Lila opens a door she isn't supposed to. Inside, she discovers something that shifts her perception of Blackwell Industries—and of Damien. She sees a room that shouldn't exist, with evidence of obsession, surveillance, and perhaps something more sinister. The moment is interrupted. Her violation is noticed. And the consequences will come.
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Last Moment:
["I just never let them leave."]
The door wasn't marked.
That, in itself, was strange.
Every other door on this floor had some kind of label—minimalist placards in black or silver. Creative Division. Strategy Wing. Archives. But this one—brushed steel, recessed into the hallway wall just before the private elevator—had no plaque. No keypad. No lock.
Just a handle.
And the hum.
Barely audible. Like a low electric purr coming from deep inside. Almost like breathing.
Lila had just left Damien's office, her pulse still thrumming from their last exchange.
"I don't control people, Miss Hart. I just never let them leave."
That line. It haunted her. It echoed in the rhythm of her steps as she moved past the elevator and down the silent corridor toward the other end of the penthouse level. She wasn't being escorted. No one had told her where to go.
So she wandered.
She told herself it wasn't disobedience.
It was curiosity.
Except it wasn't.
It was defiance.
And something inside her wanted him to notice.
The handle was cold beneath her fingers.
She shouldn't have touched it. She should've walked away.
But Lila Hart had never been good at should.
She turned it.
The door opened into darkness. But not empty darkness. Controlled. Intentional.
She stepped inside.
The air was colder here. Artificial. Too still. A faint hum vibrated through the floor. She let the door swing quietly shut behind her and took a few cautious steps forward. Her heels echoed now. Too loud.
Motion sensors flickered on, one by one, revealing a narrow hallway lined with glass.
No.
Not glass.
Screens.
Rows of them, floor to ceiling. Every few feet, a different feed. Security footage. Live. From inside the building. From outside. From traffic cameras. Subway platforms. Elevators. Offices. Apartments.
And one feed—just one—on loop.
Her.
Her walking home. Her at her kitchen table. Her in the red dress, alone before the mirror.
Lila's stomach twisted. Her breath caught. She moved toward the screen slowly, hypnotized.
The timestamp was from last night.
No audio.
Just her.
Standing alone. Vulnerable. And being watched.
She looked around. There was no desk. No keyboard. Just a black pedestal in the center of the room, and above it—
Pictures.
Not digital. Printed. Pinned. A collage of still frames. Every image was of her.
Different places. Different times.
One of her as a child—
No.
She staggered back.
Who took that?
How long had they been watching her?
"Miss Hart."
The voice behind her made her blood freeze.
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
Damien.
She turned slowly.
He stood in the doorway. His expression was unreadable. Blank. Too blank.
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
His voice was calm. Icy. "You weren't invited into this room."
She swallowed. "What is this?"
He stepped in. Let the door close behind him. His shoes made no sound.
Lila backed away instinctively. He didn't chase her. He didn't have to.
"This is not a place for you," he said.
She turned toward the wall of screens. "You've been watching me."
His jaw tensed. "I observe what I need to understand."
"You don't understand me," she snapped. "You stalked me. You've been collecting my life like some psychopath."
A beat.
"I chose you," he said.
The way he said it made the air feel thin. Lila clenched her fists.
"I didn't ask to be chosen."
"Didn't you?" he said softly. "You walked into the tower. You wore the dress. You opened this door."
He was too close now. Not touching her. But the heat of him, the weight—she could feel it like a cage.
"This isn't control," she whispered. "This is obsession."
Damien looked past her, at the screens. "What's the difference?"
She stared at him.
He wasn't threatening her. Not outright. But there was something coiled inside him. Something that could hurt, if she reached the wrong way.
Lila turned to leave.
He didn't stop her.
He just said, "You saw what you weren't meant to. And that has consequences."
She didn't look back.
But the door hissed behind her like a snake, and in her mind, she knew—
She hadn't just opened a door.
She'd opened a war.
She didn't run.
She wanted to.
Every instinct screamed at her to tear through the hallway, shove open the elevator, disappear before he could say another word. But she didn't.
