Pressure Points
I don't decide anything that day.
I leave Blackwood Tower with my thoughts tangled and my pulse still uneven, replaying every look, every word, every carefully measured pause Elliot used like punctuation. By the time I reach my apartment, my phone is buzzing.
An email notification.
Subject: Interview Request
Hope sparks—bright, reckless.
It's a mid-sized agency. Nothing glamorous, but real. Stable. A chance to get my life back on my own terms.
I accept immediately.
The interview goes well. Too well.
They like my portfolio. My experience. They talk about growth and culture and long-term vision. I leave with a smile on my face and a promise to hear back soon.
For the first time in weeks, I breathe.
And then my phone rings.
Elliot Blackwood.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary before answering. "Yes?"
"You didn't come by the office after," he says.
"I didn't say I would."
"No," he agrees. "You didn't."
Something in his tone makes my stomach tighten. "Is something wrong?"
"There's an event tonight," he says. "Last-minute. I need you."
Need.
I close my eyes. "I have plans."
A pause. Short. Controlled.
"Important plans?" he asks.
"Yes."
Silence stretches, heavier this time.
"Where?" he asks.
I hesitate. "An interview."
When he speaks again, his voice is cool—too cool. "I see."
"That's all you're going to say?"
"Yes."
The call ends.
I stare at my phone, unsettled. Elliot doesn't do abrupt. He doesn't retreat without reason.
Which means something just shifted.
The gala is already in full swing when I arrive.
I almost don't go. Pride wars with practicality—and practicality wins. The dress code is formal, the setting grand, the room humming with power and money.
Elliot finds me immediately.
He's in a dark suit tonight, tailored to perfection, expression unreadable. When his eyes meet mine, something sharp passes between us.
"You're late," he says.
"You said last-minute," I reply.
His gaze drops briefly—my dress, my heels—then returns to my face. "You look… appropriate."
"High praise."
We fall into step beside each other, practiced now. Too practiced. People glance our way, curiosity blooming like wildfire.
A woman approaches—older, elegant, sharp-eyed.
"Elliot," she says warmly. "I didn't expect to see you tonight."
"Plans changed," he replies.
Her gaze flicks to me. Evaluating. "And you are?"
Before I can speak, Elliot answers.
"Mine."
The word lands between us like a live wire.
I turn to him sharply. "Excuse me?"
He doesn't look at me. "It simplifies matters."
My smile freezes in place. "That's not what we agreed on."
"We agreed to visibility," he says quietly. "This is visibility."
The woman smiles knowingly. "Ah. Congratulations, then."
She walks away.
I pull Elliot aside, heart pounding. "You don't get to claim me like that."
His jaw tightens. "You don't get to blindside me."
"Blindside you?" I hiss. "By interviewing for a job?"
"Yes."
Anger flares. "You don't own my future."
"No," he says, eyes dark. "But I don't invest blindly either."
I take a step back. "This was a mistake."
Something dangerous flickers across his face—not rage, but restraint stretched thin.
"Careful," he says softly. "You wanted choice. This is it."
"And what choice are you offering right now?" I ask.
He leans in, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Decide whether this is temporary convenience… or something you're willing to risk for."
My breath catches.
Before I can answer, a hand lands on my arm.
Lucas Grant.
"Well, this is unexpected," he says lightly. "You two look serious."
Elliot's hand tightens at my back.
Lucas's smile sharpens. "Interesting."
I suddenly understand.
This isn't just about me.
It's about control.
And Elliot Blackwood doesn't like losing it.