The screen went dark again, my reflection flickering faintly in the glass — tired eyes, messy hair, a woman halfway between fury and exhaustion. I was about to shut the laptop when it buzzed.
Incoming call: Harry Callahan.
Again.
Sadie groaned, draping herself dramatically across the armchair. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Does this man ever sleep?”
I hesitated, then answered. “Harry?”
“Anna! There you are,” his voice burst through, too loud, too cheerful. “I was hoping to catch you before you disappeared on me again.”
“I wasn’t—”
He didn’t let me finish. “Listen, I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to follow up on our last conversation about the project. The International Fashion Showcase is moving faster than we expected, and we really need to finalize the design team this week.”
I sat up a little. “This week?”
“Yes. The sponsors are getting impatient, and I’d hate to submit the first proposals without you on board.” His tone was silky, persuasive — the same tone he used whenever he was asking for “just a little extra” back at the office.
I swallowed. “I told you I was still thinking about it.”
“And I respect that, of course,” he said smoothly, which usually meant the exact opposite. “But, Anna, you don’t want to miss this chance. This could get your name on the map again. We’ll handle logistics, production, even PR — all you have to do is create. Sounds perfect, doesn’t it?”
Sadie, who had been rolling invisible eyes, mouthed: Control alert.
I forced a polite smile, even though he couldn’t see me. “It does sound… generous. But I’m not ready to commit yet.”
“Then let’s talk it through properly,” he said quickly. “Dinner. Tomorrow. My treat.”
“I—”
He didn’t wait. “Le Pavillon. Eight o’clock. It’s quiet, perfect for business talk. We’ll go over the contract together — nothing formal yet, but I’ll bring a draft so you can look it over.”
He was steamrolling me, like always — words too fast, too polished, like the whole thing was already decided.
“Harry, I—”
“Anna,” he interrupted softly this time, that almost paternal tone sliding in. “I know it’s been a rough time for you. Losing your equipment, that awful break-in… Look, I want to help you get back on your feet. Don’t overthink it. Just come. We’ll make something great together again.”
My chest tightened. The way he said it again made my stomach twist.
“Alright,” I heard myself say before I could stop it. “Tomorrow night.”
“Excellent!” he said, relief flooding his voice. “I knew you’d come to your senses. Don’t be late, Anna — I’ll have the champagne waiting.”
The call clicked off.
I just stared at the screen, numb. Sadie floated in front of me, her face a mix of disbelief and irritation. “Champagne? Ugh. Nothing good ever starts with a man saying champagne’s waiting.”
James chuckled. “Maybe he’s just trying to celebrate teamwork.”
“Or ownership,” Sadie shot back. “He talks like he’s already bought her creativity wholesale.”
Mom appeared quietly by the window, her glow faint and sad. “He’s pulling her back into the same cage she fought so hard to escape.”
I rubbed my temples. “I know. But I need to see what he’s planning.”
Sadie floated closer. “And what if he’s planning you?”
I met her eyes — or where her eyes should’ve been — and said, “Then he’s about to regret underestimating me.”
Le Pavillon was exactly the kind of place where you needed to have money or pretend convincingly that you did. Soft jazz, heavy curtains, waiters who looked allergic to joy. Harry fit right in.
He stood when I entered, smiling that too-bright, perfectly practiced smile. “Anna. You look wonderful.”
“Hi, Harry.”
He pulled out my chair himself, which would’ve been sweet if it didn’t feel like a move rehearsed for effect. “Order anything you like,” he said, motioning to the waiter. “You deserve a proper meal after… everything.”
After everything. The way he said it made something in my stomach tighten.
I hadn’t told him much about the break-in. Just that it happened, yet he spoke like he’d read the report.
“Wine?” the waiter asked.
Harry answered before I could. “She’ll have the Chablis.”
Sadie appeared behind his chair, whispering, “Oh yes, tell her what she wants — it’s so romantic when men do that.”
I almost laughed, then didn’t.
Once we were alone, Harry leaned forward, fingers steepled like a patient professor. “I’ll get straight to it. The International Showcase deadline is earlier than expected. I need my team locked in by tomorrow. You’re the last piece, Anna.”
I frowned. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’d hate to go ahead without you, but time’s short. The investors want a full presentation next week.”
The waiter arrived, poured the wine, and retreated silently. Harry didn’t break eye contact.
“This is a chance to rebuild, to get back out there,” he continued. “You’ll have full access to the company’s studio, production team, whatever you need. And we’ll make sure your name shines again.”
“Under the company’s label.”
He smiled faintly. “Naturally. But you’d be the creative lead. Everyone would know who’s behind it.”
Sadie floated onto the table, legs crossed, inspecting him like an art critic. “Ah, yes. Everyone will know — right until the applause starts.”
