Terms and Conditions

The message came in just after sunrise.

Lilith was in the kitchen, waiting for water to boil, when her phone buzzed on the counter. She didn't rush to check it—by now, most alerts were either updates from building maintenance or concerned notes from Athena. But when she finally glanced at the screen, her breath caught.

From: Arnold Blaze

Subject: Business Proposal – Revised Terms

Her stomach twisted.

She hesitated before opening it, afraid of what she might find. But the moment she did, the words stared back at her in a tone so neutral it almost hurt.

"I'm revisiting the offer we discussed weeks ago. A partnership—not just for the charity project, but for a broader initiative. If you're interested, we can talk. If not, I'll understand. Either way… I hope you're safe."

There was no greeting. No signature. No warmth, but no coldness either.

Lilith read it once. Then again.

Then she sat down—slowly, carefully, as if her legs might not hold her up.

The words weren't cruel. They weren't kind, either. They were… clinical. Measured. Intentional. Which made it worse. Because Arnold was never impulsive. If he reached out, it meant he'd already made a decision.

But what kind of decision?

—

Athena found her twenty minutes later, still seated at the kitchen table, her phone lying face-up beside a forgotten mug of tea.

"Is that from him?" she asked gently.

Lilith nodded, her voice quiet. "He sent a proposal."

Athena blinked. "A… business proposal?"

"Technically," Lilith murmured, her eyes still glued to the screen. "He wants to partner on the charity project. And more, apparently."

Athena walked over and read the message. Her brow furrowed. "That's not just business."

Lilith let out a short, humorless breath. "Isn't it?"

"He said he hopes you're safe."

Lilith looked down at her hands. They were shaking.

"I don't know what to make of it," she admitted. "Is this his way of… extending an olive branch? Or is he compartmentalizing me again—putting me in a professional box where it's safe to deal with me without forgiving me?"

Athena sat beside her. "Maybe it's both. Arnold doesn't know how to separate business from emotion, but that doesn't mean he's heartless. He's trying… in his own way."

Lilith stared at the message again.

She didn't know what she had hoped for. Maybe an apology. Maybe just a simple "Are you okay?" Instead, he gave her what he could offer without lowering his guard—a deal. Not love. Not closure. A proposal, stripped of everything personal, except for that one final sentence.

I hope you're safe.

Four words that made her chest ache.

—

Later that afternoon, she walked alone to the edge of the city park—one of the few places still untouched by Victor, by Arnold, by her own past. She sat on a bench and watched as children ran laughing through the grass and pigeons squabbled near the fountain.

She pulled out her phone again.

Her finger hovered over "Reply."

What could she even say?

Thank you for the lifeline? For the pity? For trying to keep me close enough to watch—but not close enough to feel?

Or should she say yes—accept the proposal, on paper, and keep her heart in her pocket?

Was that what he wanted?

Or… was this his only way of keeping her in his orbit without fully trusting her again?

She didn't know. But she did know one thing: whatever remained between them would be fragile. Conditional. A partnership built not on romance, but restraint.

And if that's all he was offering… maybe she had to take it.

Not for protection. Not for strategy.

But because she still wanted him near, even if she had to play by his rules.

—

That night, after several false starts, she finally typed her response:

"Arnold,

Thank you for reaching out. I wasn't expecting to hear from you again—not like this. But I'm willing to talk about the proposal.

There are things we still need to clarify—about the project, and about us. If you want to meet… I'll be there. Just tell me when and where."

No emotion. No begging. Just enough vulnerability to be human.

She hovered for a long time before hitting Send.

When she did, she turned off her phone, set it down face-down, and walked to the window.

The city lights didn't flicker.

But something inside her had begun to stir again.

Not hope. Not yet.

Just the faint echo of something unfinished.