All Chapters of The contract that owned me: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The apartment didn’t go back to normal after Adrian Blackwood walked out.It stayed… altered.Like the air had been rearranged and forgotten how to settle.I stood in the middle of my bedroom long after the door clicked shut behind him, staring at the exact spot where he’d paused before leaving. One hand on the frame. Jacket slung casually over his arm. Blue eyes lingering like he’d left something behind on purpose.Or taken something with him.My heartbeat refused to slow, stubborn and traitorous.“Get it together, Iris,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face.My reflection in the mirror looked the same—messy hair, oversized sleep shirt, bare feet—but my eyes didn’t. They were too sharp. Too awake. Like I’d been shaken out of a version of myself I couldn’t return to.I glanced at my phone on the nightstand.7:42 a.m.Remote work.Blessing. Curse.I sat down at my desk, laptop already open, the familiar interface grounding me in something normal. Emails. Calendar notifications. Fil

I don’t sleep.Not really.I lie in bed and let my thoughts circle like sharks, slow and patient and sharp. The ceiling fan hums overhead, steady and almost soothing, but my mind keeps drifting back to blue eyes and controlled breathing and the way Adrian Blackwood stood in my bedroom like temptation had learned how to wear restraint.I smile into the darkness.That’s the first sign something is wrong with me.Because instead of fear, instead of panic, instead of the reasonable urge to run—I feel satisfaction.He didn’t touch me.That’s what everyone would focus on.That’s what a normal person would obsess over.But I don’t.I think about the way his gaze lingered too long.The way his voice dipped when he wasn’t pretending to be professional.The way he left when staying would have been easier.Men like Adrian Blackwood don’t leave when they want something.They take.Unless they’re losing control.I roll onto my side, tucking my hands beneath my cheek, eyes wide open.“Oh,” I whisp

Hospitals have a smell.Not sickness exactly—something sharper. Cleaner. Like fear scrubbed raw and disinfected into the walls. It clings to your clothes long after you leave, settles in your hair, your chest, your thoughts.I hate it.I clutch the plastic bag in my hand tighter as I step through the sliding doors, my sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. Inside the bag are things my mother insists she doesn’t need—fresh fruit she barely eats, a new scarf she won’t wear, a book she pretends to read just to make me feel better.I come anyway.I always come.The regular ward is loud in a quiet way. Machines beeping. Nurses calling names. Low voices layered with coughing, crying, praying. People waiting with their whole lives folded into plastic chairs.This is where reality lives.I nod at the nurse’s station, force a polite smile I’ve perfected over months, and walk down the narrow hallway to Room 214.“Mama,” I say softly as I push the door open.She looks smaller eve

I found out by accident.Which somehow makes it worse.The hospital café is crowded in that soft, muted way places near pain always are—low voices, tired eyes, the clink of cutlery against porcelain like the world pretending to continue. I’m standing in line with a paper cup in my hand, staring at a menu I’ve already memorised, when I feel it.That prickle.The one that crawls up my spine and settles behind my eyes.I don’t turn right away.I don’t have to.I know.And when I finally look over my shoulder, there he is.Adrian Blackwood stands near the far windows, tall and unmistakable even out of context. He’s dressed casually—dark trousers, coat draped over one arm, the other bent slightly as he listens to the woman beside him.The woman.She’s beautiful.Effortlessly so. The kind of woman whose confidence doesn’t ask permission. Dark hair pulled back neatly, posture relaxed, laughter bright and unrestrained as she says something that makes Adrian incline his head just enough to hea

Elena didn’t strike immediately.That’s the first thing I underestimated about her.I expected drama—an awkward message, a tense confrontation, maybe a passive-aggressive smile across a room we would be forced to share again. I even rehearsed responses in my head, neat little comebacks wrapped in politeness.None of that happens.Instead, three days pass.Three quiet, unsettling days where nothing seems wrong.And then my phone rings.It’s Adrian’s assistant.“Iris,” she says carefully, “we need to reschedule tomorrow’s call.”“Why?” I ask, already alert.“There’s been a… complication.”I smile faintly. “That sounds like Elena.”A pause.“She’s requested a review,” the assistant continues. “A formal one.”My smile fades.“Of what?”“Of you.”Ah.There it is.I find out the rest an hour later.Elena didn’t accuse me of impropriety.She didn’t claim an affair.She didn’t even mention jealousy.She framed it as concern.Concern about blurred boundaries.Concern about influence.Concern a