The knock lingered after her words, syrup turning sticky. I stood frozen, staring at the frosted glass where Tara's outline waited—blonde halo, delicate chain glinting like a dare.
"Ella," Adrian said behind me, voice a quiet command. "Don't."
My hand was already halfway to the handle. Rule Four: Trust no one but me.
I pulled back. "What does Legal need with me alone?" I asked through the door.
Tara's voice pitched sweet. "It's about the restraining order. They need your statement. Fast. Before the judge signs."
Ethan leaned close, whisper sharp in my ear. "Too neat. Too fast. She's baiting you."
I swallowed hard. "I'll send it in writing."
Silence. Then a little laugh, brittle. "Suit yourself." Her heels clicked away, echoing like coins down a drain.
The office fell quiet again, except for the sound of my pulse.
"She's working for him," I whispered.
Adrian's eyes didn't leave the door. "She's working for herself. But Daniel pays better."
We regrouped at the far end of the office, Ethan's laptop glowing between us. The TRO packet lay unopened on the desk like a snake.
Ethan tapped the order. "If the judge signs tonight, it's binding until tomorrow's hearing. That means you two can't share air, can't share space, can't share strategy. It splits the boardroom in half."
"Which is the point," Adrian said. "Daniel can't beat me directly. So he isolates my firebreak."
"Me," I said.
He looked at me finally, and there was no shield in his gaze. "Yes. You."
Heat flushed my cheeks—half fear, half something else.
Ethan cleared his throat. "We need options. Either file an emergency counter-motion—unlikely to succeed before morning—or work through a proxy. Ella writes her statement tonight. We craft it, polish it, deliver it before Daniel controls the narrative."
My voice wavered. "And if he already does?"
"Then we take it back," Adrian said simply. "Always."
Hours blurred under fluorescent light. I drafted lines until my fingers cramped: I was not coerced, not groomed, not silenced. Ethan tweaked phrases, swapped verbs, cut anything that smelled like weakness.
At some point, Adrian crossed the room, leaned over my chair. His cologne folded around me, sharp and clean. His hand hovered near mine on the keyboard, not touching—just close enough that my skin ached.
"Cut this line," he murmured. "You don't owe them a denial of feelings. Only of force."
I looked up. His face was inches away, shadows under his eyes, restraint coiled tight. Don't fall in love with me, he'd said. Rule Three.
But my body hadn't read the memo.
My lips parted. For a beat, I thought he'd break the rule too. Thought he'd close the impossible distance.
Then he stepped back, mask snapping on. "Keep working."
The ache stayed.
By midnight, the statement was finished. Ethan sent it through secure counsel channels. My head pounded, but adrenaline kept me upright.
"Go get some sleep," Ethan urged. "I'll monitor chatter until three. Blackwell—" He hesitated. "Maybe step out. TRO might technically already be in effect."
Adrian ignored him. "I'll walk her to her room."
I should've protested. Should've reminded him of the order. Instead, I followed him into the empty hallway.
The building felt abandoned, glass and steel holding its breath. In the elevator, it was just us, reflections multiplied into infinity. My hand brushed the wall; his brushed air.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "they'll try to pit you against me."
I met his gaze in the mirror. "What if it works?"
"It won't." His voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "Because you know the rules."
Don't lie. Don't waste time. Don't fall in love. Trust no one but me.
The doors slid open onto the dark hotel corridor.
He stopped at my door, eyes steady on mine. For a moment, the world was just his shadow in the hall and the pounding in my chest.
"Goodnight, Ella," he said. His voice was rougher than it should've been.
"Goodnight," I whispered.
I stepped inside before I could break anything else.
At 3:12 a.m., my phone buzzed me awake. A notification, bright in the dark.
Breaking: Exclusive Video — Blackwell's Intern Speaks Out.
My stomach dropped. I tapped.
Onscreen: me. My face, my voice. Except it wasn't me—it was a composite stitched from hours of office cam.
"I can't say no to him," the fake-Ella whispered. "He told me if I breathe a word, I'll lose everything."
My father's PR firm had leveled up. Not just a kiss. Not just audio. Now an entire confession.
The hashtag screamed alive again: #CarterConfession. #ForbiddenGame.
And at the bottom of the clip, watermarked in bold: Provided by Carter Media.