Obsessed By Blackwood

Aria POV The first time Blackwood Entertainment entered my life, I was standing in line at a coffee shop that smelled like burnt espresso and broken promises. The barista had spelled my name wrong again—Arie this time, as if letters were optional—and the man in front of me was loudly explaining to his phone why "creative differences" weren't his fault. I stared at the cracked screen of my own phone, refreshing my email for the fifth time in under a minute, pretending not to listen. No new messages. No callbacks. No miracles. Los Angeles had a way of reminding you that you were replaceable. That dreams were plentiful, but opportunities were not. I'd been here for three years, juggling auditions, rejection emails that all sounded politely identical, and shifts at the café that barely paid rent. Every night I told myself I was one yes away from everything changing. Every morning proved me wrong. "Arie?" the barista called. I sighed, accepted the cup, and stepped outside into the glare of the afternoon sun. Hollywood Boulevard shimmered like it always did—too bright, too loud, too confident. Tourists posed in front of stars that weren't theirs. Billboards promised fame in fonts larger than life. Somewhere behind all of it, people like me waited to be noticed. My phone vibrated. I almost ignored it. Almost. Unknown number. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering as if the answer might burn me. Unknown numbers usually meant spam, or worse—casting assistants calling to say thank you so much for your time before crushing what little hope I had left that week. I answered anyway. "Hello?" There was a pause. Just long enough to make my stomach tighten. "Is this Aria Rivera?" The voice was calm. Deep. Male. The kind of voice that didn't rush or apologize for taking up space. "Yes," I said slowly. "This is she." "Good. My name is Victor Hale. I'm calling from Blackwood Entertainment." The world tilted. I stopped walking. People brushed past me, annoyed, but I didn't notice. Blackwood Entertainment wasn't just a company—it was the company. The kind that launched careers and buried scandals before they ever reached daylight. The kind people whispered about like a myth. "I'm sorry," I said, certain I'd misheard. "From where?" "Blackwood Entertainment," he repeated, unbothered. "We received your audition tape." My heart slammed against my ribs. Which one? I almost asked. I'd sent out so many I'd lost count. Indie films, background roles, commercials that never called back. Blackwood didn't look at people like me. They didn't even see us. "I—okay," I managed. "Yes." "There's interest," Victor continued. "Mr. Blackwood would like to meet you." The coffee cup slipped slightly in my hand, hot liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Mr. Blackwood. Damien Blackwood. I knew the name the way everyone did. You couldn't live in this city and not know it. CEO. Billionaire. Hollywood royalty without a famous last name—he'd built his empire himself, which somehow made him more intimidating. He was rarely photographed, rarely interviewed, and when he was, it was always controlled. Clean. Untouchable. People said he didn't smile. People said he never lost. "When?" I asked, my voice barely steady. "Today." Today. "I—today?" I echoed. "I'm sorry, I—" "Our driver will pick you up in forty-five minutes," Victor said smoothly, as if this was already decided. "I'll text you the address. Please dress appropriately." The line went dead. I stared at my phone, my reflection warped in the black screen. Forty-five minutes. I looked down at my clothes—jeans that had seen better days, a plain top, sneakers I'd bought on sale. My apartment was across town. Traffic alone could eat half that time. Panic bloomed, sharp and fast. I hailed the first rideshare that slowed, climbing in before the driver could ask questions. As the car pulled away from the curb, my phone buzzed again. An address. And beneath it, a single line: Mr. Blackwood values punctuality. ⸻ By the time we reached the building, my nerves were frayed raw. Blackwood Entertainment's headquarters rose from the street like a monument—glass and steel, reflective enough to mirror the sky. It didn't shout for attention. It didn't need to. Everything about it whispered power. The driver opened my door. Another man—tall, impeccably dressed—was already waiting by the entrance. He didn't ask my name. He didn't need to. "This way," he said. Inside, the air was cool and quiet. Too quiet. The lobby was all marble and minimalist art, the kind that probably cost more than my yearly rent. People moved with purpose, their heels clicking softly against the floor, their voices hushed. No one looked at me. That somehow made it worse. We rode the elevator alone. The numbers climbed in silence, my reflection multiplying in the mirrored walls. I tried to smooth my hair, straighten my posture, remind myself how to breathe. You earned this, I told myself. You're here because they saw something. The elevator stopped. The doors opened to a private floor. The hallway was carpeted, dimmer than the lobby, lined with framed movie posters. Successful ones. Award-winning ones. Films that had shaped careers, defined decades. All with the same small logo in the corner. Blackwood. The man gestured toward a set of glass doors. "Wait here." I did. Minutes passed. Or seconds. Time lost its meaning. Then the doors opened. "Miss Rivera," Victor Hale said, stepping out. He was older than I'd imagined, silver at his temples, eyes sharp and assessing. "You're early. Good." He held the door for me. The office beyond was vast. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, sunlight cutting through the space in clean lines. The desk was sleek, uncluttered. Everything about the room felt intentional. And then I saw him. Damien Blackwood stood by the window, his back to us, hands folded behind him as he looked out over Los Angeles like it belonged to him. Maybe it did. He turned slowly. The first thing I noticed was his eyes—dark, unreadable, settling on me with an intensity that made my breath hitch. He didn't smile. He didn't soften his expression. He simply looked. I felt it everywhere. "This is Aria Rivera," Victor said. "I know," Damien replied. His voice was lower than I'd expected. Calm. Controlled. It slid over me like a touch I hadn't consented to. "You can go," Damien said to Victor. Victor left without question. The door closed. Silence rushed in to fill the space. Damien approached, stopping a few feet away. Up close, he was more intimidating—not because he loomed, but because he didn't need to. He wore a tailored suit, dark and understated, like everything else about him. There was no excess to him. No wasted movement. "Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. I obeyed before I realized I was doing it. He didn't sit. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, his gaze never leaving my face. "You're younger than I expected," he said. Heat crept up my neck. "Is that a problem?" A pause. "No," he said. "It's an observation." I swallowed. "You've been auditioning for three years," he continued. "Mostly supporting roles. Nothing major." My pulse quickened. "Yes." "You live east of downtown. You work two jobs. You haven't missed an audition in eighteen months." I stared at him. "How do you—" "I don't call people into my office without knowing who they are," Damien said evenly. Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist. He straightened, finally taking his seat. "Your last tape," he said, steepling his fingers, "wasn't perfect." My heart sank. "But," he continued, "it was honest." He studied me as if waiting for something. "I'm not trained," I said quickly. "I mean, I've taken classes, but I—" "I know," he interrupted. Another pause. Longer this time. "I'm offering you a contract," Damien said. The words didn't register at first. "A—what?" "A development contract," he clarified. "Training. Representation. Exposure." The room felt suddenly too small. "Why?" His gaze sharpened. "Because I don't invest unless I see potential," he said. "And because you listened when everyone else performed." I didn't know what that meant, but it sounded important. "There are conditions," he added. Of course there were. "You would be exclusive to Blackwood Entertainment," Damien said. "No outside projects without approval. No independent representation." "That's... standard," I said, though my voice wavered. "There are additional clauses," he continued, his tone unreadable. "We'll discuss those later." Later. He slid a folder across the desk toward me. My name was on the front. I stared at it, my hands trembling slightly as I reached out. This was it. The moment I'd been waiting for. The yes I'd prayed for. Damien watched me closely. "You should know," he said quietly, "I don't make offers twice." I met his gaze. Something passed between us then—something unspoken, heavy. A warning, maybe. Or a promise. I didn't know. All I knew was that my life, as I understood it, had already started to slip away. And I had a feeling Damien Blackwood knew it too.