Silent Calm: Sterling's Obsession

thin? The place oozed intimidation. Whoever decorated must've been gunning for "most likely to make you sweat." Think: a black desk so polished you'd practically see your so

"I've got more money than

s wide like she was about to bolt for the nearest window. Nerves? Shredded. Meanwhile, Damien just sat there in his expensive suit, rad

s beast looked like it could be used for bicep curls. You could've labeled it, "Your Dad's Lifelong Mistakes: The

the hammer. Calm, unbothered, almost robotic with a side of supervillain. And his eyes? Colder

ike the universe itself was pressing down on her. "This... this is servitude," she managed, the words tasting l

a means to an end." Like they were talking about moving a couch, not selling off yea

fire she used to have. "And you-you're demanding my life?

eyes. Guilt? Nah, probably just the lighting. Or maybe, for half a sec

an she never touched. She wanted to scream, flip the desk, run for the hills, but all she could do was stare. T

ut more like someone kicked her right in the nerves. "You're de

king her to sign for a pizza, not her entire existence.

ittery dance on the contract, like maybe she'd find an eject button hiding in the fine print. Nope-her dad's mess,

it." Words all tangled up, but at leas

y, somebody should've hit play on the Jaws theme. "You

operty." Her voice wobbled, yeah, but whatever, she was stand

our rebellion's... cute." Like she was a kid throwin

ain petting his invisible cat. If murder by paperwork was poss

locked up. "A

Then your dad pays. And

's tired face, all regret and slumped shoulders, an

this real? Freedom or family-wha

scratchy and bitter as week-ol

you check your wallet a

ike kindergarten art. Every letter felt like she was giving

ight to business mo

me kind of villain monologue. His voice? Cold, metr

ouncing off marble, "you ca

almost laughed-if her hands weren't s

d, knife-edge look. "

t back. "Learn

ut. Left her standing there, drowning in expensive cologne and t

ed up for. Sure, her new "room" had hotel-suite vibes, but, let's be real, gilded cages are still cages. Then t

ere, glass so spotless it's probably allergic to fingerprints, and this bone-deep chill that makes you long for the warmth of a dentist's waiting room (and those places are basically the Arctic). Even the a

kind of existing. Elara could've busted out the Macarena right in their faces and they'd probably just keep dusting, maybe blink once if she was luck

ing, "Hey, party's out here, not in your marble mausoleum!" She kept staring until she felt hollow-like someone had scooped her insides out and left this shiny,

nt, chipped mugs, sun fighting its way through dirty windows. Honey-sweet air from her dad's bees, books stacked everywhere like Jenga. Total mess, but it was hers. Now? Just gol

es, not some oversized decorative candle. Damien and his frigid palace weren't gonna break her down. She'd grit her t

o get out? And what was Damien hiding behind that annoyingly perfect hair and punchable smirk? The thought

yes-if "bad guy" was a font, he'd be in bold. She woke up drenched in sweat, heart trying to escape her chest, and she

checklist of chores that made zero sense unless Damien just liked watching her squirm. Every single minute felt like the