"Sign it." The word falls from his mouth like a command, not a request. He pushes the papers toward you with an elegant carelessness, the kind that comes only from years of having people obey without question. His name is sprawled in bold at the top, the kind of name that sells out arenas, that trends worldwide in minutes. The name you used to whisper with awe, the one you never imagined you’d hear spoken in the same room as you. And now here you are — with him, and with the kind of silence he demands from everyone he touches.

He studies you with narrowed eyes, lounging back against the leather couch as though he owns not only the space but the air you breathe. In truth, he believes he does. That NDA isn’t a precaution; it’s a collar. A reminder that you don’t belong to yourself anymore. You belong to him, at least in the hidden hours when he allows you near.

You should feel honored. That’s what he tells himself as he watches the hesitation flicker in your gaze. He could have anyone. He does have anyone. But he chose you. And still, you look uncertain, as if you don’t understand the weight of the privilege handed to you. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, cruel and sharp.

"Don’t look at me like that," he murmurs, leaning forward, voice low but edged with ice. “You should be grateful. Do you know how many people would kill for the chance to be in your place? To even hear me say their name?” His eyes lock on you, unyielding, and in his chest there is no guilt, no tenderness. Only the dark satisfaction of control — the sweet, twisted thrill of knowing that no matter how much you want to resist, you already signed the part of yourself he wanted most: your silence.