Terms and Conditions
1478 Words
The wind picked up as Ariana pulled her coat tighter, her fingers stiff from cold and tension. The sound of Damon King’s car was long gone, but his words still echoed in her mind.
You’ll think about it.
She scoffed under her breath.
As if.
She didn’t need some arrogant billionaire to rescue her like she was some helpless damsel. She’d figure it out. She always had.
The problem was… she had nothing left to figure with.
No home.
No money.
No one.
Still, she forced herself to keep moving.
She found a cheap motel on the edge of downtown. The lobby smelled like stale cigarettes and bleach, but it was open. She paid with the last few bills in her wallet and took the key to room 207.
It wasn’t much—just a bed, a broken heater, and thin walls—but at least it was quiet. Sort of.
She curled up in her coat on the bed, too exhausted to cry again.
Tomorrow would be better.
It had to be.
•
The next morning came too quickly.
She woke up to the sound of her phone buzzing.
Unknown number.
She ignored it.
Then came a sharp knock on the motel door.
She sat up, heart racing.
Another knock—louder this time.
She hurried to the door, her instincts buzzing with warning. She opened it just a crack.
Two men in dark suits stood outside.
One of them gave her a tight smile. “Miss Monroe?”
She stiffened. “Yes?”
“We’re here on behalf of Mr. Lawrence Monroe.”
Her stomach dropped.
“We’ve come to collect a few personal effects that were mistakenly left in your possession. Keys, documents, and most importantly—your late father’s business files.”
Ariana’s blood ran cold.
“Those files are mine,” she said, voice trembling.
“They belonged to your father,” the other man said coolly. “And by legal proxy, now belong to Mr. Lawrence. If you refuse, we’ll have to escalate.”
“You can’t do this,” she whispered.
“Actually,” the first man said, handing her a folded notice, “we can.”
Her eyes scanned the paper—legal jargon, threats of court orders, property seizure.
And at the bottom—her uncle’s signature.
She slammed the door shut and locked it.
Her hands shook as she backed away, the paper fluttering to the floor.
He was still taking everything.
Even now, even after throwing her out, he wasn’t finished.
Her vision blurred. The weight of it all crushed her chest.
She had no job.
No apartment.
No family.
And now… no protection.
Her uncle wouldn’t stop until she was left naked in the street—humiliated, erased, forgotten.
Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.
She needed help.
She needed leverage.
And suddenly, one cold, arrogant voice echoed in her mind:
I could give you your life back.
She stared at her phone for a long moment before finally unlocking it.
She scrolled to the unknown number that had called her earlier—probably him.
Her finger hovered.
Then she tapped Call.
The line rang once.
Then twice.
Then—
“I told you you’d think about it,” Damon’s voice drawled, cool and calm as ever.
Ariana closed her eyes.
“I want to talk,” she said quietly.
“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t make the same offer twice.”
The King Empire building loomed like a monument of power and intimidation, its glass exterior gleaming under the morning sun. Ariana paused outside for a moment, staring up at the intimidating skyscraper as people in expensive suits swept past her, barely giving her a second glance.
Well… some gave her glances.
And then the whispers began.
“Is that her?”
“She’s the Monroe girl, right? The one who got disowned?”
“I heard she tried to sue her own uncle. Desperate much?”
“She looks... rough.”
Ariana straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and walked into the lobby like she belonged there. Because soon… she might.
The receptionist looked up, startled. “Can I help you—?”
“I’m here to see Damon King,” Ariana said coolly. “He’s expecting me.”
The woman’s eyes widened slightly, but she tapped something on her tablet. “Top floor. Penthouse elevator. Just press K.”
K for King. Of course.
•
The elevator opened directly into a sleek office that felt more like the control center of a high-tech empire than a CEO’s workspace. The view of the city was breathtaking, but Ariana’s focus landed on the man standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, hands in his pockets.
“You’re late,” Damon said without turning.
“I was busy being publicly humiliated,” she replied, stepping in.
He turned now, eyes trailing briefly over her disheveled coat and worn heels. “Well, if you say yes, you won’t have to worry about embarrassment anymore. At least… not of the poor variety.”
She rolled her eyes. “Let’s get to the point.”
He walked to a black folder on the desk and slid it toward her. “This is the contract.”
Ariana opened it and immediately froze.
“You want me to sign over control of my public appearances, my clothing, my speech in interviews, and... attend family dinners with you weekly?”
“Correct.”
“And if I breach the agreement, I owe you five million dollars?” she choked.
Damon sipped his espresso. “You’ll be compensated monthly. Handsomely. But I don’t do half-measures. My image is calculated. You will not ruin it.”
She snapped the folder shut. “This is absurd.”
“You wanted power back,” he said coolly. “Power requires sacrifice. It’s not about love, Miss Monroe. It’s about perception. And control.”
Her jaw tightened. “And you get all the control?”
He smirked. “You get revenge. I get stability. Fair trade.”
Her hands curled into fists. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said, taking the contract back, “you’re still here.”
She stared at him for a long, tense moment.
Then, with a bitter exhale, she nodded.
“Fine. I’ll sign it.”
“Smart girl.”
•
The courthouse was clinical and quick.
A few signatures. A few stares. A few suspicious murmurs from the clerk who clearly recognized their names.
Then it was done.
Mrs. Ariana King.
She nearly gagged.
As they walked outside, Damon glanced at his phone. “We don’t have much time. My stylist is waiting. You’re going to need a complete overhaul before tonight’s dinner.”
“Excuse me?” she snapped.
He shot her a bored look. “You’re not walking into my mother’s house looking like a charity case.”
Her cheeks flushed red. “I didn’t ask for a makeover.”
“No,” he said coolly, “but I’m asking. And in this contract, my ask is law.”
•
The styling studio was in an exclusive building in the fashion district, walls lined with mirrors and racks of designer clothes that probably cost more than her apartment.
The stylist—a tall, sharp-featured man in silk—looked her up and down with a dramatic sigh. “Oh my God. Is this what you’ve brought me?”
“She’s the one,” Damon said, removing his coat and lounging on a leather sofa.
The stylist winced. “She’s got potential… somewhere.”
Ariana folded her arms. “I’m right here, you know.”
Damon didn’t even look at her. “She’s rough around the edges. Clean her up. She’s representing the King name now, and I won’t have her looking like some tragic gossip column headline.”
The stylist gave an exaggerated gasp. “That was brutal.”
Ariana’s temper snapped.
“I’m not some broken doll you can scrub down and repaint, Damon,” she snapped, whirling on him. “You don’t get to insult me like that and expect me to smile for the cameras.”
The room fell silent.
The stylist’s jaw dropped.
Damon stared at her.
Then, surprisingly… he said nothing.
No smirk.
No sarcastic reply.
Just silence.
The stylist blinked. “Did… she just talk back to you?”
Damon leaned back slowly. “Apparently.”
Ariana crossed her arms, daring him to push further.
But he didn’t.
He just stared at her for a moment longer, a strange flicker of amusement—or was it interest?—in his eyes.
“Make her look like she belongs,” he said to the stylist. “But don’t erase the fire.”
He stood and walked out.
And Ariana was left wondering what exactly she’d just signed up for.
- Writer
