IVY GALANIS' POV
The pen hasn't even fully left the paper before it hits me—
I did it.
I signed it.
I have signed away a year of my life. Maybe more. Maybe everything. But it has to be for the best. Anything other than this life has to be better. Desperation sure has a way of making fear look like a luxury I can't afford.
The weight of it does not land immediately. Not even as I slide the folder back under my bed and lie there, staring at the ceiling like it might split open and give me answers.
Nothing feels different.
The sky has not fallen. The world has not tilted on its axis.
And yet. . . something inside me knows I have stepped over a line I can't uncross.
---------------------------------------------------
It is strange how signing a single sheet of paper can make you feel powerful and powerless at the same time.
The contract still sits where I left it last night, inside the black folder stowed under my bed, like a confession I have not owned up to. I should feel relief. I know that I should feel something. Perhaps lighter. Perhaps happier. Or maybe just feel a sense of freedom, or like I have finally chosen myself.
But all I feel is this dull ache in my chest, a pressure that won't let me take a full breath. Something chews at my stomach, the same thing that chewed through last night's sleep.
The early morning light creeps in through the window, soft and slow.
Right on cue, my alarm blares — loud, rude and far too honest — reminding me that it is time to face whatever fucked up hurdles life decides to throw at me today.
I move around the apartment like a ghost, avoiding noise, avoiding her. Luckily, Aunt Tessa has not stirred yet. Maybe she has passed out again. Or, maybe she is just pretending not to care. With her, both options are equally believable.
Either way, I am not waiting around for another explosion.
I grab my apron, my crossbody bag, and leave. The diner is not that far, it is only four blocks away— cracked sidewalks, pigeons fighting over crumbs, and the same preacher warning the neighbourhood about end times. My headphones are in, but I am not listening to anything.
I just need the illusion of quiet.
The faulty neon sign is the first thing to welcome me at the diner. It is humming, flickering between R-BY'S and RU-Y'S like it can't make up its damn mind. It is a small place, retro style with peeling red booths and a jukebox that only plays three songs that no one likes. The scent of bacon grease and burnt coffee saturates my senses before I even step behind the counter.
I tie my apron, paste on the tired smile I have worn for the last four years, and start working. Work is repetition. It is routine, and it is refuge even if it smells like a horrid mix of coffee, grease and bleach.
One thing I like about this place is that I do not have to think here. That is basically the only reason I still stay.
"Hey, Ivy," Matilda, the middle-aged waitress who has been working here since the dawn of time, says while giving me a long look. "You don't look so good, like you slept in a warzone or something. Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I lie, offering her my best smile while flipping eggs onto the skillet. "Just a rough night. Nothing to worry about."
She hums, a sound that says she does not believe me but won't push it. "Do not let life chew you up, sweetheart. It ain't got the manners to spit you out. Bite back."
I nod as she gently pats my back before going to the back to get more sugar. I am actually grateful for the kindness in her tone, but her words dig too deeply than I want them to. Everyone seems to be getting into my head these days.
By noon, I have served more orders than I can count, cleaned up eleven tables and a toddler's milk spill down my arm, smiled at a group of teenage boys who tried to flirt by leaving a two-dollar tip and a note containing hurriedly scribbled Snapchat usernames, and gracefully survived a backhanded comment from an older man who called me exotic. Twice.
It is almost funny, really, how the world does not stop when your life shifts. It literally just keeps spinning, pretty fast and very indifferent to your life-altering decisions. I am still processing the moment I signed the contract.
When the bell above the entrance door chimes again, I barely look up. Until Sophia, the owner's teenage stepdaughter, gasps and nudges me.
"Oh my God, Ivy. Look," she whispers, her voice barely able to contain her excitement. "That man is either a movie star or trouble — definitely trouble. I swear I have seen that face somewhere before."
I follow her gaze.
And, it is Julian.
A deep burgundy suit. Silver cufflinks. A presence too sharp for this small, greasy diner.
He does not belong here. And he knows it. So does everyone else who suddenly forgets how to use their forks and chew their food. It must be a rare occurrence to crash a local diner in the middle of the day. And an even rarer one to do it while looking like you are dressed for a Forbes interview.
His grey eyes sweep the room once and land on me.
"Galanis," he says, walking over and taking a seat at the counter.
My counter.
