Chapter 9: The Price of Independence Part II
1021 Words
Two weeks passed
On a bright Saturday afternoon, Aria took the subway across the city to visit St. Jude’s Private Clinic. When she stepped off the elevator, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Her mother, Vivian, was no longer in the cramped, noisy four-bed ward. She had been moved into a sprawling, sunlit private VIP suite on the top floor, complete with a leather sofa, fresh white lilies, and a dedicated nurse.
"Aria, sweetheart!" Vivian smiled warmly from the bed, her pale face looking healthier than it had in months. She looked around the luxurious room, then looked at her daughter with a mixture of pride and deep suspicion. "The doctors told me I was transferred two days ago. Aria... how on earth were you able to afford a VIP suite like this? Did you get a massive promotion, or... do you have a very wealthy boyfriend you haven't told me about?"
Aria forced a bright, reassuring smile, walking over to place a bottle of the soft lavender perfume her mother loved onto the nightstand. "No boyfriend, Mom. I told you, my new job at Blackwood Atelier is a senior position. They take care of their designers' families. It's just a corporate perk."
Vivian sighed in relief, holding Aria's hand. "Thank God. I was so worried you were burning yourself out for me."
As Aria kissed her mother's cheek, her smile faded into a tight line. A corporate perk. She knew exactly whose hand had moved her mother to this room. Damien was still pulling the strings, completely silent, completely invisible, but entirely present.
By Monday morning, Aria was fully settled into her new space. Because of her specialized contract, Damien had assigned her a private design studio on the 38th floor. It was a massive, expensive oasis of white marble and glass, fully equipped with premium drafting tables, high-end sewing machines, and rolls of uncut silk.
She was standing by the window, organizing a new set of premium charcoal sketching pencils, when she heard the studio door click open behind her.
"Grace, I told you I don't need another coffee—" Aria began, turning around with a smile.
The words died in her throat.
Standing in the doorway of her private studio was Jason Reed.
He was dressed in a standard corporate suit, holding a leather presentation folder. For the past two weeks, Jason had been desperately trying to secure a minor logistics contract for his shipping firm with Blackwood Atelier's supply chain department. He had been lurking on the lower floors for days, pitching to middle managers. But a wrong turn near the executive elevators had brought him up to the 38th floor—and straight to her.
Jason stopped dead, his jaw dropping as his eyes swept over the massive, state-of-the-art studio, the expensive fabrics, and finally, Aria herself. She was wearing an elegant, tailored emerald-green trousers suit, her dark hair pinned up perfectly, looking every bit like an elite designer who commanded the floor.
The shock on Jason's face lasted for only a fraction of a second before his features twisted into a familiar, arrogant sneer. He stepped into the studio, letting the glass door click shut behind him.
"Well, well, well," Jason drawled, crossing his arms as he looked around the room. "Aria Bennett. I saw you stepping off the executive elevator last week with Mark Vance, but I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. What the hell is this? How did a girl who used to sew rags in a cramped apartment end up with a private studio like this?"
Aria felt a cold drop of disgust in her stomach, but she didn't flinch. She set her charcoal pencil down calmly. "This is my workspace, Jason. And you are on a restricted floor. Leave. Now."
Instead of apologizing for the brutal betrayal two weeks ago, Jason chuckled, taking a step closer to her drafting table. "Oh, come on, Aria. Don't be bitter. You should be thanking me. If I hadn't pushed you out of your comfort zone, if I hadn't given you that reality check in my apartment, you’d still be dreaming over a sketch pad. I knew you could become something better. I just had to terminate our little relationship to give you the motivation."
Aria's hands tightened against the edge of the table. The sheer audacity of his gaslighting was mind-boggling. "You didn't motivate me, Jason. You're a parasite who threw me away because you thought I was broke. Don't flatter yourself."
Jason’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowing maliciously as he looked at the sheer luxury of the room. "Let's be realistic, Aria. A studio on the 38th floor? A direct connection to the CEO’s right-hand man? Talent doesn't get a nobody this far in two weeks. Whose favor did you sleep your way into to get this room? Did you find yourself a wealthy old sponsor to pay your way in?"
Aria’s expression went utterly sub-zero. "Get out of my studio before I have security throw you out on your face."
"Make me," Jason sneered, stepping aggressively into her personal space, his hand reaching out to grab her upper arm to pull her toward him. "You owe me an explanation for how you—"
The glass doors of the studio didn't just slide open; they slammed back against their frames with explosive force.
A heavy, suffocating aura of absolute malice flooded the room, instantly dropping the temperature to zero. Jason froze, his hand stopping inches from Aria's arm as he turned his head toward the door.
Damien Blackwood stood in the entryway. His charcoal suit jacket was unbuttoned, his dark eyes burning with a terrifying, unbridled fury as his gaze locked onto Jason’s hand hovering near Aria. He didn't say a word, but the sheer, lethal power radiating from his frame made Jason instantly stumble backward, his face draining of all color as he recognized the billionaire king of the empire.
Damien stepped into the studio, his eyes locked onto Jason like a predator about to tear apart an insect that had dared to crawl into his territory.
- Writer
