Chapter 18

The elevator dropped me off at the fifteenth floor of Rokyl Enterprises, and I swallowed hard as I stepped into the sleek reception lobby. Polished marble floors stretched to a glass wall, beyond which the city scrolled beneath a bleeding sunset. I smoothed my skirt for the third time. My fingers trembled not from fear exactly, but the pressure to measure up in his world.

A quiet knock at a black glass door appeared in my peripheral vision. Professional meeting, he said. Under the guise of business.

I squared my shoulders and walked in.

The office felt both larger and smaller than I'd remembered. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the north wall. A dark marble desk sat perfectly centered, and behind it, Kyl stood, gazing at the skyline with arms crossed. He turned slowly, suit impeccable. No tie. Just dark silk shirt, slightly unfastened. That one undone button felt charged with intention.

He gestured to the seat across from him. "Please."

On the desk sat two crystal wine glasses and a slim black folder. I sat down, giving myself a moment before reaching for the glass. The wine smelled of oak and something sharp, sensual like his presence in liquid form.

"I wanted to talk to you about something new," he said when I was seated. His voice was quiet, deliberate. He poured a glass and slid it across without looking at me. I lifted my chin and sipped. The wine was dark, rich—like danger.

"I'm listening," I said.

He nodded, opening the folder. "I want you to ghostwrite my memoir."

Memoir.

My breath stalled, but I didn't pull away.

"I'm not expecting a sanitized life story," he continued. "I want the raw version: secrets, sacrifices, the seduction of power. It needs to be sexy and unfiltered."

He tapped the folder. "Full creative control. No deadline. High pay."

Then he looked at me directly. "The catch: you work in-house. With me. Every day."

His calm gaze punched me in the chest. The office felt suddenly like a gilded cage. Working with him meant sitting in this space, breathing the same air, under his eyes. Close, perhaps too close.

"Every day?" I echoed softly.

"Yes," he said. The tone was flat but heavy. "In this building. Your own desk. Everything above board." he stared at me intently studying me.

Silence hummed between us. I watched the city lights darken. The orange glow of dusk brushed his cheekbones. I reached for my wine again my hands steadying.

This was a turning point. Write my way into a golden prison, or take the chance he offered and risk losing myself.

"Why me?" I whispered.

He blinked once. That brief flicker of surprise or vulnerability shook me. "Because you're the only woman who's held my mind straight when I let it slip."

My throat closed.

"What!!!"

I cleared my throat and took a quiet breath, inhaling deeply "Is this a job… or a leash?"

He smiled, slow. Not cruel. Charged. "Depends on how you play it."

I swallowed my fear. "I don't do unpaid labor or secrets. I don't want a status symbol."

He leaned forward. "I'm not buying your loyalty, Ivana. I'm offering you autonomy. If you accept, you write under the terms we set."

I let that sink in it sounded fair to me.

I ran a fingertip along the vintage nib of the contract folder. The paperwork inside spelled out: ghostwriting rights, confidentiality clauses, exit strategy within six months without penalty. No shackle clause. No question of ownership.

I exhaled slowly. "What about credit?"

He paused. Then: "You can have a private note. Or be listed as co-author. Whatever you want within reason."

I glanced at the stack: two glasses of wine, the skyline, his steady presence in a suit tailored to kill reputations. I sensed an invitation or a challenge.

We sat in silence for a moment until I placed the wine glass down and said softly, "I will accept."

He raised a brow, but didn't speak.

"I will write with integrity. And if it ever compromises my boundaries… I can leave. No penalty."

His gaze flicked to the clause: "…an assured exit point by mutual agreement." He leaned back, fingers trailing across the desk surface. "Agreed."

He slid the contract across. His desk was cool. The paper weight solid. it felt Real.

I hesitated, then signed. Ink scratched. I watched the pen, a dark charmer and saw its reflection on the black marble. He watched me with the intensity of a predator.

Then he stood, tore the corner of his suit lapel at the seam, and tucked the signed pages into it. No theatrics. Just finality.

He stepped around the desk and approached me. My pulse raced. A chill prickle flashed through me. He stood maybe a foot from me just close enough to feel his breath but far enough to respect the boundary. Yet the proximity made my throat deepen.

"Welcome," he said quietly. "Your desk will be ready tomorrow. Everything else can be arranged. And Ivana…"

I looked up.

He brushed a thumb along my wrist. "I'm glad you said yes."

The word glad felt emotionally naked. I felt warm and wrong. Or maybe right.

I gathered my things and turned to go, smoothing my skirt. My heel clicked against the marble floor with an faltering rhythm. In the silence that clung to us, his eyes followed me, hungry, curious, something tender I didn't dare name.

When I exited, the elevator door shut behind me. My heart pounded with adrenaline and doubt. Outside the office lobby, I exhaled with relief.

My phone buzzed.

Mala: So? Offer more than the dinner date?

I tapped carefully: "Yes."

Mala (two seconds later): Wait, you had better accept That fast?

Me: He wants me in-house. To work with him.

She: You mean… living with his mind?

Me: Yeah.

My fingers hovered. Then I added: "And I feel like I might be agreeing to walk a tightrope."

No response—until: "Then make it yours, not his."

_____

That night I was restless. The city lights bled through my blinds. I lay awake with the contract tucked inside my purse. The sensation of holding it was heavy as if holding a key, or maybe a lock.

I logged into my new laptop. It greeted me with a black screen and a blinking cursor. I opened a blank document.

I tapped: I'll write this memoir. And I will write me.

This was more than a job. It was a negotiation with my own boundaries. Erotic power disguised as professionalism. The intrigue twisted through me: Could I keep my agency in the space he created? Could I stay transgressive while controlled?

Because part of me wanted to test, to flirt, to feel his eyes on my skin as much as on my words.

The chapter had begun. The lines had been drawn. But I held the pen.