THE OFFER
1125 Words
Ava stood outside Damien Moreau’s office for a full sixty seconds before moving.
She didn’t look back. Didn’t glance at the pristine glass door she’d just walked through. Her fingers curled around the black envelope like it might burn her. The wax seal was cool against her skin; no name, no instructions. Just a symbol embossed into the surface.
A stylized “V.”
Velvet.
She’d heard the name whispered before rumours passed between consultants and CEOs in hushed lounges, at exclusive after-hours dinners. Velvet wasn’t just a product. It was an enigma. Some claimed it was a data analytics platform with terrifying reach. Others called it an AI ecosystem masked as luxury. Ava didn’t know the truth, but now she’d been summoned to its heart.
And Damien Moreau had chosen her.
Not her firm. Not her team. Just her.
Alone.
She stepped into the elevator, legs carrying her on instinct. Her brain still buzzed, overloaded by the encounter. She should feel victorious; he’d taken the bait. Her pitch had landed. But nothing about that meeting had gone how she’d planned.
Instead of a contract, she had… this.
She tore the seal open with a sharp inhale. Inside, a single card:
Velvet. Midnight. 1412 Waverly. No names. No phones. No fear.
No fear?
She almost laughed.
This was no ordinary industry gala. The address wasn’t a known venue. No corporate logos, no security pass, no RSVP link. Just an invitation drenched in secrecy and power.
She tapped the card against her palm, pacing toward the building’s lobby exit.
Back in the real world, New York’s cold air slapped her awake.
She pulled her coat tighter as she walked, heels clicking across the pavement. The city roared around her, horns, chatter, the hum of ambition; but it felt distant, muffled. She was already somewhere else.
In her head. In Damien’s world.
He was arrogant, calculating… dangerous. And yet she hadn’t said no.
Why hadn’t she?
Because you don’t have the luxury, Ava.
Because your firm has one month of liquidity left. Because your name is still a punchline in PR circles thanks to Connor’s betrayal. Because no other billionaire CEO has returned your calls in three months.
Because he looked at you like you weren’t disposable.
That last thought stopped her mid-step.
Did he see potential or a pawn?
She slipped into the backseat of her rideshare and stared out the window as the city blurred. Her heart hadn’t slowed since the meeting.
Velvet. Midnight.
She had seven hours to decide whether to walk away… or step into the fire.
By the time she reached her apartment; a sixth-floor walk-up in SoHo that smelled faintly of curry and secondhand weed; her phone had buzzed three times. Two missed calls from Margo, her head strategist and one message:
“How did it go?? Are we in?? Should I start drafting the campaign deck??”
Ava stared at the message for a long beat before typing back:
“He wants something different. I’ll explain tomorrow.”
She tossed the phone on the couch and leaned against her kitchen counter. Her whole apartment was less than 600 square feet, but she’d made it hers; burnt-orange throw pillows, vintage bar cart, a framed poster of The Godfather that her ex said made her “too intense.”
He was right about one thing.
She was intense.
You had to be, to survive.
She shrugged off her coat, poured herself a glass of wine; cheap but strong and tried to breathe. But her thoughts spiraled, crashing against each other like storm tides.
What if this was a trap?
Not a literal one. But something worse. A game.
She’d met men like Damien before, men who believed power meant possession. Who confused ambition for availability. Who dangled opportunity like a leash.
But Damien hadn’t leered. Hadn’t flirted. He’d assessed.
And what scared her most?
She wanted to know what he saw.
At 11:45 p.m., Ava stood in front of a nondescript black door nestled between two shuttered art galleries in the West Village. The street was quiet, the only sound the gentle tap of her heels and the soft gust of wind pulling at her coat.
There was no sign. No security. No indication that the most exclusive event in the city was happening behind the door.
Just a small scanner embedded in the brick wall.
She slid the card into the slit.
A soft click. The door opened inward.
Ava stepped inside.
Darkness enveloped her then light flared, warm and golden.
She blinked.
The space wasn’t what she expected. It was opulent but strange. A former warehouse transformed into a seductive warren of velvet-draped walls, cascading candlelight, and masked figures swirling across the floor to music that pulsed like a heartbeat.
The scent of expensive perfume, aged whiskey and something faintly metallic hung in the air.
Everyone wore black.
Everyone wore masks.
Ava touched the simple satin one she’d tied behind her head before leaving home. It wasn’t elaborate like the others, but it would do.
She walked forward, unsure of where to go.
Then she felt it.
A presence behind her.
“Good,” said a familiar voice. “You came.”
She turned.
Damien stood just inside the shadows, watching her with quiet intensity.
He wore no mask.
Of course he didn’t.
“This place…” she said softly, “what is it?”
He stepped closer. “It’s Velvet.”
“Is it a company? A cult?” Her tone tried for light, but it came out shaken.
“Both. Neither.” His eyes gleamed. “Velvet is access. Influence. Control.”
“And you want me in it?”
“I want to know if you can handle it.”
“Why me?”
Damien tilted his head, gaze dragging over her like a verdict. “Because you haven’t run.”
“Yet.”
He smiled. “Let’s change that.”
Before she could ask what he meant, a masked woman in red approached and whispered something in Damien’s ear. He nodded once, then turned back to Ava.
“Wait here.”
“I don’t take orders.”
He smirked. “That’s why I chose you.”
Then he disappeared into the crowd, leaving her standing in the heart of Velvet, alone.
Ava looked around. Every instinct screamed that this was dangerous.
And yet… her curiosity beat louder than her fear.
She didn’t come this far to walk away.
Not yet.
Not until she learned what Velvet truly was and what it had to do with her father’s name carved into its foundations.
Because she was starting to suspect this wasn’t just business.
This was personal.
And she had no intention of being anyone’s pawn.
Not again.
- Writer
