The Gift
863 Words
The storm had finally broken.
The next evening, the city glowed like gold brushed onto steel. The rain had rinsed everything clean, but Amara couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d carried part of it home inside her.
Her deal with Voss International was now public.
Fashion blogs posted her photos, old colleagues sent hollow congratulations, and strangers called her “lucky.” She should’ve felt proud. Instead, she felt watched.
Her apartment was quiet—too quiet. She poured herself a glass of wine, sat cross-legged on the couch, and stared at the folder again. His signature still sat beside hers, dark and deliberate.
She traced it once, then closed the folder and pushed it away. “Boundaries,” she whispered. “Remember boundaries.”
A knock at the door broke the silence.
She frowned. It was nearly 10 p.m.
“Who is it?” she called.
No answer. Just another knock—soft, almost polite.
She peeked through the peephole.
No one.
Her pulse quickened. She hesitated, then opened the door a few inches. A small black box sat neatly on the mat. No tag. No note.
Amara crouched, scanning the hall. Empty. She lifted the box carefully and carried it inside like it might bite. The paper was matte, the ribbon dark silver. She untied it with cautious fingers.
Inside lay a single swatch book—fabric samples of rare silk-linen blends she’d only seen in luxury archives. Each color shimmered softly, shifting with the light. Under the fabric was a black envelope sealed with a simple gold “V.”
She opened it.
> For your hands only. Consider it inspiration, not interference.
— D.V.
Her breath caught.
She hadn’t given Damian her address.
Her phone buzzed on the table. Unknown Number.
Her throat tightened. She answered. “Mr. Voss?”
“Amara,” his voice purred through the speaker. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous. “Did you like the materials?”
“How did you get my address?”
“I told you,” he said softly. “When something interests me, I get involved.”
“That’s not involvement,” she snapped. “That’s intrusion.”
“I sent fabric, not chains.”
“That’s not the point—”
“It is to me.”
Silence stretched. She could hear the faint hum of his office behind him—air-conditioning, distant city noise. He sounded completely at peace while she sat barefoot and trembling in her own living room.
“You crossed a line,” she said.
“I drew a circle,” he corrected. “One that includes you.”
Her voice wavered between anger and disbelief. “I don’t belong in your circle.”
He chuckled—low, amused, like someone humoring a child. “You already signed the contract. You stepped inside it yourself.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears. “If this continues, I’ll end our agreement.”
“You won’t,” he said, voice steady. “You want the same thing I do—control. You just define it differently.”
Something cold coiled in her stomach. “You don’t know me.”
“Not yet,” he murmured. “But I learn fast.”
The line went silent for a moment, filled only by her breathing. When he spoke again, his tone was softer—almost kind. “Rest, Amara. Inspiration needs a calm mind.”
The call ended.
She stared at the phone, waiting for her thoughts to return to their normal rhythm. They didn’t. Every sound—the hum of the fridge, the distant horns from the street—felt sharper, closer, heavier.
She walked to the window and looked down at the city lights. Cars moved like veins pulsing through glass. Somewhere out there, he might still be awake, watching the same storm-cleared sky.
Her reflection in the glass looked unfamiliar—eyes wide, hair tumbling loose, skin still flushed from the echo of his voice. She pressed a hand against the window. The coolness grounded her.
This was business. She repeated it like prayer.
Just business.
But deep down, a whisper crawled up her spine: Business doesn’t sound like that.
She picked up the swatch book again, meaning to throw it away. Instead, she opened it. The fabrics were impossibly beautiful. The kind of materials she’d dreamed of working with but could never afford. There was a note slipped inside, written in small elegant script.
> For the woman who designs armor. Even armor deserves to be touched.
Amara slammed it shut, her heart racing. “What are you doing to me?” she whispered into the empty room.
She packed the box back up, shoved it into her closet, and turned off the lights.
Sleep didn’t come easy.
Sometime after midnight, she heard it—footsteps in the hallway outside her door. Slow. Measured. Then gone.
She told herself it was nothing.
But when she woke the next morning, another envelope lay on the floor, slid neatly under the door.
Her name was written in bold black ink. Only her first name.
Amara.
Teaser:
He promised her creative freedom. He never said anything about freedom from him.
- Writer
