Chapter 5
1057 Words
By the time I walked back into the dining room, Roslina was already waiting—not sitting, of course. Sitting was for equals, for negotiations.
She stood by the wide window, backlit by the morning sun, a thin folder balanced in her hands like a weapon she’d perfected using.
That folder might as well have been a guillotine.
“Ewa,” she said smoothly, without even looking up at me first. “We need to be clear before the project begins.”
I nodded, my clipboard clutched against my chest like it was a shield and I was about to face a firing squad.
“Of course.”
She opened the folder, her manicured finger sliding over the pages like she was reading from scripture. And maybe she was — her scripture.
“There are rules,” she said. “Conditions. Non‑negotiable.”
Every syllable felt like it was being carved into my forehead.
My mind immediately snapped into loyal-soldier mode: I vow… I vow… whatever this is, I vow…
“Condition One.”
Her eyes lifted to mine — sharp, cutting, like a scalpel poised over a vein.
“You will lose this portfolio project if you fail to keep David happy.”
For one insane second, I almost saluted.
Then her words landed.
Keep David happy?
My heart lurched.
“Oh, Roslina,” I thought miserably.
Even before she talks about me, she talks about him — the way one murmurs a prayer before starting a dangerous journey.
I risked a glance at her face. Her eyes had already drifted, not to me, but to the hallway, where, not even a room away, hung a portrait of her thirty-year-old “child,” framed like a saint.
I faked a smile and nodded, a slight dip of the head—an actress in someone else’s play.
God knows what “happy” even means to him.
But I knew the only solution: avoid him completely. Out of sight, out of “happy” obligations.
Besides, I was sure she simply meant we shouldn’t fight like we used to when we were kids.
Which, for the record, wasn’t “fighting.” It was me getting punched while he laughed, because he was the stronger one and I was the i***t who stayed in the game.
“Condition Two.”
“You will stay here,” Roslina said, her voice like honey over steel.
“At the estate. Throughout the renovation.”
Her smile was gracious, almost warm. That was the trap of it — you could almost believe she meant this kindly.
“For logistics, of course,” she added.
Of course.
I understood the logistics part. What I didn’t understand — or rather, what my brain refused to swallow — was why David was also living here.
The man had options. He had apartments, penthouses, a city address that would make an emperor jealous.
But no. He was here.
Every. Single. Morning.
Working out on the terrace, shirtless, as if gravity didn’t apply to him.
I bit the inside of my cheek. He could live anywhere. His commute could be three hours away, he wouldn’t care—rich people don’t care about petrol. But here he is. In the same walls. Same corridors. Same oxygen.
“Condition Three.”
“No outside dating,” Roslina said crisply, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. “Until the project is complete.”
The words dropped like ice cubes down my spine.
I knew Roslina was sharper than me. I always knew. But this? This level of strategic genius—so layered I couldn’t even tell what her real motive was—stretched far beyond my mortal brain’s skillset.
“You must focus entirely on the project—” her eyes caught mine again, lingering a moment too long, “—and on my son.”
At least she explained.
Sort of.
I blinked.
Was this… legal?
Probably not.
Would I survive it?
Probably not.
But my voice? Calm. Steady. A lie I was almost proud of.
“Of course,” I said. “All of that… makes sense.”
Inside, my brain was screaming.
No dating? Fine. Easy. In fact, I’ll go further. She doesn’t want anyone tying the knot before her precious boy does. He must be first in everything—even matrimony.
And then, an uglier thought: Does she think I would woo her child?
I almost choked on my own spit at the dare of it.
I mean… I would not.
I would eat dry plaster before I admitted I’d even looked at him twice. My taste was not that poor.
Not for the unromantic, smug, mom-obsessed man-child David Blake had become.
…Not that Roslina would accept me anyway, even if my taste was that bad.
I made a mental note right there, written in stone in my brain:
Stay detached. Sabotage every interaction. Ignore every smile. Pretend his abs are made of lumber from the shed.
Stay. Detached.
Roslina handed me the folder. Her smirk was barely there, but it glimmered.
“Good,” she said. “And one more thing.”
Her nails tapped the last page with deliberate little clicks.
“A progress report. Every two days.”
My throat went dry. My fingers tightened on the clipboard.
Every two days.
Not just progress.
Proof.
Tick.
Tock.
A clock wound tight around my neck, each second pulling it closer.
I promised myself again — fiercely, silently — that I could do this.
I would do this.
For my portfolio. For my career.
This would be strictly professional.
Clipboard. Designs. Walls of steel around my heart.
I wasn’t going to get distracted.
Not by rules.
Not by pressure.
And definitely not by David.
But even as I repeated that vow like a mantra, I felt those rules pressing in on me — like invisible walls, like the house itself was closing its grip.
And somewhere outside, from the open terrace, a laugh drifted in.
Low. Easy. Dangerous.
A laugh that already felt like a test I wasn’t sure I could pass.
And as my grip tightened on the folder, I could almost hear the clock in my head counting down.
Tick. Tock.
Twelve hours until the first report day.
And I was already failing my vow.
- Writer
