THE TERM SHEET
Blackwood Tower does not feel like a home.
It feels like a verdict.
Everything is glass and clean lines, curated silence and controlled light. The air smells faintly of cedar and something expensive I can't name. Even the elevators are quiet, as if sound is a liability here.
A woman named Marisol meets us at the private entrance. She's composed, efficient, and careful in the way people are when they work for men like Killian Blackwood.
"Welcome, Ms. Vance," she says. She doesn't say Mrs. Blackwood yet. That title hasn't been deployed.
Killian moves ahead of me without looking back, trusting that I'll follow because the building is designed to make you feel like you should.
My heels click on stone. I keep my steps even. No hesitation. No awe.
Awe is a kind of surrender.
The penthouse doors open into a space so large it feels like it was built to keep people from getting close enough to hurt each other. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like art. Manhattan looks manageable from up here,like a system you can understand if you study it long enough.
Killian gestures toward a hallway. "This is the master suite wing."
The word wing makes my throat tighten.
He opens a door. A bedroom the size of my entire previous apartment. Neutral tones. Sharp lines. A bed that looks untouched, as if it exists for appearances rather than sleep.
"We share the wing," he says. "Separate rooms. Close enough to be believable."
Be believable.
That's the real contract.
He opens the next door. Another bedroom,slightly smaller, still absurd. A private bathroom. Closet space that could swallow a person whole.
"This one is yours," he says.
I step inside slowly, my pulse banging against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
This is wealth as armor.
Wealth as confinement.
I turned to him. "And the rules?"
Killian's gaze is steady. "We have the written rules."
"I want the spoken ones," I say.
A pause.
Then he nods once, like he respects the question.
"Rule one," he says. "You do not lie to me."
I let out a short breath. "That's… rich."
His eyes don't soften. "I don't care about irony."
I nod. "Fine. Rule one: no lies."
"Rule two," he continues. "We do not humiliate each other. Not privately. Not publicly."
My throat tightens. That one lands deeper than it should.
"Rule three," he says. "We do not weaponize this contract emotionally."
I blink. "Emotionally?"
His jaw flexes once. "People use affection as leverage. I don't."
I study him. The way he stands perfectly still. The way his control feels like a wall you could cut yourself on.
"I won't," I say quietly.
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. "Good."
I walk to the window and rest my palm against the glass. The city glitters below like it's trying to impress me.
From up here, I can pretend I'm safe.
But safety is a story rich men tell themselves.
I turn back. "When do we announce?"
"Tonight," he says. "Tomorrow morning the press cycle begins."
My stomach drops. "That fast?"
"Yes." He watches my face like he expects fear.
He gets something else.
"Marcus will see it," I say.
Killian's eyes sharpen. "That's part of the point."
A silence opens between us, filled with everything we are not saying.
I swallow. "And Sarah?"
Killian tilts his head slightly. "What about her?"
"She aligned with him," I say, voice tight. "Strategically."
Killian's gaze flickers,interest. Not jealousy. Not anger.
Information.
"Then she's useful," he says. "Not loyal. Useful."
The words should make me colder.
Instead, they make me steadier.
Because maybe I don't need loyalty right now.
Maybe I need utility.
I look around the room that is now mine, the room I never wanted, the room I am using as a weapon.
I came here to survive.
I didn't expect the survival to look like this.
Killian's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Friday," he says. "The Vantage Gala. Marcus will be there."
My spine straightens instinctively.
"We're going to make an entrance," he continues. "One that makes it very clear you didn't fall."
I meet his gaze, and something dangerous flickers inside me,small, controlled, alive.
"I didn't," I say.
Killian's mouth curves, almost a smile. "Good."
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door.
"One more thing, Elena."
"Yes?"
His voice drops slightly, controlled but intimate in a way I refuse to name. "Do not confuse safety with control."
My throat tightens.
He leaves.
I stand alone in a room built for someone else's life and realize the truth I've been avoiding since Queens:
I have signed a contract to reclaim my name.
But contracts don't protect the heart.
They expose it.