Chapter 7: The Private Summons
The mahogany double doors of the third-floor private suite swung open before my knuckles even brushed the wood. Standing in the threshold was David Vance, Alexander’s senior legal counsel, a man whose tailored charcoal suit seemed stitched from absolute indifference. Vance didn’t invite me in; he merely turned his back and walked toward the center of the expansive room, assuming I would follow like a summoned employee. I stepped across the thick wool Persian rug, my sensible black shoes making no sound against the pile.
Alexander sat behind a massive walnut executive desk that overlooked the manicured gardens of the estate. He wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was fixed on a leather-bound folio lying open before him—my original employment contract, signed six years ago under the pale fluorescent lights of a downtown legal office when I was just twenty-two and terrified.
"Close the door, Elena," Alexander said, his voice flat, drained of the polished public charisma he projected from podiums and television screens.
I pulled the heavy door shut, latching it firmly. I walked over to one of the leather armchairs opposite his desk, but I didn't sit. I kept my hands folded over the high white collar of my uniform, feeling the cold metal of the diamond ring pendant resting against my chest. "You called, Mr. Sterling. Or should I say, Alexander?"
Alexander finally looked up. His dark eyes, usually sharp and calculating, carried a heavy, exhausted shadow. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a slow breath. "Let’s not play games today, Elena. Vance has already drawn up a comprehensive non-disclosure agreement. It includes a substantial trust fund for Leo, managed through a secure offshore account, and a fully furnished estate in the Pacific Northwest. You leave tonight on a private flight."
"And my voice?" I asked, my voice steady, cutting through the silence of the room. "Do I get to sing again, Alexander? Or does the contract specify that I remain a mute domestic servant while you build your philanthropic empire on stolen notes?"
Vance stiffened, stepping forward to intervene, but Alexander raised a single hand, silencing his lawyer. Alexander stood up slowly, leaning his palms against the dark wood of the desk. He looked at me not as a billionaire cornered by a scandal, but as a man realizing the walls he built had finally trapped him.
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"That lullaby was meant for us, Elena," Alexander murmured, his voice cracking just slightly before he caught himself. "The board is already convening an emergency meeting for tomorrow morning. If this gets out—if the press connects your conservatory past to my foundation's public image—years of work vanish overnight."
"Your work, Alexander. Not mine," I replied, holding my ground. "I gave you my name, my future, and the only song I ever wrote. You don't buy me out tonight."
