Chapter 8 :The Price of Independence Part I
732 Words
The elevator doors hadn't even finished sliding open on the top floor before Aria was marching down the corridor toward the grand double doors of the CEO’s private office. Her phone was still clutched in her white-knuckled grip, the glowing screen displaying the zeroed-out balance of her mother Vivian’s hospital bills.
She bypassed the main reception desk entirely. Pushing past a startled assistant, she threw open the heavy oak doors to Damien Blackwood’s office without knocking.
Damien was standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, a crystal glass of water in his hand. He didn't flinch at the intrusion. He simply turned around slowly, his dark, piercing eyes tracking her furious movements with a calm, maddeningly detached curiosity.
"You paid it," Aria breathed, slamming her phone down onto his polished mahogany desk. The screen rattled against the wood. "The outstanding balance. The upcoming treatments. Forty-five thousand dollars. Why?"
"It was an administrative adjustment," Damien replied smoothly, his deep voice entirely level. He walked over to his desk, setting his glass down. "The clinic is a subsidiary of a healthcare network Blackwood Atelier partners with. It took a single phone call."
"I didn't ask for your charity, Mr. Blackwood!" Aria snapped, her chest heaving with a volatile mix of anger and humiliation. "I haven't even signed your contract yet. Did you seriously think you could just buy me? That because of... because of what happened between us that night, you can just control my life?"
Damien’s eyes darkened slightly at the mention of the penthouse, but his expression remained a mask of flawless composure.
"Get over it, Damien," Aria pushed further, her voice dropping into a fierce, defensive whisper. "It was one night. It was entirely mutual, a distraction for both of us, and nothing more. If you did this because you feel some twisted sense of obligation over a one-night stand, save your money. I don't want to be bought."
A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the office. Aria braced herself, expecting him to explode, to rescind the job offer, or to throw her out of the building.
Instead, Damien stepped out from behind the desk. He closed the distance between them with slow, predatory strides until he was standing directly in front of her, his towering frame completely blocking out the light from the windows.
You think too little of me, Aria," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "And you think too little of your own worth. I didn't pay those bills out of sentimentality or obligation. I did it because a distracted designer is a useless designer."
Aria blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
"You spent half your interview checking your watch and gripping your portfolio like a lifeline because you were terrified the hospital would cut off your mother's care," Damien continued, his gaze drilling into hers. "Now, that problem no longer exists. Your mind is clear. You can focus 100% of your energy on creating the winter collection for this house. I didn't buy you. I invested in an asset to ensure you perform at absolute perfection."
Aria stared at him, a cold, uncomfortable realization wrapping around her throat. He hadn't denied his desire for control; he had simply rationalized it. He was helping her, yes, but every single act of assistance he offered came with an invisible, unbreakable thread of dominance attached to it. He was removing her financial chains only to replace them with his own.
"I'll pay you back," Aria said, her jaw locked as she picked her phone up off the desk. "Every single cent. Through my salary."
"Sign the contract, and you can pay me back however you see fit," Damien replied, tilting his chin.
Aria held his gaze for one final, defiant second, then turned on her heel and walked out of the office, pulling the door shut behind her.
Left alone in the quiet luxury of his office, Damien didn't return to his paperwork. He stared at the closed door, his brow furrowing into a rare, frustrated scowl. He was angry—not because she had yelled at him, but because for the first time in his life, he couldn't understand his own motives. He told her it was a business investment, a calculated move to optimize a worker's performance. But deep down, a quiet, irritating voice asked him a question he didn't want to answer: Why do you care so much?
- Writer
