Obsessed By Blackwood

Chapter 3– The contract

Aria POV

I didn't sleep.

I lay on crisp sheets that smelled faintly of detergent and something sharper—sterile, expensive—staring at the ceiling while the city glowed beyond the glass walls. Every sound felt amplified in the unfamiliar quiet: the hum of the building, the distant sirens, the muted pulse of Los Angeles refusing to rest.

My new phone sat on the nightstand, dark and accusing.

At some point past midnight, I gave up on sleep and got up.

The apartment was too perfect to relax in. No clutter. No signs of life. It felt like a place designed to be observed, not inhabited. I padded barefoot across the polished floor, wrapping my arms around myself as I stood by the window.

Somewhere down there, people were living their lives. Laughing. Making mistakes. Choosing things freely.

I wondered how much of that I'd just traded away.

⸻

The schedule arrived at exactly six a.m.

Not an email. Not a notification.

A soft chime from the tablet left on the kitchen counter.

I picked it up, my pulse quickening as I scanned the neatly organized agenda.

7:00 a.m. — Driver pickup

8:00 a.m. — Physical training

10:00 a.m. — Media coaching

1:00 p.m. — Wardrobe

4:00 p.m. — Contract review (Executive Level)

Executive level.

That last line made my stomach knot.

I showered quickly, choosing clothes that felt safe—simple, neutral, unremarkable. By the time I was dressed, the doorbell rang.

The driver was the same man from the night before. He greeted me with a nod and took my bag without comment.

No one asked if I was ready.

The city blurred past as we drove. I watched it from the window, trying to anchor myself in the familiar streets, the chaos, the noise. Somewhere between one red light and the next, it hit me that I hadn't told anyone where I was.

Not my parents. Not the one friend I still talked to back home.

The thought sat heavy in my chest.

⸻

The training facility was tucked behind Blackwood Entertainment's main building—private, discreet, immaculate. The people there moved with purpose, speaking in low tones, their eyes assessing me with professional detachment.

I trained until my muscles burned, then trained some more. Learned how to stand, how to walk, how to speak without fidgeting. How to hold eye contact without seeming desperate.

By the time the driver returned me to headquarters for the final meeting of the day, my body ached and my head throbbed.

Victor Hale was waiting.

"This way," he said, as if we'd never met.

We rode the elevator in silence.

This time, when the doors opened, Damien Blackwood was already seated at the conference table.

He wasn't alone.

Two lawyers sat to his left. Another woman—sharp-eyed, impeccably dressed—sat to his right. Papers were spread neatly across the table, stacks organized with military precision.

Damien looked up as I entered.

"Sit," he said.

I did.

The chair felt colder than I expected.

"Miss Rivera," one of the lawyers began, offering a practiced smile. "We'll be reviewing the final terms of your agreement today."

Final.

I glanced at Damien. He gave nothing away.

The lawyer slid a thick document toward me. "This is the finalized contract. You'll notice some additions since the draft you reviewed yesterday."

My fingers trembled as I flipped the pages.

The language was dense, formal, unforgiving. Clause after clause outlining obligations, expectations, restrictions.

Exclusivity.

Confidentiality.

Morality.

I paused, scanning a section marked Personal Conduct.

"This clause," I said slowly, "it states that my associations are subject to approval."

"Yes," the woman beside Damien said smoothly. "Public and private."

Private.

"And this one," I continued, my throat tightening, "about communication monitoring?"

Damien leaned forward slightly. "For your protection," he said calmly. "Leaks ruin careers before they begin."

I looked at him. "So my messages—"

"Are secure," he interrupted. "Filtered. Archived."

Archived.

The room felt smaller.

"And housing," I added, flipping another page. "It says relocation is mandatory."

"For the duration of your development," Damien confirmed.

"How long is that?"

His gaze held mine. "As long as necessary."

The words settled heavily between us.

I swallowed. "And if I don't agree to all of this?"

One of the lawyers opened his mouth, but Damien raised a hand.

"You won't sign," Damien said simply. "And we part ways."

No anger. No pressure.

Just inevitability.

I stared down at the contract again. Every instinct I had screamed caution. Red flags waved in my mind, bright and insistent.

And yet.

I thought of the coffee shop. The wrong name on the cup. The endless auditions. The waiting.

I thought of the way Damien had looked at me—not like someone disposable, but like something deliberate.

Important.

"Take your time," Victor said, though his tone suggested the opposite.

I didn't have time.

I picked up the pen.

As I signed my name, page after page, a strange calm settled over me. Each stroke of the pen felt like crossing an invisible line. There was no dramatic moment, no sudden realization.

Just the quiet understanding that something irreversible was happening.

When I finished, I slid the contract back across the table.

Damien took it, flipping through the pages with practiced ease. He paused briefly at the final signature, his thumb resting over my name.

Then he nodded.

"Welcome," he said again. "Officially."

The lawyers gathered their papers. The woman offered me a brief, assessing look before standing.

Within minutes, the room emptied, leaving just Damien and me.

The silence returned.

He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"You did well today," he said.

I exhaled shakily. "I feel like I've been run over."

The faintest hint of amusement crossed his face. "You'll adjust."

I wasn't sure whether that was comforting or ominous.

He stood, rounding the table slowly. I tracked his movement without meaning to, my awareness sharpening as he stopped in front of me.

"You have questions," Damien said.

"Yes," I replied immediately.

He waited.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"Now," he said, "you become visible."

The word sent a shiver down my spine.

"And you?" I asked before I could stop myself. "What's your role in all of this?"

Something shifted in his gaze. Not anger. Not surprise.

Interest.

"I oversee my investments," Damien said. "Personally."

The implication lingered in the air.

"So you'll be... watching?" I asked quietly.

His eyes darkened. "Yes."

I stood, my legs unsteady. "I should go."

Damien stepped aside, giving me space. "The driver will take you home."

Home.

As I reached the door, his voice stopped me.

"Aria."

I turned.

"This arrangement," he said, his tone measured, "works best when there's trust."

I nodded slowly. "I understand."

"I don't think you do," Damien replied. "Not yet."

The door closed behind me.

⸻

That night, alone in the apartment, I laid the contract on the kitchen counter and stared at it for a long time.

My signature stared back at me.

I told myself this was normal. That this was what success looked like. Structure. Control. Sacrifice.

Still, as I finally crawled into bed, one thought refused to leave me.

I hadn't just signed a contract.

I had agreed to be watched.

And somewhere in the city, Damien Blackwood knew it.