The Invitation
823 Words
Elena didn’t sleep.
She couldn’t.
She sat on the edge of her narrow mattress in the one-bedroom walk-up she could barely afford, staring at the cracked ceiling while the city outside hummed its indifferent lullaby. Sirens. Distant horns. The low rumble of the subway two blocks away.
Her phone was gone.
Taken.
And with it, the only piece of evidence that could prove she hadn’t meant to overhear corporate treason.
Or destroy her.
She’d spent the last four hours googling Damian Blackwood from her ancient laptop—because of course her phone was the one thing she couldn’t use right now.
The headlines were predictable.
Tech Titan. Visionary. Ruthless.
Youngest self-made billionaire in the Fortune 500 three years running.
Philanthropist when the cameras were on. Predator when they weren’t.
Whispers of hostile takeovers. Disappeared competitors. Lawsuits settled out of court for amounts that could buy small countries.
And women.
Always women.
A revolving door of models, actresses, heiresses—none lasting longer than a season. All beautiful. All gone quiet after the breakup.
Elena closed the laptop with a soft click.
Her reflection stared back at her from the dark screen: pale skin, dark circles already forming under hazel eyes, chestnut hair falling in a messy knot. She looked exactly like what she was—exhausted, cornered, twenty-six going on terrified.
She should call the police.
She should call a lawyer.
She should call anyone.
But the recording was gone. Her word against his. And Damian Blackwood didn’t lose.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She flinched so hard the laptop slid off her thighs.
Not her phone. Her old backup flip phone—the one she kept for emergencies because it still worked when the fancy ones died.
Unknown number.
She answered anyway.
“Miss Voss.” His voice poured through the speaker like smoke. Calm. Controlled. As if he hadn’t just stolen her life four hours earlier.
“How did you get this number?”
“I own the building you live in,” he said simply. “Among others.”
Of course he did.
Elena pressed her lips together until they hurt. “What do you want?”
“A meeting. Tomorrow. Nine a.m. sharp. My private residence. The address is already in your email.”
“I’m not coming.”
A pause. The kind that felt deliberate.
“You will,” he said. “Because if you don’t, that recording goes to the authorities by noon. Corporate espionage. Accessory after the fact. Conspiracy to defraud. Pick your felony.”
Her stomach lurched. “You’d destroy yourself too.”
“I’d survive,” he answered. “You wouldn’t.”
Silence stretched again.
Then, softer—almost intimate: “Wear something appropriate. Black. Simple. No jewelry.”
The line went dead.
Elena stared at the flip phone in her hand like it had bitten her.
She wanted to scream.
Instead she opened her laptop again, logged into her email with shaking fingers.
There it was.
Subject: Tomorrow.
No sender name. Just a single line in the body:
78 East 72nd Street. Penthouse. Do not be late.
Below it, a single attachment: the contract she’d glimpsed earlier that night—unsigned, but already filled with her name.
She opened it.
One year.
Exclusive companionship.
Discretion absolute.
No contact with outside parties without prior approval.
Physical availability as required.
Public appearances as required.
Compensation: $2,000,000 upon completion. $500,000 signing bonus deposited upon signature.
Termination clause: At Mr. Blackwood’s sole discretion.
Breach penalty: Immediate prosecution to the fullest extent of the law.
Elena read it twice.
Then she laughed—a short, broken sound that tasted like panic.
Two million dollars.
Enough to pay off every debt her father had left behind when he died. Enough to keep her mother in the care facility. Enough to never worry about rent again.
And all it cost was her freedom.
Her body.
Her soul.
She slammed the laptop shut.
Stood.
Paced the tiny room—five steps one way, five steps back.
She could run.
She could disappear.
But he’d find her. Men like Damian Blackwood always found what they wanted.
And right now, he wanted her.
Elena stopped in front of the narrow closet.
She pulled out the only black dress she owned—simple sheath, knee-length, bought for her father’s funeral two years ago. Still smelled faintly of mothballs.
She laid it across the bed.
Then she sat beside it, elbows on knees, face in hands.
Tomorrow she would walk into the lion’s den.
Dressed in black.
Simple.
No jewelry.
Exactly as instructed.
Because some traps you didn’t fight your way out of.
You walked in.
And prayed you could walk back out again.
Elena closed her eyes.
The city lights flickered through the thin curtains, painting stripes across her skin.
She wondered how long it would take before he stripped even that away.
Her alarm was set for 7:00 a.m.
She didn’t sleep.
- Writer
