Chapter 4: The Glass Cage

(Kelvin’s POV)

I watched the clock on my desk. 8:59 AM.

At exactly 9:00 AM, there was a sharp, rhythmic knock on my office door. Not the hesitant tap of an employee, but the assertive strike of someone who was terrified and refused to show it.

"Enter," I said, not looking up from the tablet in my hand.

Ella Sterling walked in. She looked different in the daylight. She had traded the silk gown for a sharp blazer and jeans—a uniform of rebellion. Her hair was pulled back, exposing the elegant lines of her throat, but her eyes were tired. She hadn't slept. Good.

Exhaustion makes people honest.

"You're punctual, Mr. Blackwood," she said, her voice holding that familiar, stubborn lilt. "I assume that means you're ready to sign over the painting and get me out of your hair."

I finally looked up, leaning back in my leather chair. I let the silence stretch. Silence is a weapon; most people scramble to fill it with nervous chatter. She didn't. She just stared back, her chin tilted at that same defiant angle.

"Sit down, Ella," I commanded.

"I'll stand."

"Sit," I repeated, my voice dropping an octave.

She hesitated, then sank into the chair opposite mine. I saw her eyes sweep over my office—the minimalist grey stone, the floor-to-ceiling glass. It was designed to make people feel small.

"I looked into your proposal," I said, sliding a folder across the mahogany surface. "The archives you mentioned are valuable for the zoning permits. They would save my legal team months of work."

A flicker of triumph crossed her face. "So we have a deal?"

"Not quite." I stood up and walked toward the corner of the room, where a large object stood covered in a heavy black cloth. "Business is about more than just paperwork, Ella. It’s about trust. And I don’t trust you. I don't trust your smile, and I certainly don't trust the way you looked at this yesterday."

I reached for the cloth.

"What are you doing?" her voice went up a half-step.

With one fluid motion, I ripped the black fabric away. The portrait was there, bathed in the unforgiving morning sun. The red shawl seemed to scream against the muted tones of my office.

I turned to watch her. The change was instantaneous. Her skin went ashen, and her hands clamped onto the armrests of the chair. She didn't look away—it was as if she were paralyzed, her eyes fixed on the crimson oil as if it were a portal to a nightmare.

"It's just a painting, isn't it?" I stepped closer to her, looming over her chair. I could hear her breathing—shallow, panicked whistles. "Tell me why you’re shaking, Ella. Tell me the truth, and I’ll give you the painting. Lie to me again, and I’ll have it burned in the estate’s fireplace this afternoon."

I saw a tear track down her cheek, but she didn't sob. She was fighting for every inch of her dignity.

"You're a monster," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"I'm a businessman," I corrected, leaning down until our faces were inches apart. "And I just found your price."

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