I swirled my wine. “And what if I decide not to join?”
Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes shifted — polite warmth replaced by polished steel. “Well, I’d be disappointed,” he said lightly. “And I imagine you would be too, once this opportunity passes. These things don’t come twice.”
His voice stayed calm, but the sentence landed like a warning.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The restaurant hummed quietly around us — clinking glass, low laughter, the kind of sound that made secrets feel safer.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder. “Here’s a draft of the agreement. So that you can look it over.”
I didn’t touch it. “I’ll read it later.”
“Of course,” he said easily, though his hand lingered a little too long on the folder before sliding it toward me. “Take your time. But I’d love to make this official tomorrow.”
I forced a smile. “I’ll let you know.”
“Good.” He stood, buttoning his jacket, charm perfectly intact. “And Anna?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re considering this. It’d be a shame to see your work… disappear.”
For a second, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. But then he laughed — that effortless, confident laugh that could turn anything into a joke.
Still, something cold settled in my stomach.
Outside, the night smelled of rain and metal. Sadie drifted beside me, her translucent face earnest. “He knows too much,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said quietly. “But not enough to prove it.”
Mom’s voice came softly from behind. “Then keep listening, sweetheart. The truth’s already speaking — just not loud enough yet.”
I looked down at the folder in my hand. Its weight felt wrong. Heavy. Expectant.
Tomorrow, I told myself, I’d read it. But deep down, I already knew — whatever was inside, it wasn’t a contract. It was a cage dressed up in fancy stationery.
The morning light felt too clean for how messy my head was.
The city outside was waking up, determined and indifferent — like it hadn’t watched me sit through a two-hour performance of Harry Callahan pretending to be my savior.
The folder lay on the table, thin and harmless-looking.
It was the same beige color as most bad decisions.
I poured myself some coffee and stared at it for a long minute before opening it.
Pages of perfect, soulless words — creative partnership, collaborative ownership, brand alignment.
I’d written marketing copy for years; I knew exactly how much poison you could hide under words like alignment.
Sadie floated in from the ceiling, twirling an invisible pen. “So, did the charming vampire propose or just wave the ring around?”
I gave a humorless laugh. “He offered a job.”
“Oh, darling, that’s much worse.”
Mom appeared near the window, arms folded. “Maybe he’s just trying to help. You did lose everything.”
“Yeah,” I said, flipping another page. “And he’s trying to make sure I remember that every second.”
Clause after clause promised stability, but read like ownership. Still, nothing illegal. Nothing you could point at and say monster.
That was the trick with men like Harry — they never crossed a line, they just kept moving it until you were standing somewhere you didn’t recognize.
Halfway down the page, one sentence caught my eye:
All designs created during the term of collaboration shall be credited under Callahan Studio’s public portfolio.
That was normal enough, in theory — except for the word portfolio.
Not a project, not a collection, but a portfolio.
Meaning permanent. Meaning mine would become his — quietly, legally, beautifully.
Sadie floated upside down to read it. “It’s subtle. I almost admire the audacity.”
“He’s protecting his company,” Mom said gently.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “And if I burn in the process, that’s just good business.”
I closed the folder, running my fingers along the edge.
Harry wasn’t a thief — not the kind that broke locks, anyway.
He didn’t need to steal when he could own.
And people like me? We were his favorite currency: the talented and desperate.
I stood, pacing the kitchen, the coffee gone cold in my hand.
Sadie drifted behind me, her voice half amused, half worried. “So what’s next? You sign your soul over to corporate hell?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Liar,” she teased. “You always know.”
I sighed. “I just need time. I can’t afford to make another stupid move.”
Mom’s tone softened. “Then don’t rush. He’s counting on that — on your fear, your exhaustion. Make him wait.”
I looked back at the folder, the neat little emblem of Callahan Studio stamped in silver at the bottom.
He’d been so confident last night — too confident.
Like he already knew I wouldn’t say no.
Maybe that’s what made me want to.
I grabbed my phone and typed a short message before I could second-guess myself:
Harry, thanks for dinner. I’ll review the agreement carefully and get back to you next week.
I hit send.
Seconds later, the typing bubble appeared.
Next week’s too late, Anna. We need to move fast.
Let’s sign tomorrow—no pressure — just paperwork.
No pressure. Always the exact words.
A command disguised as concern.
Sadie rolled her eyes. “Oh, he’s practically dripping charm. How does he do it without choking?”
I smiled faintly. “He’s practiced.”
Mom drifted closer, voice quiet. “You won’t sign, will you?”
“No,” I said. “But I’ll let him think I might.”
“Why?”
I looked at the folder again — neat, dangerous, patient.
“Because people like Harry only tell the truth when they think they’ve already won.
