Page 52 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
I'm looking forward to finding out which.
Chapter 13 - Poppy
The contract sits on my kitchen table for two days.
I read it so many times the words start to blur together, legal phrases swimming before my eyes like fish in murky water.Exclusivity agreement. Retainer compensation. Termination clause. Non-disclosure provisions.Each paragraph is carefully crafted, each sentence designed to close another escape route.
His lawyers are thorough. I'll give them that.
On Saturday morning, I make a list of pros and cons on the back of an envelope. The pros are simple: money. Enough to pay my rent, my bills, my student loans. Enough to survive.
The cons take up the entire back of the envelope and spill onto a second one. Working for a murderer. Being in his space. Becoming dependent on his money. Losing my other clients—not that I have many left. The exclusivity clause. The non-disclosure agreement. The buyout penalty that would bankrupt me if I tried to leave early.
The way he looked at me across that restaurant table, like I was already his.
I crumple both envelopes and throw them in the trash. Then I fish them out again, smooth them flat, and read the list one more time.
As if the answer might have changed.
Bea calls three times on Saturday. I let each call go to voicemail, then listen to her messages with the phone pressed against my ear like a lifeline.
"Hey, it's me. Just checking in. Call me back?"
"Okay, now I'm worried. You said you'd call this week. It's this week. Call me."
"Poppy, I swear to God, if you don't answer your phone, I'm coming over there and breaking down your door. I'm not kidding. Call. Me. Back."
I text her instead:Sorry, been swamped with work stuff. I'm okay. Lunch Monday?
The lie tastes sour even in text form. Swamped with work. As if I have any work left, besides the contract sitting on my table like a coiled snake.
Her response comes immediately:Fine, but you're buying, and you're explaining what the hell is going on with you.
Deal,I type back, and then I put the phone face down and try not to think about how I'm going to explain any of this.
I can't tell her the truth. I can't tell anyone the truth. The non-disclosure clause in the contract is explicit—I'm not allowed to discuss the terms of my employment, the nature of my work, or any details about the Ambrose family's private affairs. Violation would result in legal action and immediate termination.
But even without the NDA, how would I explain?I'm going to work for the man who's been stalking me because he destroyed my business, and I have no other options. Also, I watched him kill someone, but I can't go to the police because no one would believe me and also I think some part of me might be attracted to him despite the fact that he's a monster.
Yeah. That would go over well.
Saturday afternoon, I try to distract myself with mundane tasks. Laundry that's been piling up for a week. Dishes crustedwith the remains of meals I barely touched. The bathroom that hasn't been cleaned since before the gala, back when I was a person who cared about things like soap scum and grout.
The work helps a little. There's something soothing about the repetition, the simplicity of tasks that have clear beginnings and endings. Dirty becomes clean. Chaos becomes order. If only everything else in my life were so straightforward.
But even as I scrub and fold and organize, my mind keeps circling back to the contract. To him. To the choice I'm pretending I haven't already made.
I know I'm going to sign it. I've known since I picked up the phone and called him. Maybe I've known since I kept the dahlia instead of throwing it away. The rest of this—the agonizing, the list-making, the desperate search for alternatives—it's just theater. A performance for an audience of one, to convince myself that I had a choice when I never really did.
He knew it too. That's the worst part. He knew I would sign before I did.
I wasn't sure I'd hear from you,he said at the restaurant, and even then I could hear the lie beneath the words. He was sure. He's been sure all along.
On Saturday night, I dream about serpents.
I'm in a garden—not a garden I recognize, all overgrown hedges and crumbling stone walls. The ground is covered with flowers, but they're all black. Black roses, black lilies, black dahlias as far as I can see.
And moving through them, scales gleaming in the moonlight, is a serpent.
