The Terms
The management office is smaller than I expect. Clean lines, neutral colors, nothing personal—like someone designed it to avoid leaving fingerprints.
Elliot closes the door behind us.
The click sounds final.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the chair across from the desk.
The same word. Different room. Same power.
I sit because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate.
He places the folder on the desk and opens it with deliberate care. Inside are documents—leases, financial summaries, notes. My name is typed neatly on a tab.
"You've been a tenant here for four years," he says. "No late payments. No complaints."
"Congratulations," I reply. "You can read."
His gaze lifts, sharp. For a moment, I think he's going to snap back. Instead, the corner of his mouth tightens—almost amused.
"You're angry."
"You fired me," I say. "Then you bought my building. Forgive me if I'm not feeling charitable."
"This has nothing to do with your termination."
"Then why does it feel like I'm on trial?"
"Because you are," he says calmly. "Just not for the reasons you think."
He slides one sheet of paper toward me.
Proposed Lease Amendment.
I skim the first paragraph, my chest tightening with every line.
Rent increase. Significant.
Security deposit adjustment.
Month-to-month review.
"This is impossible," I say, looking up. "I can't afford this."
"I know."
The ease with which he says it sends a chill through me. "Then why—"
"Because," he interrupts, folding his hands, "I'm offering you an alternative."
I laugh, short and disbelieving. "Let me guess. I leave quietly."
"No." His eyes hold mine. "You stay."
Hope flickers again, traitorous. "Under these terms?"
"Under different ones."
He reaches into the folder and removes a second document. Thinner. Simpler.
I read the title and feel my breath stutter.
Private Occupancy Agreement.
"What is this?" I ask.
"A temporary arrangement," he says. "Six months."
"For what?"
"For you to remain in the apartment at your current rent."
My heart pounds. "That's it?"
"No."
Of course not.
"You'll sign a confidentiality clause," he continues. "You'll agree to specific conduct standards. And you'll accept that the arrangement can be terminated at my discretion."
"This is insane," I whisper. "Why would you do this?"
He leans back in his chair, studying me the way he did in his office on Friday—like a problem with multiple solutions.
"Because," he says, "you don't ask for favors."
I blink. "What?"
"You didn't beg when I terminated your position," he says. "You didn't cry. You didn't threaten. Most people do."
I stiffen. "So this is some kind of reward?"
"No." His voice lowers. "It's an investment."
In me.
The thought makes my pulse jump. "And what's the return?"
A pause. Measured. Dangerous.
"Access," he says.
The word echoes in the small room.
"Access to what?" I ask carefully.
"To you," he replies, just as carefully. "Your time. Your presence. Your honesty."
My skin prickles. "That sounds like ownership."
"It isn't," he says immediately. "You're free to refuse."
I push the document away. "This crosses a line."
"Does it?" he asks quietly. "You'd rather lose your home?"
Anger surges, hot and sharp. "You're using my situation against me."
"I'm acknowledging reality," he corrects. "You need stability. I'm offering it."
At a cost.
I stand, heart racing. "I won't be controlled."
He rises too, and suddenly the room feels very small.
"I don't control people," he says. "I set terms. People choose."
Our eyes lock. Something unspoken hums between us—tension, heat, something dangerous and undeniable.
"And if I choose no?" I ask.
"Then you walk out," he says evenly. "And this conversation never happened."
Silence stretches.
Six months. A roof over my head. Time to rebuild.
And a man who looks at me like I'm the only variable he can't quite predict.
I reach for the pen.
"Six months," I say. "No more."
His gaze darkens—approval? Relief? Something else.
"Six months," he agrees.
I sign my name.
The moment the ink dries, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
This deal is going to cost me far more than rent.