The Contract
1168 Words
The room Carter led her to was larger than her entire apartment.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the same glittering city she’d stared down at last night—this time from a higher vantage, the kind that made the rest of the world feel small and distant. The bed was king-sized, dressed in charcoal silk sheets and a black cashmere throw. A sleek sitting area held a velvet chaise and a low glass table. Beyond a half-open door she glimpsed a bathroom tiled in black marble, steam still curling from a recent shower she hadn’t taken.
Everything smelled clean. Expensive. Controlled.
Carter set a small silver key on the dresser without a word and left, the door closing behind him with the same soft finality as everything else in this place.
Elena stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself as if the dress could shield her from what was coming.
She didn’t touch anything at first.
Then curiosity—or maybe just the need to move—propelled her forward.
She opened the closet.
Rows of clothing hung in perfect order: black dresses, black blouses, black trousers, black lingerie folded like secrets in silk drawers. Sizes exact. Tags removed. Shoes lined up beneath—heels, flats, boots—all black, all her size. A single crimson silk scarf hung at the very end like a drop of blood in the darkness.
A message.
She could wear whatever she wanted, as long as it pleased him.
She closed the closet doors harder than necessary.
Next, the dresser drawers: underwear—lace and satin, black and deep burgundy. No cotton. No comfort. Jewelry trays held delicate chains, diamond studs the size of tears, a single choker of thin black leather with a tiny silver ring at the front.
Her stomach turned.
She slammed that drawer too.
On the nightstand: a slim black tablet, already powered on. No passcode. The screen woke to a single open document.
The contract—freshly scanned, her jagged signature staring back at her like a confession.
Below it, an addendum she hadn’t seen before.
Schedule – First Week
- 8:00 a.m.: Breakfast served in the dining room. Attendance required.
- 9:00 a.m.–12:00 p.m.: Accompany Mr. Blackwood to Blackwood Tech headquarters (design consultation for penthouse private quarters). Professional attire provided.
- 1:00 p.m.: Lunch. Private.
- 2:00 p.m.–6:00 p.m.: Free time within residence boundaries. No external communication.
- 7:00 p.m.: Prepare for evening engagement. Wardrobe selection approved by Mr. Blackwood.
- 8:00 p.m.: Dinner. Together.
- 10:00 p.m.: Return to assigned quarters unless otherwise directed.
A single line at the bottom:
Note: All activities are subject to change at Mr. Blackwood’s discretion. Failure to comply constitutes breach.
Elena’s knees gave out. She sank onto the edge of the bed, the silk cool against her thighs.
She read it again.
Then again.
The tablet chimed softly.
A new message appeared on the screen.
From: D.B.
Be downstairs in thirty minutes. Black dress, third from the left in the closet. No stockings. No underwear.
Do not make me wait.
Her breath hitched.
She stared at the words until they blurred.
Thirty minutes.
She had thirty minutes to decide whether to obey or to find a way out of this gilded prison before the door locked behind her forever.
She stood.
Walked to the closet.
The third dress from the left was midnight silk, bias-cut, clinging in all the places that would make hiding impossible. Sleeveless. Plunging back. Hem brushing just above the knee.
She took it off the hanger.
Her reflection in the full-length mirror watched her strip out of the funeral dress—slowly, mechanically—like someone else was moving her limbs.
The silk whispered over her skin as she slipped it on.
It fit like it had been sewn onto her body.
No b*a. No panties. Just the cool slide of fabric and the terrifying awareness of every inch of exposed skin.
She left her hair down—because he hadn’t specified—and slipped into the black stilettos waiting beneath the dress.
When she looked in the mirror again, she barely recognized herself.
The woman staring back had wide eyes and flushed cheeks and a mouth that trembled just enough to betray her.
She looked expensive.
She looked owned.
She looked like his.
The tablet chimed again.
Twenty minutes.
Elena pressed her palm to her stomach, willing the nausea down.
Then she walked out of the room.
Down the spiral staircase.
Through the foyer.
Into the dining room she hadn’t seen before.
Long black table. Two place settings at the far end.
Damian was already there—dark suit, white shirt, no tie—leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, glass of amber liquid in his hand.
He didn’t rise.
He simply watched her cross the room.
Every step felt like walking through water.
When she reached the table, he gestured to the chair opposite him.
“Sit.”
She did.
The silk slid against her bare thighs.
His gaze dropped to her chest—where the fabric clung and dipped—then lifted again to her face.
“You chose well,” he said.
“I didn’t choose anything.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “You’re wearing it. That’s choice enough.”
A server appeared—silent, invisible until needed—poured red wine into her glass without asking, then retreated.
Damian lifted his own glass in a mockery of a toast.
“To new beginnings.”
Elena didn’t touch hers.
“What happens if I refuse to drink?” she asked.
“You won’t.”
She met his eyes. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’m sure of you.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“The contract is signed. The year begins tonight. Every rule, every expectation, every consequence—it’s all in motion now.”
He set his glass down.
“Tonight, you learn what obedience feels like.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow you learn what belonging feels like.”
He stood.
Rounded the table.
Stopped behind her chair.
She felt him before she saw him—his presence like heat at her back.
His fingers brushed the nape of her neck, light as a threat.
“Eat,” he murmured. “You’ll need your strength.”
Then he returned to his seat.
Elena stared at the plate that had appeared in front of her—seared steak, asparagus, a delicate reduction she didn’t recognize.
She picked up her fork.
Because she didn’t know what else to do.
Because the alternative was worse.
Because somewhere between the contract and the silk dress, she had already taken the first step into his world.
And the door had closed behind her.
She lifted the first bite to her lips.
Damian watched every movement.
Satisfied.
Patient.
Already planning the next lesson.
The night was young.
And she was his.
- Writer