Lila Hart walked.
Step by step.
Measured. Controlled.
Her heels struck the floor with defiance. Not fear.
But inside her, something cracked.
The surveillance room hadn't just disturbed her—it had rewritten something in her. Like it had reached in and quietly rearranged her wiring. Damien had been watching. For how long? And why?
And worse…
Why hadn't she turned and screamed? Why hadn't she demanded someone call the police?
Because part of her already knew.
This wasn't a world where the rules applied.
This was his world.
And she had just stepped over a line she couldn't uncross.
She made it back to her glass pod, sat down, and stared at her tablet like it might offer absolution. The red line she'd drawn earlier now looked different. Too clean. Too naive.
She reached out and erased it.
The blank screen stared back.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
Her breath came faster than she wanted it to. She rubbed her palms together, tried to steady herself.
But then she saw it.
At the edge of her desk.
A note.
Not there before.
Just a small folded card, the same cream stock as the one that had said Wear red.
No name.
No wax seal.
Her fingers moved before her brain gave permission.
She opened it.
Four words, handwritten:
Tonight. 11:00 PM. Rooftop.
Her heart skipped.
There was no signature.
There didn't need to be one.
———————————————————
Hours Later
The city glittered with indifference.
From the rooftop of Blackwell Tower, Manhattan spread out like a sea of cold lights and private sins. Wind tugged at Lila's coat, hair whipping across her cheek. She shouldn't be here. Every part of her screamed this wasn't just a meeting.
It was a trap.
But she'd come anyway.
Because something in her refused to be afraid. Not anymore.
She stood near the edge of the roof, watching steam rise from a distant vent.
Behind her, the rooftop access door creaked open.
She didn't turn.
"You always like dramatic entrances?" she asked.
Footsteps. Measured. Familiar.
"I find they suit dramatic people," Damien said.
She turned to face him.
No suit tonight. He wore a dark coat, high collar, no tie. The wind didn't seem to touch him. His face was unreadable, sculpted from something colder than stone.
"You sent the note," she said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
He stepped closer. Not threatening. Just… inevitable
"You disobeyed."
Her eyes narrowed. "You don't own me."
"I don't need to," he said. "You walked into the cage willingly."
She stepped toward him. "Then maybe you built a cage too beautiful to ignore."
Something flickered in his gaze.
A pulse.
"You're not afraid of me."
"Should I be?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he moved to the ledge beside her and stared out across the city.
"Do you know what this tower was before I bought it?" he asked.
She didn't reply.
"A bank. Then a government building. Then empty. Rotting. The walls were infested. Mold. Rats. The kind of decay people pretended not to see when they walked by."
"And you saw something worth saving?" she said.
"I saw something worth controlling."
She swallowed.
"So you tore it down."
"No." His voice dropped. "I made it mine."
The wind pulled at them both now.
"I saw what was in that room," she said after a long pause.
"I know."
"You had pictures of me as a child."
He nodded. "I did."
She stepped closer, breath shaky.
"Why?"
He turned to face her again. And now—finally—his mask cracked.
Just a hairline fracture.
"There's something about you I don't understand," he said softly. "And I don't like not understanding things."
"That's not an answer."
"I don't owe you one."
"Yes," she said, voice rising. "You do."
He was close now. Too close.
Her coat flared in the wind. His hand reached up—slowly—and brushed the edge of her collar.
She didn't move.
"You are…" he whispered. "Not like the others."
"I'm not a project."
"No." He leaned in. "You're a question. And I intend to answer it."
Her breath caught.
For a moment, she thought he might kiss her.
For a moment, she thought she might let him.
But he didn't.
He stepped back.
And just like that, the moment snapped.
"What happens now?" she asked.
His voice was quiet. "You come to work. You create. You keep your curiosity to yourself."
"And if I don't?"
Damien's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Then I teach you what it means to be chosen."
He turned and walked toward the door, coat slicing through the wind like a blade.
But before he stepped inside, he said, without turning—
"You shouldn't be afraid of the watching, Lila. You should be afraid of what I see."
Then he was gone.
And the rooftop felt emptier than ever before.