The contract

IRIS'S POV

I signed the contract at 11:47 p.m.

Not because I wanted to — but because desperation is louder at night.

There’s something about late hours that makes bad decisions feel reasonable. The world slows down, the noise fades, and whatever you’ve been running from finally catches up. Bills feel heavier. Fear feels closer. Hope feels optional.

Blackwood Systems sat above the city like it didn’t belong to it. Forty-seven floors up, New York looked ornamental — lights arranged too neatly, movement reduced to patterns instead of people. From here, the city didn’t feel alive. It felt contained.

The office was quiet in the way expensive spaces always are. Not empty — curated. The silence felt padded, layered with money and intention. Floor-to-ceiling glass reflected the skyline back at itself, a thousand blinking lights staring inward like witnesses. Somewhere far below, horns blared, footsteps echoed, lives unfolded.

Up here, time held its breath.

“Take your time,” Adrian Blackwood said.

His voice was calm. Almost polite. Not impatient, not indulgent. Neutral. Controlled.

It didn’t rush me.

That made it worse.

I sat across from him at a table that probably cost more than my rent for the year, the contract laid out between us like a challenge. Or a dare. Twenty-six pages. Single-spaced. The paper was thick, smooth beneath my fingers — the kind that didn’t wrinkle easily.

Precise.

Immaculate.

Dangerous.

I scanned the final page again, even though I already knew what it said. The headings were etched into my mind by now.

Six-month personal assistant contract.

Compensation: generous.

Confidentiality: absolute.

Availability: unrestricted.

The words sat there calmly, pretending to be harmless.

My pen hovered above the signature line.

Adrian didn’t look at the contract.

He looked at me.

That was the first thing I noticed about him — the way his attention felt physical. Like pressure against my skin. Like standing too close to a heat source without touching it. He wasn’t staring, exactly. He didn’t need to. His gaze was steady, deliberate, unflinching.

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t frown.

Didn’t soften.

He watched the way someone watches a lock they already have the key to.

“You’re sure you’ve read everything?” he asked.

Not accusatory. Not suspicious.

Measured.

“Yes,” I said.

A lie.

Because I had skimmed. Because my mother’s hospital bills sat heavy in my bag like a second spine. Because my landlord’s voice from earlier that afternoon still rang in my ears — I can only give you until the end of the month. Because survival makes cowards of thoughtful people.

Adrian leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands together. The movement was smooth, economical. Nothing about him was wasted — not motion, not silence.

“I don’t expect blind loyalty,” he continued. “Only professionalism.”

Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten.

Professionalism sounded reasonable. Clean. Safe.

Something in his tone made me believe him.

That was my second mistake.

I lowered my gaze back to the paper, forcing myself to breathe evenly. The pen felt heavier now, its weight pressing into my fingers.

I thought of my mother lying too still in a hospital bed, her hands thinner every time I visited. I thought of overdue notices, of careful budgeting that never seemed careful enough. I thought of how tired I was — not just physically, but emotionally. Tired of scraping by. Tired of choosing between bad options.

This wasn’t a dream job.

It was a lifeline.

So I signed.

The pen scratched softly against the paper, the sound sharp in the silence. Final. Irreversible. My name looked smaller than usual on the page, squeezed beneath legal language that dwarfed it.

When I finished, I slid the contract forward.

Adrian reached for it with unhurried precision. He didn’t rush. Didn’t hesitate. His fingers closed around the pages like this outcome had never been in doubt. He slipped the contract into a black folder and rose to his feet.

Standing, he seemed even taller. More imposing. His suit was perfectly pressed despite the late hour, his posture effortless. He looked like someone who existed on his own schedule — untouched by time, untouched by doubt.

“Welcome to Blackwood Systems, Miss Hale.”

Miss Hale.

He said my name like it carried weight. Like it meant something now. Like it had crossed a threshold and wouldn’t return unchanged.

I gathered my things quickly, suddenly aware of how small I felt in the vastness of the office. The glass walls. The city beyond them. The power humming quietly in the air.

As I stood, I caught something flicker across Adrian’s expression.

Not satisfaction.

Not relief.

Recognition.

Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“You start tomorrow,” he said, already turning toward his desk.

Tomorrow.

“I—” I paused. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes.” He glanced back briefly. “A car will pick you up at 7 a.m.”

“A car?” I echoed before I could stop myself.

“For efficiency.”

Of course.

I nodded, unsure why my chest felt tight, why the word tomorrow landed so heavily. The meeting had moved faster than I expected. Faster than I’d prepared for.

As I turned toward the door, his voice stopped me.

“One more thing.”

I looked back.

“There are… expectations attached to this role,” he said carefully. “Boundaries. Discretion.”

The words were neutral. Reasonable.

But something in the pause before them made my skin prickle.

“I understand,” I said quickly.

I always said that. Understanding was my specialty. It kept things smooth. It kept people calm. It kept me employed.

His gaze sharpened — just slightly. Enough that I noticed.

“We’ll see.”

The meeting was over.

No handshake.

No congratulations.

No small talk.

I left his office feeling like I’d stepped out of a vacuum and back into gravity.

The elevator ride down felt longer than it should have. The mirrored walls reflected me from every angle — neat, composed, professional. A woman who looked like she had just made a smart career move.

A woman who had no idea what she’d actually agreed to.

The doors slid shut with a soft chime.

As the elevator descended, my phone vibrated in my hand.

Unknown Number

Your driver will arrive at 7:00 a.m.

My stomach dropped.

Tomorrow again.

I stared at the screen, rereading the message. My fingers hovered, unsure whether to respond. I hadn’t been told tomorrow was mandatory. Or that arrangements had already been made.

By the time I looked up, the elevator doors were opening.

The lobby was empty. Quiet. Too quiet.

Outside, the night air felt colder than before, sharper against my skin. The city rushed back in around me — taxis, voices, movement — but I felt oddly detached from it. Like I’d left something behind forty-seven floors up.

Or like something had followed me down.

When I finally got home, my apartment felt smaller than usual. The silence pressed in. I kicked off my shoes, dropped my bag by the door, and leaned back against it for a moment, eyes closed, breathing hard.

I told myself I was overreacting.

People took demanding jobs all the time. Powerful men ran tight operations. None of this meant anything.

Still, my hands shook slightly as I pulled the contract from my bag.

I don’t know what made me open it again.

Instinct, maybe.

Or fear finally catching up.

I sat on the edge of my bed, the paper spread across my lap, and stared at the first page.

At my name printed neatly beneath his.

At the signature that bound us.

A strange thought crept in, uninvited and unsettling:

I don’t remember agreeing to tomorrow.

And for the first time since leaving his office, the weight of what I’d done settled fully in my chest.