Chapter Seven

Aurora's POV

The elevator doors hissed shut, cutting me off from Zane and the empty office where he had just laid out his obscene, intoxicating ultimatum. I leaned against the cold metal wall, my chest heaving, trying to siphon some sense of composure from the sterile air. But the composure wouldn't stick. Every nerve ending was still vibrating from the sheer, raw intensity of his presence.

“You will be my best asset or your worst liability.”

His words echoed in the enclosed space, a terrifying promise. The man was a monster, a gorgeous, self-assured, unapologetic tyrant who viewed my life—my ambition—as a commodity he could trade for my compliance. And the worst part? The truly sick part of this whole sordid mess?

It was the temptation.

My hand instinctively went to my jaw, the spot where his thumb had brushed the skin. It was just a simple touch, yet it had sent a molten streak of heat straight through my body, momentarily robbing me of breath and the fury I needed to sustain my defense. I hated that he had that power. I hated that a single touch from him could make me forget every principle I held sacred.

I stepped out of the elevator into the bustling lobby, the normal sounds of the city's rush hour providing a jarring contrast to the silence of the higher floors. I walked quickly, my heels clicking a furious rhythm on the polished marble floor. I needed space. I needed air. I needed to separate myself from the heavy, masculine scent of his office and the suffocating pressure of his demand.

I didn't take a cab home. I walked. The familiar chaos of New York City was usually grounding, but tonight, even the sheer noise couldn't drown out the screaming inside my own head.

The Pact.

The deal was insane. It was predatory. It was textbook coercion masked as opportunity. Any sensible woman would march into HR first thing tomorrow, report the whole disgusting encounter, and take her chances.

But I wasn't sensible. I was Aurora Lupin, and I had worked too damn hard to let this man destroy my future, even if he was offering a twisted kind of fast-track to it.

I had spent five long years grinding through university, working three jobs, and sleeping four hours a night just to graduate at the top of my class. I wasn't just good; I was brilliant, and I knew it. The only thing standing between me and the top was the glass ceiling, and Zane Wilson was offering to shatter it for me.

My career was everything. It was the revenge I was saving up, the proof that I was better than the circumstances I was born into. And Zane knew that. He had sniffed out my ambition like a bloodhound and used it as the perfect bait.

"Keep it strictly professional here, and deliciously personal everywhere else."

The thought sent a shiver down my spine that was equal parts dread and something dark and thrilling. He wanted ownership. Not just a fling, but a structured, secret relationship where I would be his plaything outside of work, while simultaneously being groomed to become one of his top executives. It was a sick duality, a contract with the devil.

And then there was the memory of the hotel.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the recollection, but it was useless. It played behind my eyelids like a forbidden film. I had gone to that conference, tired and lonely, and there he was: Zane Wilson, a figure of absolute masculine perfection. The initial attraction had been like an electric current, undeniable and terrifying. I had told myself it was just one night, a fleeting mistake, a moment of weakness I could afford.

When I woke up alone in that decadent, silent suite, I hadn't fled out of panic or shame. I had fled because I felt the tug of something far too dangerous. I had felt myself liking him, liking his touch, his possessiveness, the way he made my body feel alive for the first time in years. That morning, I knew if I stayed, I would fall, and Zane was not a man you could fall for and expect to walk away from intact.

I had run to protect my heart, my focus, my life plan. And now, weeks later, my life plan had led me straight to his doorstep, and he was holding the keys.

The alternatives were terrifying. If I said no, he wouldn't just fire me. He would make good on his threat: he would make my professional life a living hell. He’d marginalize me, pass me over for every opportunity, or worse—he’d harass me relentlessly, forcing me to either quit or launch a career-ending legal battle against one of the most powerful men in the city. The professional record I cherished would be permanently tainted.

But if I said yes...

If I said yes, I would be sacrificing my independence, handing over the reins of my personal life to a man who saw me as a prized possession. I’d be sleeping with the enemy, selling my body for my title.

I finally reached my small, sterile apartment. The walls were covered in motivational quotes and complicated flow charts for my five-year career plan. Looking at them now, they felt like childish drawings, utterly powerless against the force of nature named Zane Wilson.

I poured myself a glass of water, my hand shaking slightly. I walked to the window, staring out at the distant glimmer of the Empire State Building, which looked like a pillar of unreachable power.

Yes or No.

If I said yes, I would have to build an impenetrable wall around my heart. I would have to treat every encounter with him—outside the office—as a transaction. No feelings. No weakness. Just strategic compliance in exchange for career advancement. I could use him, just as he planned to use me. It would be a dangerous game of emotional chicken, but I was fast and I was smart. I could play to win.

But could I look at myself in the mirror? Could I willingly walk back into that intoxicating darkness of his arms, knowing the price?

The image of him standing in that empty office, his eyes dark with predatory intent, flashed in my mind. He hadn't just wanted me; he had needed me. That flicker of raw, possessive need was the only chink in his armor, the only leverage I had.

I sat down, pulling out a legal pad. This wasn't a choice; it was a negotiation. I had to set the terms of my surrender.

Strictly professional at work: No special favors, no public acknowledgment, no contact outside of official company business during work hours.

Career guarantee: A clear path to promotion with measurable objectives, not just a vague promise.

No emotional commitment: This is physical and professional only. No demands on my time with friends or family.

I stared at the list. It was a joke. He was Zane Wilson. He would ignore every single one of my rules the moment he tired of them.

But the final realization slammed into me with the force of a wrecking ball. The hotel room had been a mistake. Walking into his company had been a mistake. But now, fleeing was no longer an option. He had boxed me in, and the only way out was through.

I closed my eyes and whispered the words into the silence of my apartment, the ultimate betrayal of my own values.

“Yes, Zane. I accept your damn pact.”

I had to be careful. I had to be strong. Tomorrow, I would walk into that office and sign the unwritten contract with the devil, and then I would prepare to outsmart him. The game was on.