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I lower the coffee pot before I drop it.
"What are you doing here? Is this your power move?" I whisper, doing my best to ignore Sophia and the eager eyes of the customers on us. "Surprise inspections?"
"You were not answering your phone," he replies, his voice low and maddeningly calm. His gaze meets mine, impassive but not unkind.
I sigh. "I already told you I would come by later this evening."
"You did. But I prefer to verify things for myself."
Of course you do.
I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. "Well, as you can see, I am here. Working."
"I noticed," he says, eyes sweeping over my apron and settling on my face. "You look like someone who just signed away a year of her life and has not decided whether to regret it or not."
"Wow. Is that a lengthy way of saying I look like crap?"
He shrugs.
"I will get you the menu," I mumble, knowing fully well that he is not wrong for saying I look like shit.
"I am not here for food."
"Then why are you—?" I ask, stopping mid-step.
Julian stands, completely ignoring my question. "Matthew will come for you this evening. I expect you to be ready."
And then he walks out, just like that. No explanation. No lingering. Nothing.
I am not sure what I expected from his showing up. Maybe something warmer. Maybe some version of reassurance. Or even a bit of gaslighting to make me feel that this is not a ginormous disaster waiting to happen.
But, he is still Julian Grant — collected, unreadable, his presence like a storm cloud in a business suit.
I stare after him for a moment longer before forcing myself back into motion.
The rest of my shift passes in a blur. I don't know how I manage to make it through the rush hour or how I manage not to spill anything. But somehow, I do.
When I get back to the apartment, it is silent. Aunt Tessa must still be asleep or out with one of her numerous guys. Whatever the case may be, I am deeply grateful. I use the time to shower, wear something clean, and pull the contract out from under my bed.
If the reality of things did not hit me before, it does when Matthew arrives at my gate right on time, dressed neatly, as polite as ever. His smile is soft when he sees me.
"You ready?"
I only give a polite nod and slip into the backseat in silence. I am dressed in the only presentable sweatshirt I have and a pair of jeans that are not too faded. No makeup. Just lip balm and clean skin. If I am going to walk into this arrangement, I will do it as me. Raw and undiluted. Not a fantasy, as Maya insinuated.
The car glides through the city, past the places I know and the ones I could only touch in my dreams. I watch the buildings pass like a life I never belonged to. Not until now.
When we pull up to the same sleek tower that houses Julian's office, I expect nerves. But there is only numbness.
The top floor is quiet — a foreboding type of quiet.
Matthew opens the door and steps aside. "He is waiting."
Julian stands by the window, hands tucked into the pockets of a suit that probably costs more than my entire existence. He does not acknowledge our presence at first. Just watches the skyline like it is a chessboard and he is already six moves ahead.
I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, holding the contract like it is radioactive.
Then, finally, he turns. "Leave us, Matthew."
Matthew nods and steps out, leaving me in a silence that feels heavier than it should.
Julian does not speak. He just holds out his hand. I walk forward and place the folder in it.
He flips it open, eyes scanning the pages. "You did not date it."
"Sorry, I was not sure what day my life ended," I say, sounding a lot more sarcastic than I intended.
His eyes meet mine, and I erase every sassy comment that had crossed my mind. Something flickers in his eyes. Amusement? Regret? I cannot tell.
"Any questions?" he asks.
Yes. A hundred. A thousand.
What happens now? Do I move in immediately? Will we pretend in public and avoid each other in private?
But I don't ask any of those. I just shake my head.
"Good," Julian says, signing his part of the contract, sealing it and sliding it into a drawer. A brief moment passes, then he tells me in a low voice. "You can still back out."
I give him a questioning look. "You don't seem like the type who leaves doors open."
He tilts his head calmly as if wondering how to break the severity of a situation to a five-year-old. "There are doors. And there are traps."
I don't even respond. I do not want to know which category I stepped into. I just turn to leave.
"Ivy," he calls, making me halt. "From this moment on. . . things will change. That was the last choice you got to make."
My stomach flips. I guess I belong to the trap section, after all.
I walk out before my fear shows, leaving behind whatever part of me that still thought this was some fairy tale.
Paper promises.
That is all this is. . . and still, somehow, it feels like a first step into the cage I can't walk back out of.
My signature is dry, the ink is set.
The consequences are too.