Chapter 3 – The Contract
1461 Words
Leo didn’t waste time.
The moment our conversation ended, he slid a thick envelope across the desk. “Read it. Sign it.”
I blinked. “No small talk? No ‘how was your night’?”
His expression remained cold. “You’re not here for small talk.”
Of course.
I sighed, picking up the envelope and pulling out the contract. The pages were crisp, filled with paragraphs of legal jargon. The words Confidentiality Agreement and Exclusive Rights stood out immediately.
I skimmed through it, my brows furrowing. “This basically says I can’t talk about anything related to your book. Ever.”
Leo sipped his coffee. “Correct.”
I flipped to the next page. “And that you own all rights to my writing?”
He nodded. “You’re a ghostwriter. It’s standard.”
I frowned. “And if I break the contract?”
His gaze darkened. “Don’t.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
Was that a warning or a threat?
I looked back at the papers. The pay was generous—more than I’d ever made before. Enough to keep me afloat for years. But something about this felt… binding.
Like once I signed, there was no going back.
I glanced up at Leo. He was watching me carefully, waiting.
“You really don’t trust people, do you?” I muttered.
His lips curved slightly, but there was no warmth in it. “Trust is earned.”
I hesitated for only a second before picking up the pen.
Then, with a deep breath, I signed my name.
The moment I set the pen down, Leo took the contract and flipped to my signature, his fingers lingering over the ink as if sealing my fate.
“Welcome to my world,” he murmured.
Something about the way he said it sent a chill down my spine.
And for the first time, I wondered—had I just made a deal with the devil?
Leo placed the signed contract inside a black folder and locked it in a drawer.
Something about the way he did it—calm, deliberate—felt unsettling, like I had just handed him a part of myself.
“Well,” I said, forcing a small smile. “I guess that makes me officially yours.”
His gaze flickered to me, unreadable. “You were mine the moment you stepped into this house.”
My stomach twisted, but I ignored it.
I sat up straighter. “So… how do we start?”
Leo leaned back in his chair, studying me. “You tell me.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’re the writer.” He tapped a finger against the desk. “You’ve read what I have so far. How would you continue it?”
Oh.
I wasn’t expecting this.
I thought he’d dictate everything, that I’d just be his hands on paper. But now he was asking me how to proceed?
I hesitated before answering, “Well… the story feels like it’s leading to a breaking point. The main character is drowning in guilt, but he’s also obsessed with something—someone. Maybe we need to dig deeper into that.”
Leo’s fingers stilled.
Bingo. I’d hit something.
I leaned forward. “That’s the heart of the story, isn’t it? The obsession.”
A tense silence stretched between us.
Then, finally, Leo spoke. “You understand more than I thought you would.”
His voice was low, measured, but there was something else beneath it—something dark.
Before I could respond, he pushed a notebook toward me. “Write down your thoughts. We’ll discuss them tomorrow.”
Just like that, the conversation was over.
I swallowed the unease creeping up my spine, took the notebook, and stood.
But as I reached the door, I couldn’t help but ask—
“This story…” I turned to face him. “It’s not just fiction, is it?”
Leo didn’t answer immediately.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said—
“Some stories are meant to stay unfinished.”
A chill ran through me.
I wasn’t just ghostwriting.
I was uncovering something buried.
And I wasn’t sure if I’d survive it.
I left the study with Leo’s notebook clutched in my hands.
The air in the hallway felt colder, heavier—like I was carrying something I shouldn’t.
I exhaled sharply. It’s just a book, Elara. Just a damn book.
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.
Leo’s words echoed in my mind.
"Some stories are meant to stay unfinished."
What did he mean by that?
I shook my head and made my way back to my room. I needed to focus. If I was going to do this, I had to separate my emotions from my work.
I sat on the bed and flipped open the notebook.
The first few pages were filled with neat, calculated handwriting—notes, character sketches, and snippets of unfinished scenes. But as I flipped further, the writing became messier, almost desperate, the ink pressed so hard into the paper that it nearly tore.
My breath hitched.
One sentence stood out among the chaos of words.
“She was never meant to be mine.”
My fingers trembled as I traced the ink.
Who was “she”?
And why did it feel like I was stepping into something far more dangerous than just a story?
---
The Midnight Knock
I don’t know how long I sat there, staring at Leo’s words, but a sudden knock at my door made me jump.
My heart pounded.
I hesitated before getting up and opening it.
Leo stood there.
He looked different—his shirt slightly unbuttoned, his expression unreadable. The usual coldness in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by something darker.
I swallowed. “Is something wrong?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, his gaze dropped to the notebook in my hands.
“You read it,” he murmured.
It wasn’t a question.
I gripped the notebook tighter. “Yes.”
A long silence stretched between us.
Then, in a voice so low I almost didn’t hear it, he said—
“If you keep going, you won’t be able to walk away.”
My pulse quickened. “Is that a warning?”
His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something else—but then, just as quickly, he stepped back, his cold mask slipping back into place.
“Get some sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow, we start writing.”
And just like that, he turned and disappeared down the hallway.
But even as I closed the door behind me, I knew sleep wouldn’t come.
Because the more I unraveled Leo Castillo…
The more I feared I was unraveling myself.
I didn’t sleep that night.
Leo’s words haunted me.
"If you keep going, you won’t be able to walk away."
It sounded like a warning. Or maybe a challenge.
Either way, it was too late.
I was already in too deep.
---
Morning in the Study
The next day, I found Leo in the study, already seated at his desk, a cup of black coffee in hand.
He looked up as I entered. “You’re late.”
I checked the clock. Seven sharp.
I frowned. “No, I’m not.”
His lips twitched—almost a smirk. “In my world, five minutes early is on time.”
I rolled my eyes but sat down, flipping open the notebook. “So, where do we start?”
Leo leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. “You tell me.”
I hesitated, then took a deep breath. “The protagonist is obsessed. That’s the core of the story. He’s trapped between guilt and desire. We need to explore what’s feeding his obsession.”
Leo’s fingers drummed against the desk. “And what do you think that is?”
I met his gaze. “Her.”
A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes.
I swallowed, pushing forward. “The woman in the story—she’s not just a love interest. She’s the reason he can’t move on. She represents something deeper. His regret? His past?”
Leo remained silent.
I tightened my grip on the notebook. “Who is she, Leo?”
His jaw clenched.
Then, after a long pause, he murmured—
"Someone I should’ve let go of."
A chill ran through me.
I wanted to ask more, but something told me not to.
Instead, I nodded. “Then that’s where we begin.”
Leo studied me for a long moment.
Then, finally, he slid a blank page toward me and handed me a pen.
“Write.”
And just like that, we started the first chapter.
- Writer
