He stands in one fluid motion, comes around the desk, and stops a few feet away from me.
“Would you rather be dead?” he repeats calmly. “Because that was the other likely outcome, Luna. You piss off D’Angelo, you break, you run, you do anything other than obey, and you end up a cautionary story in some industry whisper, not a woman standing in my office yelling at me.”
Rage spikes, hot and helpless.
“You don’t get to reduce all my options to ‘owned by a devil’ or ‘dead,’” I say. “I’m not a child crossing the street. I’m a grown woman who’s been making her own terrible decisions for years.”
He exhales sharply.
“You were twenty when that contract was drafted,” he says. “Barely out of your first tour. Exhausted. Overmedicated. Surrounded by people who saw your breakdowns as clickbait. If
