I shudder at the dominance in his words, the order that I’m being given permission to leave. It’s a foreign feeling as butterflies swarm my stomach. This is crazy.
As I turn to leave, he speaks again.
“Leo.”
I stop and turn back.
“You should tell your wife,” he says, “that this could change everything.”
I don’t answer, because I already know that. I can already hear her trying to control this situation and guide me with her never ending advice, and the “moving on up” speeches.
The rest of the day drags. I mislabel two packages and I forget to log a delivery. Danny notices, gives me a look but doesn’t comment. He talks about some argument he had with his girlfriend, about the new restaurant down the street, a rumor involving a celebrity guest.
I nod in the right places, but my thoughts keep circling back to Ethan. To Ethan’s voice. To the way he spoke, and how he said my name like it was something he owned. The way he has just decided to walk in and change my life. I’m scared of how this man bothers me so much, but that’s something I will bury for now as it’s not something I want to read too much into.
Finally, when the end of the day arrives, I leave the building, noticing how the air outside feels thin. The city rushes around me, loud, careless, and alive, and I walk through it like someone who has just been handed a beautiful object wrapped in warning labels.
Excitement trembles all over my body, but so does dread, and I don’t know which one is louder.
I only know that something has begun. And I’m standing too close to see the dangers.
CHAPTER 9 - ETHAN
Contracts calm me. People imagine only violence when they think of men like me — noise, chaos and impulse. They’re wrong. Control is a silent act, like ink drying on expensive paper. Control is knowing exactly where the gaps in the road are before you begin your journey.
Marina is already seated when I enter her office. My private lawyer. The kind of lawyer who can be as dirty as the client, all in the name of a big payday where their morals can be swayed if the price is right.
Her office is designed the way surgeons choose instruments: minimal, sterile and designed to make weakness visible. Glass desk. No photographs. Nothing remotely soft or welcoming about this office. She stands when she sees me, out of habit more than respect.
“Ethan,” she says. “You’re early.”
“I dislike lateness.”
She gestures for me to sit. I don’t.
“I want a contract drafted,” I say. “Discretion agreement.NDA. Lifestyle provision. Hidden exclusivity clause.”
Her eyebrow lifts a millimeter, which is her version of surprise.
“For an employee?”
“An artist. Leo.”
“An artist who is also an employee?”
“Yes.”
She exhales slowly, already opening her laptop.
“What exactly are you offering him?”
“Money.”
“And in return?”
“One night of sex. No rules.”
She studies me over the rim of her glasses.
