The Rules
I don't breathe properly again until I'm back in my apartment, the door shut, the lock turned.
Only then do my knees threaten to give out.
I lean my forehead against the wood and let out a shaky laugh. Six months. I've just signed six months of my life away to the man who fired me—with a pen that still feels warm in my fingers.
My phone buzzes before I can spiral further.
Elliot Blackwood: You'll receive a copy of the agreement by email. Read it again tonight.
I frown at the screen.
Me: I already read it.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then:
Elliot Blackwood: Read it again.
Of course.
The agreement is waiting in my inbox, neatly formatted, every clause precise and unmistakably him. I scroll slowly, my heart thudding harder with each line.
Conduct Standards:
No subletting
No overnight guests
No illegal activity
That's reasonable. I keep reading.
Access & Availability:
Weekly check-ins
Reasonable availability for communication
My brow furrows. Weekly check-ins? This is starting to sound less like a lease and more like supervision.
Then I reach the final section.
Personal Clause:
Tenant agrees to accompany the owner to select professional and social engagements when requested.
I stare at the screen.
"What," I whisper aloud, "the hell?"
My phone buzzes again.
Elliot Blackwood: Questions?
I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Define "social engagements."
The reply comes almost immediately.
Elliot Blackwood: Dinners. Events. Situations where my presence requires… balance.
Balance.
I drop onto the couch. He wants a date. Not in so many words—but close enough that my stomach flips.
Me: That wasn't discussed.
Elliot Blackwood: You asked for stability. This is part of it.
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Unbelievable."
Me: Is this mandatory?
A pause. Longer this time.
Elliot Blackwood: Not mandatory. But refusal will be… noted.
Noted. Like a mark against my name. Like a cost.
My chest tightens. I hate that I'm even considering this. Hate that I don't have the luxury of outrage.
Me: How often?
Another pause.
Elliot Blackwood: Infrequently.
I snort softly. Of course that's the word he chooses.
Me: And what exactly am I supposed to be?
The reply takes longer. When it comes, it's a single line.
Elliot Blackwood: My guest.
That shouldn't sound as loaded as it does. But it does.
I drop my phone beside me and stare at the ceiling, my thoughts racing. I tell myself this is temporary. Practical. A transaction.
So why does the idea of sitting across from him at a candlelit table make my pulse spike?
Friday night arrives too fast.
I'm still unemployed. Still sending out resumes. Still waiting for something—anything—to shift.
At six forty-five, there's a knock at my door.
I open it to find Elliot Blackwood standing in the hallway.
Not in a boardroom suit this time.
Dark slacks. White shirt. No tie. The effect is… unfair.
"You're early," I say stupidly.
"I'm on time," he replies, glancing at his watch. "You're not ready."
I bristle. "I didn't realize there was a dress code."
"There isn't," he says, eyes flicking over me—soft sweater, simple jeans, bare face. "But we're attending a charity dinner."
My stomach drops. "Tonight?"
"Yes."
"You didn't say—"
"I said infrequently," he cuts in. Then, more quietly, "This matters."
I hesitate, then step back. "Give me ten minutes."
I don't miss the faint curve of his mouth as he nods.
Ten minutes later, I stand in front of him in a black dress I haven't worn in years, heels borrowed from the back of my closet, nerves buzzing under my skin.
He looks at me for a long moment.
"Acceptable," he says.
I roll my eyes. "You're impossible."
"Yet," he replies, offering his arm, "here you are."
I take it.
The moment my fingers curl around his sleeve, something settles—and something else sparks.
As the elevator doors close, I realize this is no longer about rent.
It's about proximity.
And I have a terrible feeling that Elliot Blackwood planned this part very carefully.
Ready when you are.