Chapter 8 THE LAST DOOR

Constantine's POV 

I stand there on the sidewalk while people rush past me like I don’t exist, like I’m just another obstacle in the city they’ve learned to step around. And this time, I feel it very deeply, not numbly. The weight of everything crashing down all at once instead of politely taking turns.

The eviction. The rejections. My mother being shipped off to a state facility like excess baggage. My father dying because I don’t have the money to keep him alive. It presses into my chest until I can barely breathe.

I am fucking drowning.

And there’s only one person left who can pull me out.

I stand outside Wyatt Enterprises for twenty minutes before I finally move. Twenty minutes of staring at my reflection in the glass doors, at my wrinkled blouse and scuffed heels, at how small I look against all that steel and glass. Twenty minutes of telling myself I can still walk away.

Then I don’t.

The lobby is exactly how I remember it. Cold both metaphorically and literally, because of the AC. It is perfect. The marble floors that shine too brightly, chrome fixtures without a single fingerprint on them. Everything  is so polished that it makes me feel filthy just standing there.

The receptionist looks up when I approach. Shes blonde with perfect makeup and a very sharp smile.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I need to see Wyatt Gorshkovsky,’ I say. Somehow my voice doesn’t shake, even though everything else inside me is.

Her smile falters. Just a fraction. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No, but—’

‘Mr. Gorshkovsky doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’

‘Please.’ The word slips out before I can stop it. Ugly. Desperate. ‘Just… tell him Constantine Windsor is here. He’ll know who I am.’

She looks me up and down then for a little longer than normal. Then I see something flash in her eyes. Something like pity. Then ot changed to something smug and like disgust. ‘One moment.’

She picks up the phone and murmurs something I can’t hear. When she hangs up and looks back at me, her smile is different.

‘Top floor. He’s expecting you.’

My heart starts pounding so hard I feel sick. The elevator ride feels endless. Each floor ticking past like a countdown I can’t stop. When the doors finally slide open, I step into a hallway made of glass and steel.  Just like him.

His office is at the end. The door is already open.

I walk in on legs that barely feel like mine. My hands are shaking including my legs. He’s sitting behind his desk, relaxed, one arm draped casually over the chair. He doesn’t look up or even try to acknowledge me at all. He just keeps reading like I’m not worth the effort.

‘Close the door,’ he says.

I do.

The silence that follows is thick and suffocating. I stand there waiting for him to speak, to look at me, to do anything. He doesn’t. He flips through papers slowly, deliberately, like he’s enjoying this. I start first, since he won't. 

‘I—’ My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘So talk.’ He still doesn’t look up.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. ‘I… I want to accept your offer.’

That finally does it. He sets the papers down with care and leans back in his chair. When his eyes meet mine, it feels like being pinned in place. It was Ice-blue and sharp, like he was assessing me. 

‘Do you now?’ His voice is almost Twice, but cold. He had the smug look on his face.

I nod because I can’t trust myself to speak.

‘Why the change of heart, Птичка?’ He tilts his head, studying me like I’m something under a microscope. ‘Three days ago you told me to fuck off. Said you’d rather live on the streets than work for me.’

‘I…’ I swallow. My throat burns. ‘I was wrong.’

‘Were you?’ He stands and comes around the desk slowly, unhurried. Like he knows exactly how this ends. ‘Or are you just desperate?’

The word lands hard. Knocks the air out of me because it’s true.

‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘I’m desperate.’

He stops right in front of me. Close enough that I can feel his body heat. He reaches up, grips my chin, forces my face up to his.

‘Say it again.’

‘I’m desperate,’ I say, my voice shaking.

‘Louder.’

‘I’m desperate!’ It tears out of me, raw and humiliating, and I hate myself for saying it. Hate him for making me. 

He smirks. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. ‘Good girl.’

The reaction is immediate and unwanted. My stomach flips, heat curling low in my body, and I hate that too. I hate that my body betrays me when my mind is screaming.

‘On your knees.’

I blink. ‘What?’

‘You heard me.’ His grip tightens. His eyes darken. ‘If you want this job, if you want me to save your pathetic little life, get on your fucking knees, Stance.’

Every instinct tells me to run. To slap him. To walk out and never look back. I don’t. Instead, I sink down slowly. The carpet is soft, but it might as well be glass because of how much I hate this. I look up at him and there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach twist. Possessive. Hungry.

‘Good,’ he murmurs, his hand sliding into my hair, gripping it. ‘Now beg.’

My face burns. My chest feels too tight. But I do it anyway. ‘Please. I need this job. I need… I need you to help me.’

‘Not good enough.’ He yanks my hair back. ‘Tell me what you’re willing to do for it.’

I close my eyes. Tears sting. ‘Anything.’ I whisper, tasting the tears in my mouth.

‘Anything?’ His voice drips with cruelty. ‘You’d let me fuck you whenever I want? However I want?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d let me use this body however I see fit?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d be my little whore?’

The word slices through me. I nod because I don’t have another option.

‘Say it.’

‘I—’ My voice breaks. ‘I’d be your whore.’

That smile again. Cold. Satisfied. ‘Stand up.’

I do, barely steady. My legs feel like they might give out.

He goes back to his desk, pulls out a folder, and tosses it in front of me. ‘Your contract. Read it. Sign it.’

My hands shake as I open it. The words blur. All I see is the number at the bottom. Enough. It is enough to save my mother. Enough to keep my father alive. Enough to change my pathetic life.

‘There are rules,’ he says. ‘Three rules.’

I nod.

‘First: you don’t fall in love with me.’

As if that could ever happen.

‘Second: you don’t speak unless I give you permission. You don’t reveal this arrangement to anyone.’

My stomach twists. I nod again.

‘Third—’ He steps close. His hand wraps around my throat, thumb pressing against my pulse. ‘You don’t ever say no to me. You submit to me.’

His grip tightens just enough. My body reacts before I can stop it.

‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I gasp.

‘Good.’ He lets go. ‘Sign it. You start tomorrow. Eight AM. Don’t be late.’

I sign. My name looks wrong on the page. Like it belongs to someone else. When I hand the folder back, his fingers brush mine. Electricity shoots up my arm and I pull away instinctively. He smirks.

‘One more thing.’

My heart pounds.

‘Tonight. My penthouse. Nine PM.’ His gaze drags over me slowly. ‘And Constantine?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t wear any underwear.’