The city never slept, and neither did Elena.
She lay on the thin mattress of the shelter's cot, eyes wide open, the damp chill of the basement-level room curling around her like fog. Her ribs throbbed—bruises blooming in violet and sickly yellow across her pale skin. She'd learned not to cry. Tears only ever made them hit harder.
But tonight, her pain wasn't physical.
It was his face that haunted her now—the man with the piercing eyes from the audition. Dominic Blackwell. His presence had been like a blade brushing her skin—never touching, yet threatening to slice her open with a glance. She didn't know why he'd spoken to her. She didn't know why his words felt like a warning.
"Talent alone won't save you."
She repeated the phrase over and over in her head, like a curse, or maybe a prophecy.
The next morning, she returned to the studio—uninvited. She needed answers. She needed a chance.
The receptionist's eyes narrowed when she saw Elena's dirty jacket and her hollow cheeks. "You can't be here."
"I sang yesterday," Elena said, voice hoarse. "I need to speak to the man who was watching."
"There were a lot of people watching."
"Tall. Black suit. Dark eyes. He said "and potential."
The receptionist hesitated. "You mean Mr. Blackwell?"
The name felt like a locked door being opened.
Elena was ushered upstairs after an uncomfortable pause. Every step up the spiral staircase felt like she was being led to her execution. She expected a rejection. Maybe even mockery.
She didn't expect the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sleek black marble, or the cold silence of the office. Dominic sat at his desk like a carved statue—flawless, intimidating, and entirely in control.
He didn't stand when she entered. He didn't even look up.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I need—"
"You don't get to need anything in this world, Miss Hart," he said finally lifting his gaze. "Especially not from me."
She flinched. The sharpness of his voice was surgical, designed to cut.
"But you said—"
"I said you had potential. That doesn't mean I'm going to save you."
Silence settled between them like falling ash.
"Do you know what this industry does to girls like you?" he said, standing now. He crossed the room with predatory grace. "It chews them up. Spit them out. You think suffering makes you strong? It makes you desperate!!. And desperate people are liabilities."
She stood frozen, but her jaw tightened.
"I'm not a liability," she said, though her voice trumpet
He studied her as if peeling back layers. "No. But you're still weak."
The words hit harder than fists.
He stepped even closer—too close. "Do you want a career, Elena? Or do you want to stay a victim forever?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
"I'll make you a deal," he said, voice softer now, but no less dangerous. "I'll give you a chance. One chance. But in return, you give me control."
She blinked, unsure she'd heard him right. "Control?"
"You'll follow my rules. You'll go where I say, say what I tell you to. Smile when you're told. Be silent when you're ordered. In return, I'll make you a star. But if you disappoint me once, this door closes forever."
It felt like a trap. But what choice did she have?
Her entire life had been dictated by fear. At least now, fear came with a contract.
She nodded.
"Say it," he said.
"I agree."
Something cold and sharp flickered in his eyes.
"You belong to me now, Elena."
And with those five words, she fell into the deepest darkness she had ever known.