Chapter 5: Resolution
The female lead was perched on a velvet stool, surrounded by three young, eager-looking men in sleek suits—her little company lackeys. London froze, then quickly turned toward a high table, her back to them. She pulled out her phone, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
“…I don’t know why he’s still so hung up on some girl he met three years ago,” Seraphina’s voice floated over, sweet and laced with a performative sadness. “I already told him I don’t mind, but now he doesn’t even seem to like me anymore…”
London stared blankly at her darkened phone screen. The words coiled in her gut, cold and wrong. Seraphina wasn’t supposed to sound sad. She was supposed to be spitting venom, plotting meticulously. This was a crack in the narrative, a hairline fracture she’d never written. I did write the script this way, she thought, panic rising metallic in her throat. What’s happening?
The thought was a frantic, skittering thing. There’s no way that one night from three whole years ago mattered this much… He was a plot device, a archetype. Before she could finish thinking, a young man in tortoiseshell glasses peeled away from Seraphina’s group and walked over. “Are you London Devine?”
She nodded, mute, and he led her through a side door into a stark white conference room. They discussed royalties, multimedia rights, and how they planned on making her a key factor in their new flagship literary project. London just tried to nod along, her mind screaming to get this over with as quickly as possible.
However, mid-conversation, the door opened without a knock. Cameron walked in, his presence atomizing the air in the room. “That’ll be all,” he told the assistant, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be handling this meeting myself.”
The door clicked shut, leaving them in silence. He didn’t sit. He just looked at her, his gaze a physical weight. “You left.”
“I had a meeting,” she said, the lie brittle.
“You left my bed.” He rounded the table, his movements predatory and slow. “You’re always leaving.” His hand shot out, capturing her wrist, his thumb pressing into her frantic pulse. “Tell me why.”
When she tried to pull away, he used his grip to yank her into him, his other hand tangling in her hair to tilt her head back. His kiss wasn’t gentle; it was a conquest, a brutal reassertion of ownership. She tasted coffee and his singular, furious intent. A weak sound escaped her throat, part protest, part surrender.
“You want to deal with the studio?” he growled against her mouth, his hands already pushing her blazer from her shoulders. “Let’s deal.” He turned her, bending her over the polished conference table, the cold surface a shock against her belly. His palm smoothed up her thigh, gathering her skirt.
He didn’t bother with her underwear, just ripped the fragile lace aside. One hand pinned her hip while the other freed himself. He pushed into her with one hard, unforgiving thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt in her tight, unresisting heat. She cried out, her fingers scrambling against the slick wood.
“This,” he grunted, setting a ruthless pace, each drive punching the breath from her lungs. “This is the only deal that matters.” His hips slammed against her, the lewd, wet sound of their joining filling the sterile room. She was full of him, stretched and owned, a dark thrill coiling beneath the shock. He leaned over her, his breath hot on her ear. “You can run, London. But I’ll always find you. And I’ll always bring you back… just… like… this.”