Chapter 6

CHARLOTTE’S POV

“I’m here,” I said quietly as I stood outside Zade’s estate the following morning, my fingers tightening around my bag while memories of my destroyed apartment replayed in my head. I hadn't slept properly, but fear had left me with nowhere else to go. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the broken furniture, ruined mattress, and those words painted across my wall. Twenty-four hours had become even less, and I couldn't afford to waste another minute.

The gates opened after security confirmed my name, and I walked toward the house with my heart pounding. I expected Zade to gloat over my surrender, but when I entered his study, he was already waiting with a folder on the desk, his expression completely composed. He looked as though nothing had happened between us the previous evening, which somehow made me even more uncomfortable.

“You came,” Zade said, turning toward me as his eyes settled briefly on my face. “I assume you've made your decision, Charlotte, and I hope you're here because you've thought through the consequences rather than because you believe desperation can manipulate me,” he added, gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk.

“I didn't come because I wanted this,” I replied, forcing myself to stand straight despite the nervousness twisting inside me. “I came because I need the money you promised. If we're going to do this, I want everything written down. I won't agree to something based on your word alone,” I said, refusing to let him see how badly my hands were shaking.

“I expected you to say that,” Zade replied, sliding the folder toward me with a calm expression. “The agreement lasts exactly thirty days, the fifty thousand dollars will be used toward your mother's debt, and you won't receive cash personally. My financial team will handle the creditors through a verified settlement process, and everything you're required to do is listed inside,” he explained.

I opened the contract and read through it carefully, expecting hidden conditions between the pages. Instead, it contained strict rules about my privacy, transportation, working hours, personal space, and safety. It also stated that I could refuse tasks unrelated to the agreed artistic work and that no photographs or recordings could be taken without my permission. The more I read, the more confused I became because the document was far more reasonable than the man who had presented the original offer.

“Why are these rules here?” I asked, tapping one of the privacy clauses as I looked up at him. “If you're determined to make this difficult for me, why bother protecting me from things I haven't even asked you to worry about?” I questioned, unable to understand why someone who had made me feel powerless the night before had suddenly taken time to establish boundaries.

“Because desperation doesn't remove a person's rights,” Zade answered calmly, meeting my eyes without hesitation. “You need money, and I need someone whose presence can help me complete a collection. That doesn't give me permission to treat you carelessly or make you stop being a person because you've signed an agreement,” he said, his voice steady.

His response confused me more than I wanted to admit. I still remembered how humiliating his original offer had felt, but this contract was different from what I expected. I picked up the pen, hesitated while thinking about my mother, the debt collectors, and the threat waiting outside my apartment, then finally signed my name beneath the agreement.

Zade signed immediately afterward and placed the contract inside the folder. “My financial team will contact the creditors today,” he explained, his expression becoming businesslike. “They'll verify the debt, confirm exactly what is owed, and arrange the settlement directly with them. You won't have to negotiate with them yourself. Once everything is verified, you'll receive official confirmation.”

I nodded slowly, even though relief still hadn't completely reached me. “And they'll actually stop coming after me?” I asked, my voice quieter as I thought about Scarface and the others destroying my apartment. “Because I don't know how much longer I can deal with people showing up at my door and threatening me.”

“If the debt is settled properly, they will have no legitimate reason to continue demanding payment for that account,” Zade replied firmly, his gaze becoming harder. “And if they attempt to threaten you again, you don't confront them yourself. You bring the matter to me.”

I frowned at the command in his voice and crossed my arms. “You make that sound like an order,” I said, keeping my eyes on him. “I'm agreeing to work here for thirty days, not handing over every decision in my life. I need you to understand that distinction.”

“Then understand this distinction as well,” Zade replied, rising from his chair and walking around the desk. “I'm not asking you to surrender your independence. I'm asking you to follow security procedures because someone destroyed your apartment and left a threat specifically for you. Ignoring that would be reckless,” he explained as he motioned for me to follow him.

He led me through the hallway and opened a set of double doors. The studio beyond them was enormous, filled with canvases, easels, lighting equipment, sketches, and unfinished paintings covered by white sheets. It looked nothing like the cold university office where I had first met him, and for a moment I forgot that I was supposed to be nervous.

“This is where you'll work,” Zade said, walking farther into the studio as he gestured toward the different areas. “The collection isn't designed around anything inappropriate. I need someone who can represent a particular mood and movement. You'll be working fully clothed, and you'll have control over what you're comfortable wearing,” he explained.

I looked at him cautiously, still remembering the condition he had given me the night before. “Then why did you make the agreement sound so humiliating yesterday?” I asked, unable to hide the hurt in my voice. “You knew I was desperate and frightened. Why give me a condition that made me feel like I had no dignity left?”

For the first time since I arrived, something shifted in his expression. “Because yesterday, I was angry,” Zade admitted quietly, looking away briefly before meeting my eyes again. “You walked into my office after disappearing from my life and demanded fifty thousand dollars. I responded badly. That doesn't mean I intend to repeat the mistake,” he said.

I turned toward the paintings instead of answering. Several portraits immediately caught my attention because they carried an intensity that didn't match the man I knew. The subjects looked vulnerable and deeply human, as though Zade had captured emotions he refused to show himself.

“You're good,” I said before I could stop myself, studying one unfinished portrait carefully. “I don't understand how someone who spends so much time looking at people can be so impossible to read,” I added, realizing only afterward that I had said something more personal than intended.

“Maybe that's why I've struggled with this collection,” Zade replied, studying the same painting from a few feet away. “I've spent months trying to create something honest while refusing to be honest about anything myself. Your presence reminded me that sometimes the person in front of the canvas matters more than the technique,” he explained.

I stepped toward the marked position beside the easel and looked at him firmly. “Fine. I'll do the work, but I won't be treated like an object. If I say I'm uncomfortable, the session stops. If you cross a boundary, I leave. And if you want my cooperation, you speak to me like a person,” I stated, making sure there was no uncertainty in my voice.

Zade nodded without hesitation. “Agreed,” he said, taking his place behind the easel. “And if anyone outside this agreement tries to interfere with you, you tell me immediately. Whatever is happening with your mother's debt and the people threatening you is separate from the work we're doing here,” he added, making sure I understood.

I was about to respond when his phone began ringing. Zade glanced at the screen, and the calm expression he had worn throughout our conversation disappeared almost instantly. He answered the call and listened silently for several seconds, his jaw tightening as whoever was on the other end continued speaking.

“Who is asking?” he demanded coldly, turning away from me as he listened. “You tell them nothing about her. I don't care who they claim to represent. Nobody discusses Charlotte's presence here without my permission,” he said before ending the call.

I stared at him, my stomach tightening as I stepped away from the easel. “Who was that?” I asked, watching his expression carefully. “Why would someone at the university already be asking about me? I only arrived here this morning, so how could anyone know I'm staying at your estate?” I questioned.

Zade lowered his phone slowly and looked directly at me. The concern in his expression made my stomach tighten even more because it was completely different from the cold indifference he had shown me the previous evening.

“Someone is already trying to find out what you mean to me.”