Later that evening, I found myself pacing the small apartment, my thoughts a storm I couldn't escape. I had told myself I would wait until tomorrow, give myself time to think, but time wasn't waiting for me. Every tick of the clock was a reminder, six days left. Six days before I lost everything.
The more I tried to breathe, the tighter my chest became. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sit still. The fear of tomorrow swallowed me whole, and in the end, I knew I couldn't wait. I had to see him tonight.
I dressed in the best clothes I had, though they weren't much. A simple black dress, one I had bought years ago on clearance. I brushed my hair until it shone, added a little lip gloss, and slipped on my scuffed heels. It wasn't enough to make me look rich, but it was all I had.
Before I left, I sat on the edge of my bed and prayed. I prayed for strength, for courage, for a miracle. My heart was heavy, my mind racing.
What if he laughed at me? What if he turned me away without a second thought? Worse—what if the stories were true, and he was as cruel as everyone said?
But then another thought came: what if this was my only chance? What if saying yes to this risk was the only way to save myself?
I closed my eyes, whispering, "Please, God. Don't let me fall apart."
That night, I stood in front of a tall glass tower that scraped the sky. My reflection stared back at me in the polished doors, trembling just like I was inside. The lights of the city glowed behind me, but all I could see was the dark shape of the building, cold and unyielding, like the man inside it.
My breath caught as I stepped through the doors. The world inside didn't belong to me. White marble floors shone under golden lights. Walls of glass stretched high above me. The air smelled clean, sharp, expensive. It was like stepping into another world—one I had only ever seen in magazines.
I felt small. So small.
"Can I help you, miss?" the receptionist asked, her voice clipped, her eyes cool as she looked me over. I knew I didn't belong. My thrift-store dress and nervous hands gave me away.
"I… I have an appointment," I lied, my voice shaking. I slid the card across the desk. She frowned, looked at it, then at me.
For a moment, I thought she would laugh, call security, and throw me out. But instead, she pressed a button and spoke into a phone. "She's here."
My heart almost stopped. She's here? Did that mean… he knew I was coming?
The elevator opened with a soft chime, its walls lined with mirrors and gold trim. I stepped inside, my knees weak, my chest tight. As the doors closed, I saw my reflection—scared eyes, pale face, lips pressed into a thin line. I barely recognized myself.
The elevator rose higher and higher, the numbers glowing above me. 12… 15… 20… My pulse matched each floor, faster, louder, until I thought it might burst.
Finally, the doors slid open.
The room before me was vast and quiet. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city stretched out like glittering stars. A long table gleamed in the center, dark wood polished to a shine. Everything smelled of leather, money, and power.
And then I saw him.
Damian Blackwell.
He stood by the window, tall and sharp in a perfectly cut black suit. His shoulders were broad, his presence filling the entire room. His dark hair was sleek, not a strand out of place. But it was his eyes that froze me—cold, piercing gray, like they could strip me bare with one look.
Slowly, he turned to face me.
Every story I had ever heard about him suddenly felt too small, too weak. The truth of him was worse—stronger, darker, more dangerous than I had ever imagined.
My legs shook, my throat dry, but I forced myself to step forward.
His lips curved into the smallest hint of a smile, sharp and knowing.
"So," he said, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "You must be desperate."
My lips trembled, and before I could stop myself, the tears came fast and hot, slipping down my cheeks. I tried to swallow them back, but the more I fought, the harder they fell.
"My life is breaking me," I whispered, the words ripping out of me before I could stop them. "I give everything I have—every hour, every drop of strength—and it's still never enough. My hands ache, my body hurts, my stomach is empty most nights, and yet… I'm still losing." My voice cracked, trembling under the weight of it. "No matter how hard I fight, I'm always one step away from falling apart. And now…" My throat closed, my chest tight. "Now I'm about to lose the only home I have left."
The words poured out of me, messy and raw.
"My rent is two months late. I begged my landlord to wait, but now I have six days before he throws me out. Six days before I lose the only place I have left. I have nowhere to go. No one to call. No family. Nothing."
I wiped at my face, but the tears kept falling. Shame burned inside me, but I couldn't stop.
"I grew up with nothing," I whispered, my throat raw. "Always fighting, always scraping for the smallest piece," My words broke off, strangled by anger and despair. I dropped my head, shaking. "I never wanted this. I never wanted to beg anyone. But what choice do I have now? I'm drowning. I'm so tired of fighting. So tired of pretending I can handle it all when I can't."
Silence filled the room when I stopped speaking.
My chest heaved as if I'd run miles, my lungs clawing for air. My hands shook, clutching my bag until my nails dug into the fabric. My face was wet, hot, ugly with grief, but I couldn't bring myself to care anymore.
And still… he didn't look away.
Damian Blackwell sat there, calm, unreadable, his gray eyes locked on me like he could see every piece of me I tried to hide. His silence was heavy, suffocating, filling the room until it felt like the walls were closing in.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair, moving so slowly it made my pulse race faster. The corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. Something darker. Something dangerous.
And I couldn't tell if it meant salvation… or ruin.