Shadows of Desires.

Chapter 1: The King of Steel Lena’s Pov “Miss Rivera, you’re early.” I looked up from my phone where I’d been checking my bank account for the third time that morning, really hoping the numbers would change but no, they didn’t. The woman in front of me wore a super nice gray suit that probably cost way more than my rent, and she stood so straight it made me want to sit up too. “The email said nine thirty,” I said, shoving my phone into my bag. “It’s nine thirty.” “Mr. Blackwell likes people to be on time.” She didn’t wait for me to say anything else. “Follow me.” I followed her through the fancy marble lobby of Blackwell Tower. My sneakers made a squeaky noise on the floor. Everyone else was clicking in heels like they were on a mission. I wore my nicest jeans and a blazer borrowed from my cousin Gabriella, but I still felt like I showed up to a wedding dressed for gym class. The elevator ride to the seventieth floor felt so long and also really fast. My stomach was flipping like crazy with every floor. I couldn’t tell if it was the speed or just nerves. “There must be a mistake,” I said as the numbers went up. “I’m a freelance journalist. I write about little neighborhood stuff and new restaurants. I don’t know why Mr Blackwell wants to see me.” The woman, who I still didn't even know her name, gave me a look that kind of felt like she felt sorry for me. “Mr Blackwell doesn’t mess up.” The elevator doors opened right into an office with way more glass than walls. New York looked tiny below us like it was his kingdom. There was a guy standing by the window with his back to us. Ethan Blackwell. I’d seen him in magazines and news, always at fancy charity events or business meetings, always looking like he wished he was somewhere else. The pictures didn’t do him justice or maybe they did too much justice. I wasn’t sure. He turned around, and I forgot how to breathe for a second. He was tall, like I thought but the way he stood made the huge office feel smaller. His suit was black and fit like it was made for him, his dark hair looked like it took some serious effort, but like he didn’t care. His eyes were the color of a storm ready to hit. His eyes looked right at me, and I felt like he was checking me out and putting me into a file. “Miss Rivera,” he said. His voice was deep and calm, the kind that made you listen even if he didn’t raise it. “Thanks for coming.” “I wasn’t sure I had a choice,” I said before I could stop myself. The corner of his mouth moved. It was almost a smile. “You always have a choice.” The woman in the gray suit cleared her throat. “Will you need anything else, Mr Blackwell?” “No, thank you, Margaret.” He nodded to one of the chairs by his desk. “Please, sit.” Margaret left us alone, and suddenly I felt super aware of how quiet it was up here. Seventy floors above the city and it was like all the noise was gone. Just him, me, and all this glass and steel. I sat and tried not to wiggle. “So why am I here?” He moved to his desk but didn’t sit. He leaned on it, arms crossed, looking at me like I was a puzzle he needed to fix. “I’ve read your writing.” That shocked me. “You have?” “The story you did about the community garden in Queens. The interview with the bodega owner who's been there for forty years. The piece about the subway musician who plays Chopin in the busy rush hour.” He said them like he remembered everything. “You’re good at finding stories where most people don’t even look.” I waited for the but. There’s always a but. “But you’re having a hard time,” he said. “Three months behind on rent. Student loans you can’t pay and you worked at a coffee shop last week just to get by.” My face got hot. “Did you check my background?” “I check everyone I work with.” “We aren’t working together. I don’t even know why I’m here.” He walked around the desk and sat down, hands folded on the shiny surface. Everything about him felt planned and serious, like he measured exactly how much space to take in the world. “I want you to write my memoir,” he said. I laughed, I couldn’t help it. “You must be joking.” “I don’t joke about business.” “Why me? You could hire a hundred better writers. A thousand, someone who actually knows how to write a memoir.” “I don’t want someone who knows memoirs, i want someone who can find a story.” He leaned forward a bit. “And someone who’s not scared of me.” “I’m definitely scared of you,” I said. “But you talk back.” That almost-smile again. “Most people don’t.” I shifted in my chair. This felt wrong, rich people don’t hire broke freelance writers to tell their life story. There had to be a catch. “What’s the catch?” I asked. “The catch is you work under my rules, every chapter. Every word, I approve before it goes anywhere. You write what I say, how I say it.” “So you want a ghostwriter.” i asked. “I want a story I control.” he said. “That’s not journalism. That’s propaganda.” His jaw got tight for a second, I thought I pushed too hard. Then he stood and went back to the window, hands in pockets, staring out over the city. “I’m offering you two hundred thousand dollars,” he said without looking. “Half now, half when you finish, should take about six months.” My brain stopped. Two hundred thousand dollars, more than I’ve made in three years. Rent, loans, no more coffee shifts. “Why?” I had to ask. “Why pay so much for someone to write only what you want?” He looked at me again and something flickered in his stormy eyes. Something like pain. “Because I want the world to see me one way,” he said softly. “And I need someone good enough to make them believe it.” It surprised me or maybe it was the sadness behind the words. Suddenly he seemed less like a rich guy and more like someone with a heavy secret. “I’ll think about it,” I said. But I already knew the answer, i couldn’t say no. “You’ll start Monday,” he said like my thinking was just for show. “Margaret will send the contract and NDA.” “I haven’t said yes yet.” He came closer, and I had to look up to meet his eyes. I could smell his cologne,a fancy woodsy smell with a name I probably couldn’t say. “Let’s see how long your attitude lasts in my world, Miss Rivera,” he said, and there was almost a joke in his voice. I stood up, trying not to be scared even though my heart was racing. “We’ll find out.” I turned to leave, but then I saw it. On the corner of his desk, half under a folder, was a photo. The edges were burnt and curled from fire, the picture faded and damaged. I could just make out a boy around ten or eleven, surrounded by flames. My journalist brain kicked in before I could stop it. I stepped closer. “Miss Rivera.” His voice cut through like a knife. I looked up. His face was cold now, all that almost-warmth gone like it never happened. “Margaret will walk you out,” he said. The door opened right then, and Margaret came to take me to the elevator. I left that office with so many qu estions and the burnt photo stuck in my mind. Whatever Ethan Blackwell was hiding, it was deep. And I was going to find it.