—should've belonged to a politician or a devil. His eyes were obsidian. Not metaphorically. Literally. There was no softness in them. Only hunger, barely restrained behind a civilized mask.
"Miss Hart," he said, his voice low and calm, like the eye of a hurricane. "You're late."
She straightened her shoulders. "Your city flooded."
A pause. One corner of his mouth curved. Not a smile. Something darker. Something interested.
He walked toward her slowly. Each step echoed.
Lila felt it—his presence, the way it scraped against the walls of her carefully built defenses. Something in her pulsed like a warning bell, and yet she stood her ground.
"Do you know why you're here?" he asked.
"No."
Another flicker of that almost-smile. "Interesting answer."
He gestured toward the chair opposite his obsidian desk. She sat. He didn't.
"You submitted your portfolio six months ago," he said. "To a division we no longer fund."
She met his eyes. "Then why am I here?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved behind his desk, opened her portfolio, and began flipping through the sketches—her designs, her work, her fragments of sleepless nights. His fingers were immaculate. Surgical. Too clean for someone who should have bled for what he built.
She watched him, unsure what terrified her more: the silence or the fact that he hadn't looked away from the page in over a minute.
Finally, he looked up. His gaze pinned her.
"This one," he said, tapping a charcoal rendering of a dress wrapped in barbed silk. "Who inspired it?"
Lila blinked. "No one."
He leaned in slightly. "Lying doesn't suit you."
Her jaw tensed. "I don't design for muses. I design for scars."
Something shifted in his eyes. Not surprise. Recognition.
The thunder cracked. The lights dimmed momentarily.
Then—
"I want you to start Monday," he said.
Lila frowned. "Just like that? No formal interview? No contract?"
"Contracts come later," he said. "The decision's already made."
She hesitated. "You don't even know me."
Damien's voice was almost a whisper. "That's where you're wrong, Miss Hart. I know exactly what you are."
Their eyes locked.
The silence was unbearable. Electric.
He stood.
"You may go."
She didn't move. Neither did he. The storm howled louder, rattling the glass. And for one strange moment, she felt like she was staring down a precipice she hadn't chosen—but couldn't walk away from.
Lila rose slowly, collected her things. At the door, she paused.
"Why me?" she asked, softly.
Damien Blackwell didn't answer.
He only said, "Be careful what you awaken, Miss Hart. Some muses draw blood."
The door shut behind her.