The Decision
I don't sleep.
Again.
The ceiling fan hums softly above me as I stare into the dark, Elliot's words looping in my head like a challenge I never agreed to accept.
If you take that job, this ends.
A boundary.
Or an ultimatum dressed up in better manners.
At nine a.m., my phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: This is Maya from Crestline Agency. We'd love to offer you the position.
My heart leaps—and then stalls.
I sit up slowly, the room suddenly too quiet.
This is it. The lifeline. Independence. Proof that I don't need favors, deals, or powerful men to survive.
I type a response.
Pause.
Delete it.
Instead, I ask for time.
Blackwood Tower looks different when you walk into it by choice.
I don't announce myself. I don't wait for permission. I go straight to Elliot's floor, ignoring the receptionist's surprised look, the way security hesitates but lets me pass.
He's in his office when I enter—on a call, posture rigid, voice calm and lethal. He looks up, sees me, and something in his expression fractures.
He ends the call without apology.
"You shouldn't be here," he says.
"I know," I reply. "But neither should you be deciding my life over text messages."
Silence.
Then: "Did you get the offer?"
"Yes."
His jaw tightens. "And?"
"I didn't accept it."
Something dangerous flickers in his eyes. Hope. Fear. Control snapping taut.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I needed to hear the truth from you," I say. "Not conditions. Not leverage."
He stands slowly. "The truth is inconvenient."
"Try me."
He steps closer, stopping a careful distance away. "If you take that job, you won't need me. The arrangement becomes irrelevant."
"And that bothers you because…?"
"Because," he says quietly, "this stopped being about relevance the moment I realized I didn't want to be replaceable."
My breath catches.
"You don't get to make that decision for me," I say. "But you do get to be honest."
He exhales, the sound rougher than I've ever heard from him. "I don't want to lose you."
The words land harder than any declaration could.
"Lose me how?" I whisper.
He meets my gaze, no shield this time. "To distance. To safety. To a version of yourself that never looks back."
I swallow. "And if I stay?"
"Then this stops being a deal," he says. "And starts being a risk."
I nod slowly. "Good. Because I don't do cages."
"I know," he says. "That's why I'm asking."
Asking.
Not demanding.
I take a breath. "I'll take the job."
His face stills.
"But," I continue, "I won't disappear. Not unless we choose that."
A long beat.
Then he nods once. "Then the arrangement ends."
"And what begins?" I ask.
He steps closer, close enough that the air shifts, close enough that my pulse stutters.
"Whatever survives without leverage," he says.
For the first time, he doesn't reach for control.
He waits.
And that—more than anything—changes everything.