I have never been in an office that made me feel this small before. Floor-to-ceiling windows bled sunlight across sleek white marble, the kind of sterile shine that made you feel like you didn't belong unless you were made of money or steel. Probably both. The air smelled like power filtered, masculine, expensive. Leather, citrus, something colder underneath I couldn't name.
Kyl's assistant led me through without a word. Her heels clicked with the kind of efficiency I envied.
When the doors opened, I saw him standing behind a glass desk, back turned to me, staring out at the city like he owned it. Which, technically, he did.
I paused in the doorway, smoothing down the front of my blazer. Beneath it, I wore nothing but black lace. It was armor. If I was going to sell a part of myself, I wanted to look like I had teeth.
He turned slowly. His gaze dragged over me, sharp and deliberate. But not lewd. Hungry, maybe. Like he was trying to read between the lines of me.
"Ivana," he said, voice a smooth glide of heat over stone.
"Kyl." I stepped in. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing us in. No escape now.
He gestured to a leather chair across from his desk. "Sit."
I did, legs crossed tightly, blazer falling just enough to hint at what lay underneath. His eyes flicked there, then back to my face.
"You came."
"I'm not here for round two," I said flatly.
He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's a shame. But I'll survive."
Silence stretched between us, thick with something unsaid. He sat slowly, fingers steepled.
"I'm listening," he said.
I licked my lips and leaned forward. "If we're doing this, your arrangement, it comes with conditions."
His brow lifted. "Conditions?"
"I'm not a toy. I'm not yours. You don't get to own me just because you can afford to."
He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he hadn't yet decided to solve. "Go on."
"I want my own apartment. Not one of your place, I'll choose it. I want time, protected time to write. I want connections to publishers, editors, agents. And I want freedom. No control over what I wear, who I see, what I do when I'm not in your bed."
A beat passed. He didn't blink. Just breathed in once, slow and deep, before speaking.
"And the money?"
I swallowed. "We'll negotiate, but yes. I won't pretend this isn't transactional."
He leaned back in his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap. "You sound like a woman who's practiced this speech."
"I am a woman who's tired of pretending to be good."
His smile was a slow burn, dangerous and reverent. "I like that woman."
My cheeks flushed before I could stop them. I hated how easily he could still unravel me with a single glance.
"I don't want to fall into something and lose myself," I admitted, my voice low. "I've done that before. I want this to be on my terms."
He was quiet for a long time. Then, with a nod so slight I almost missed it, he stood and walked to a cabinet against the wall. He pulled out a thick folder, flipped it open, and began writing.
"You're not just some fling, Ivana. You knew that the second I touched you."
"You didn't even ask me to stay that morning."
"I didn't trust myself."
My heart stuttered. I didn't want to hear those words. They felt too close. Too dangerous.
He slid a fresh sheet of thick, cream-colored paper across the desk. A contract, handwritten in deliberate, bold ink.
"I agree to all of it," he said. "Your freedom. Your apartment. Your writing. Your connections."
I stared down at it. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Why?"
He leaned on the desk, closer. His scent, amber and something bitter wrapped around me.
"Because I want you," he said simply. "And because I respect the woman who doesn't beg. Who bargains."
My breath hitched.
He offered me a pen.
"Read it," he said. "You can have your lawyer look at it. Hell, bring three. But the terms won't change. This is your line. And I'm not here to cross it. I'm here to meet you there."
I hesitated. My fingers brushed the edge of the paper. It wasn't love. It wasn't romance. It was something more honest, something brutal in its clarity.
"You're not what I expected," I said quietly.
He tilted his head again. "Neither are you."
I signed.
He signed.
The room held its breath.
Then his hand reached slowly across the desk and brushed mine. Not possessive. Just contact. Heat. A flicker of something real.
"There's one more condition," I said, meeting his eyes.
His lips twitched. "Oh?"
"No lies. No pretending."
He nodded. "Done."
"And no falling in love."
His gaze darkened, a storm just beneath the surface. "I can't promise that."
My chest ached. But I didn't pull away.
"I can," I whispered.
His hand gripped mine.
And suddenly, I didn't know if that made me strong or doomed.
He drew he close to himself and kissed me passionately, my feet buckled like they are made of Jelly. He pulled away in a split second not muttering a word, I could see he was getting hard.
unsure of myself I strode out of his office, legs shaking and my heart pounding vigorously.