The elevator doors slid shut behind them with a dull thud, effectively shutting out the oppressive presence of Rohan Reid, yet his shadow seemed to linger, following them as the lift began its slow descent.
Lachlan stood rigidly next to his wife, his reflection distorted against the brushed steel walls. His heartbeat echoed in the cramped space, a steady, suffocating drum that filled the silence between them.
He swallowed hard.
What was he supposed to do?
Accept the offer laid out before him like a velvet-covered trap…
Or walk away, risking everything—his name, his company, his family?
The elevator shuddered as it dropped floor by floor, each passing number feeling like a countdown he couldn't escape.
"Lachlan…" his wife whispered, her hands trembling as she clutched her bag. "That man… he wasn't offering you a deal. He was cornering you."
He didn't respond.
He couldn't.
His mind replayed Rohan's voice with brutal clarity—calm, patient, cold.
"This is the compensation you asked for… on my terms."
The elevator chimed.
Ground floor.
The doors opened, releasing them into the lobby, bathed in white marble and cold morning light. The world outside continued its dance—people walking, talking, laughing—as if nothing had changed.
But something had.
Something irreversible.
The chauffeur opened the car door for them. Lachlan's wife slid in first, anxiety etched on her face. Lachlan followed slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last.
The door shut with a soft click.
Inside the car, the silence thickened.
Rain pattered against the windows, faint and rhythmic, blurring the neon glow of the city as they drove. The world outside felt distant, unreal—as if he were watching it from behind glass.
"You're not actually considering it… are you?" his wife finally asked, her voice cracking.
Lachlan stared ahead, jaw clenched.
He wished he could say no.
He wished he could claim he still had options.
Instead, he whispered, "If I refuse… he'll crush us."
His wife flinched. "We can't trust him," she said.
"It's not about trust," Lachlan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, almost defeated. "It's about survival."
His phone buzzed in his pocket just one notification.
He hesitated for a moment, then pulled it out.
An email.
From: Crown Entertainment Legal Affairs.
Subject: Formal Partnership Draft – Confidential.
A chill ran through him.
He opened it.
A pristine PDF appeared instantly, perfectly formatted as if they'd been waiting for his signature for days. Not a single typo. Not a single inconsistency. Every clause was polished to a shine.
But then his eyes froze at the bottom.
"Long-term equity alignment under Crown Entertainment Group."
Such a pretty phrase.
Such a hidden chain.
His throat tightened.
Rohan's voice echoed in his mind — smooth, composed, and merciless.
"Reputation is fragile… easily shattered by those who know how to exploit it."
The car came to a stop in front of their home. He didn't even remember the drive. He didn't recall stepping out. Rain poured down his face the moment he exited, mingling with the heat of his breath.
Once inside, he slammed the door behind him, pacing the living room like a trapped animal.
"You can't sign it!" his wife pleaded from behind him. "Lachlan, please—"
"I AM LISTENING!" he snapped, louder than he meant to. The sound bounced off the walls. Silence followed — sharp and painful.
He lowered his head, feeling ashamed.
His wife's voice quivered. "This isn't you…"
"It stopped being me," he whispered, "the moment he decided to walk into our lives."
He sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.
He felt trapped.
Pride screamed to reject the offer. Fear urged him to accept it. Ambition whispered that maybe… just maybe this was destiny wearing the mask of disaster.
Hours slipped by.
He sat alone in his study, the glow of the contract casting light on his face. His finger hovered over the signature line. The cursor blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
Click.
His signature appeared on the screen, and a weighty finality settled over him, almost suffocating. The email shot off instantly, and just a heartbeat later, a notification popped up at the bottom of the display:
"Welcome to Crown Entertainment."
Lachlan froze in place.
The system hadn't needed a moment to think it over. It was simply waiting. Rohan had anticipated this moment down to the very second.
And somewhere, far across the city, a man in a dimly lit office leaned back in his chair, gazing out at the skyline through the glass.
"Sir," a soft voice called from the doorway. "He's signed."
There was a brief pause before Rohan Reid allowed a slow, quiet smile to spread across his face, one that felt almost inevitable.
"As expected," he murmured.
In the classroom, the air was tinged with the faint scent of chalk and disinfectant. The steady hum of the projector and the soft scratching of pens created a rhythm that Sylvester found oddly comforting.
He rested his head on his hand, elbow propped on the desk, staring blankly at the English textbook in front of him.
The words blurred together, meaningless symbols dancing on the page. Outside, sunlight poured in through the tall windows, but it didn't reach the corner of the room he had claimed as his own.
The teacher's voice droned on about metaphors and themes, and Sylvester let it wash over him like white noise. Yet, his mind drifted far from Shakespeare and essays.
Time slipped by. Minutes, hours it all blended together. Finally, the bell rang, sharp and liberating.
Sylvester threw his bag over one shoulder and started to pack up his notebook and pens. That's when he noticed Elise beside him, zipping her backpack with practiced ease.
"You've been absent lately," she said, not looking directly at him, just continuing her task.
Sylvester raised an eyebrow. "Absent? What do you mean? I'm always in class."
Elise finally met his gaze, her expression calm yet curious. "Not class. I mean… ever since… you know… the thing with that Australian girl — what was her name again? Liliana. You haven't been around the school much."
Sylvester came to a halt, his hand hovering over the zipper of his bag. The words didn't exactly hurt, but they felt heavy on him, like the sudden chill of winter settling in.
"I…" he began, then hesitated. There wasn't really anything to clarify. The rumors, the stares, the judgments—they all seemed insignificant at that moment.
He shrugged it off. "People see what they want to see," he finally said, carefully zipping up his bag.
Elise offered a small, understanding smile. "Maybe. But don't think you can just vanish and act like it's not there."
Sylvester stayed silent. He stepped out of the classroom, the sounds of chairs scraping and footsteps fading behind him, a gentle reminder that life outside continued on, even if he felt a bit disconnected from it all.