The Choice

The doors of the Elysium Lounge burst open with a violent push, spilling Anastasia Laurent into the chilled Manhattan night. Her heels clacked against the glistening marble entrance, each step echoing like gunshots in her head. She barely noticed the sharp scent of winter wind cutting through the warm perfume clinging to her skin. The skyscrapers loomed like silent sentinels around her, their glass eyes glittering with secrets as the pulse of New York thrummed beneath her.

Neon lights flickered over her face—red, blue, gold—painting her in fractured shades of chaos as she reached the valet line. But she didn't wait. Instead, she veered toward the side parking lot, her breath forming trembling clouds in the cold air, her fingers trembling as she clutched her clutch like a lifeline.

Her car waited like a sanctuary . She slipped inside, slammed the door shut, and for a fleeting moment, the world outside vanished. Silence. Deafening. Heavy. Her lungs seized as if her ribs were steel bars, locked tight around her heart.

She didn't turn the key. Her hand hovered over the ignition, uncertain. Instead, she let herself crumble into the leather seat, slumping low, staring blankly at the windshield fogging with each shallow breath.

Should I just walk away?

What if not signing that damned contract is better than selling myself into a marriage I don't want?

Her vision blurred, her thoughts loud enough to drown out the honks and distant wails of the city. The weight of legacy, betrayal, and desperation crushed her like the skyscrapers above. She reached for her phone with numb fingers and tapped the only name that ever made her feel less alone.

Caroline.

"Pick up, please pick up…" she murmured, teeth biting into her lower lip.

The line crackled once. Twice.

"STASSI!" Caroline's voice exploded through the receiver, frantic and breathless. "Oh, my God, how have you been?! I've been refreshing Twitter like a maniac and—wait, are you crying? Because if you're crying, I swear I will personally throw a drink in that bastard's face—"

"Care," Anastasia choked out, her voice strained and hushed. "Everything's… falling apart. He gave me a contract. A marriage contract. Said if I signed it, he'd fix everything."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

"I'm sorry I got you into this all this is happening because of the blind date sabotage I convinced you to !"Caroline muttered.

And then, "That man is Satan in a Tom Ford suit, Stassi! I knew it. I freaking knew it! , Why is he being a d**k over a mere a breakup!"

A hollow laugh escaped Anastasia's lips. It withered before it reached her eyes.

"I mean, really?" Caroline continued, her voice pitching up like she was performing for a stage. "Marriage? Is this 1850? What's next, a duel? Should we call Hamilton?"

"I'm serious," Anastasia said softly.

"So am I!" Caroline huffed. "My father is having a meltdown—like throwing-champagne-bottles-at-walls level meltdown. We're bleeding money, and fast. But that does not mean you should throw yourself into a mafia-style arranged marriage like some tragic heiress from a Gothic novel."

Anastasia pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, the cool leather grounding her spiraling mind.

"You always try to fix everything, even if it costs you your sanity," Caroline said, gentler now. "But this? This is not your cross to bear, Stassi. Don't become his sacrificial lamb just because our families are falling apart."

"I don't know what else to do," Anastasia whispered.

There was another pause.

And then, Caroline's voice softened even further, all theatrics gone. "Listen to me. Whatever you decide, I'm on your side. But don't let that man corner you into something you can't undo all because you broke up with him."

Anastasia closed her eyes, her throat thick with unshed emotion. "Thank you, Care. I needed to hear that."

"I've got you. Always."

The call ended, but before she could set the phone down, it buzzed again.

Mom.

Her stomach twisted. She stared at the screen, dread crawling over her skin like frost.

She picked up. "Mom?"

"Anastasia," her mother said, voice stressed and tired. " You really need to get in touch with Dante !. Do you hear me? Fix this."

Anastasia's spine straightened. "What happened?"

"The vultures," her mother hissed. "Those slimy leeches from your father's side—they've come crawling back. Offering their help." A pause, then venom: "But they want something in return."

"What?"

"The CEO position. Of your company. Your father's company."

Anastasia went rigid. Her mouth opened, but the words failed her.

"They want his legacy, Anastasia. And if you don't stop this, if you don't fix it tonight, we lose everything. Everything your father built. Everything he left you."

Click.

The call ended.

And with it, the last illusion of choice shattered.

Anastasia stared into the dark windshield, the city's lights bleeding through her tears.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned off the ignition.

And stepped out.

The wind clawed at her dress as she strode back toward the lounge, the hem whipping around her legs like a storm. The doorman blinked as she passed, but said nothing. Her heels struck marble again, faster now, her breath rising in angry clouds.

She reached the private lounge and pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the private lounge.

Dante was exactly where she'd left him.

Lounge lighting cast a golden halo over his chiseled features, wine glass lazily balanced between two fingers. That maddening calm rested on his face like a crown he never earned.

His eyes lifted. Gleamed. Smirked.

His assistant was not in sight .

"Welcome back," he said, his voice like velvet dipped in poison. "I knew you'd return."

Anastasia didn't waste words. Her voice was low, firm. "Give me the contract."

One dark brow lifted, but he remained silent.

"I'll sign it," she said, spine straight. "I'll marry you." She gritted.

Still, he made no move.

A beat passed.

And then he leaned back, setting the glass down with a soft clink, his expression shifting. Sharpening.

"Not so fast."

Anastasia frowned. "What now?"

He stood. Slow. Deliberate. Every movement dripping with the cold confidence of a man who owned the room—and knew it.

When he straightened to his full height, he towered over her. The space between them shrank, heat humming like a live wire. His tailored black suit clung to broad shoulders and a frame carved from cruel intentions.

"I've had a change of heart," he murmured with a cold smile. "You won't just be my wife in name anymore."

Her stomach dropped. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're going to work for me," he said simply.

She blinked. "Work for you?"

Dante's smile was wicked. "Directly under me. Full time. At Montgomery Enterprises."

Her breath hitched. "You're joking."

"I don't joke, Anastasia," he said, his voice curling around her name like a threat. "You'll be my wife. And my employee. You'll follow my rules. You'll report to me."

Fire lit behind her eyes. "You manipulative bastard, I'm the heiress of the Laurent company—"

"I told you the terms," he interrupted coolly. "But I never said they wouldn't evolve. This is the only deal on the table. "

Anastasia's hands curled into fists. Her chest heaved. Her voice was a raw whisper. "You're a monster."

Dante leaned closer, eyes dark and merciless. "Then marry the monster and save your empire. Or walk away and watch it burn."

Silence exploded between them.

A million thoughts raced through her mind. Her father's legacy. Her mother's desperation. Caroline's voice. Her own dignity. Her future.

All colliding. All crumbling.

Anastasia opened her mouth—but the only thing that came out was a whisper of disbelief:

"What the actual f**k?".