The contract was a cage, and every clause was a bar forged in hellfire.
I signed it. Of course, I signed it. What choice did I have? Pride is a luxury for those who aren't staring down the barrel of eviction. So, with a hand that trembled only slightly, I scrawled my name on the dotted line, my signature a messy, defiant slash of ink next to Lysander Blackwood's impeccably printed one. The moment the pen left the paper, the air in my shabby gallery shifted. It was no longer my sanctuary; it was the site of my surrender.
Now, standing in the center of the studio he provided, I understood the true meaning of the word "cage." It was not a dank, dark prison. It was a penthouse-level, north-facing, breathtakingly spacious loft in a building so exclusive it didn't even have a visible address. The walls were a stark, gallery-white, the floor a polished, pale oak. One entire wall was glass, offering a panoramic, almost cruel, view of the city I could no longer afford to be a part of. Everything was state-of-the-art: professional-grade easels, a wall of paints and mediums that cost more than my car, a sprawling marble-topped island in the kitchenette. It was sterile, silent, and soulless.
It was also, undoubtedly, surveillance-heavy.
I didn't need to see the cameras to feel them. It was a prickle on the back of my neck, a sense of being dissected under a microscope. Every move I made, every frustrated sigh, every stroke of my brush would be for his consumption. He hadn't just bought my art; he had purchased my process, my private frustrations, my moments of vulnerability. He was a collector of ruin, and I was his newest exhibit, living in a gilded jar.
The heavy oak door clicked open, and Jenna swept in, a whirlwind of righteous indignation and leopard-print. Her eyes, lined with a fierce black wing, scanned the room with palpable disgust.
"God, Elara. It smells like money and misery in here." She dropped her oversized bag onto a pristine white sofa that probably cost as much as a kidney. "Are you sure this isn't just a very fancy, very minimalist asylum?"
"Hello to you too, Jenna," I muttered, staring at a blank canvas that seemed to mock me with its potential.
"Don't 'hello' me." She marched over, grabbing my shoulders. "What were you thinking? Lysander Blackwood? The man is a shark in a Savile Row suit. He doesn't have a patron's soul; he has a predator's instinct. This isn't a sponsorship, it's a takeover."
"I was thinking that I like having a roof over my head," I shot back, pulling away. "I was thinking that the bank was about to repossess that roof. This was the only life raft, and it was thrown by the captain of the ship that sank me in the first place. I don't have to like it. I just have to survive it."
"Survive it?" She let out a harsh laugh. "He's going to eat you alive. He'll chew up your talent and spit out whatever pieces he finds useful. This place…" She gestured wildly around us. "This isn't a studio. It's a display case. He's put you on a shelf, and he's waiting for you to crack under the pressure so he can add the pieces to his collection."
Her words hit too close to the fear curdling in my own stomach. "He wants twelve paintings. I'll give him twelve paintings. Then I'll be free."
"Will you?" Jenna's voice softened, her expression shifting from anger to profound worry. "Or will you be so indebted to him, so entangled in his world, that you'll never find your way back to your own? He's not just funding your art, Elara. He's funding your isolation."
Before I could form a retort, the air in the room changed. It wasn't a sound; it was a shift in pressure, a sudden, chilling density. We both turned.
Lysander stood in the open doorway, having entered with a silent, unnerving grace. He was dressed down today, in dark trousers and a simple black sweater that did nothing to soften the sharp lines of his body or the intensity of his gaze. He looked even more formidable without the armor of a suit.
"Jenna," he said, her name a dismissive syllable. "I believe your gallery has business hours. Don't let us keep you."
It wasn't a request. It was a command, delivered with the cool assurance of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Jenna, to her credit, stood her ground for a grand total of three seconds under the weight of his stare before her shoulders slumped in defeat. She squeezed my hand, a silent message of I told you so and be careful, before shooting him a glare that could strip paint and marching out.
The door clicked shut, and the silence that descended was absolute and suffocating. He was here. In my cage.
He didn't look at me immediately. Instead, his eyes swept the space, taking in the untouched art supplies, the blank canvas, the way I stood rigidly in the center of the room as if the floor might give way.
"Comfortable?" he asked, his tone bland.
"Ecstatic," I deadpanned. "I've always dreamed of living in a showroom for Scandinavian furniture."
A flicker of something — amusement? Annoyance? — crossed his features. He moved further into the room, his presence expanding to fill every corner. He stopped before the empty easel.
"I expected to see progress." He gestured to the void where my art should have been. "This is… safe. Dull. Predictable."
Anger, hot and immediate, flared in my chest. "It's been twenty-four hours. I don't just crank out paintings like a factory, Blackwood. They tend to require something called inspiration."
He turned his head, his grey eyes capturing mine. "I'm not paying for inspiration. I'm paying for ruin. You're good at that, remember? 'Documenting ruin.'" He threw my own artistic statement back at me. "So, stop thinking and start feeling. Dig deeper. I didn't bring you here to paint pretty pictures. I want the raw, ugly, beautiful truth of your pain. I want to see the cracks."
He took a step toward me, then another, until he was close enough that I could see the flecks of silver in his irises, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. The scent of him, sandalwood and clean, male skin, wrapped around me, a dizzying contrast to the sterile air.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and fury. "You're a monster."
"I am what your father made me," he corrected, his voice low and dangerously soft. He leaned in, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the window. His breath ghosted the shell of my ear, an intimate caress that was anything but loving. A shiver, one I desperately tried to suppress, racked my spine.
"Show me the ruin, Elara," he whispered, the words a dark promise and a terrifying threat. "Or I will create it for you."
He didn't touch me. He didn't have to. The words alone were a violation, a hand around my throat and a match held to the tinder of my life. He held my gaze for a moment longer, letting the ultimatum sink in, branding it onto my soul. Then, with that infuriating, silent grace, he turned and walked out, leaving me standing alone in the devastating silence of my beautiful, brutal prison.
The door clicked shut. The lock engaged with a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the vast, empty space. I stood there, trembling, his command echoing in my ears. Show me the ruin. He wanted a performance of my own destruction. And the most terrifying part was the part of me that wanted to give it to him, that wanted to paint something so violently, brutally honest that it would shock even him. The part that was already reaching for the blackest paint, the sharpest knife, ready to tear myself open for his viewing pleasure.
The cage door was shut. And I was no longer sure if I was the prisoner or the animal he was trying to provoke.