The knock came at 8:47 p.m.
No text. No warning.
Just three quiet knocks.
Ana opened the door slowly—already dressed in sleep shorts and a faded T-shirt.
Christian stood there.
Eyes bloodshot.
Hair messy.
And in his hands?
The contract.
Folded.
Shaken.
Torn clean down the middle.
"I don't want to win anymore," he said.
No greeting.
No charm.
Just truth.
đź“ť The Offer
"I came here tonight not to explain," he said, stepping in, "but to surrender."
He placed the torn contract on her coffee table.
Then looked her in the eyes.
"I wrote those clauses to protect everything I built. But I never wrote one for you."
Ana stayed quiet.
Let him unravel.
"I thought you'd hurt me," he whispered. "So I made sure to hurt myself first."
"And when I didn't?" she asked, arms crossed.
"You made me want to believe in things I'd already buried."
Silence.
Then Christian reached into his coat.
Pulled out a small velvet box.
Ana's breath caught.
"Don't," she whispered. "If this is another tactic—"
"It's not."
He opened the box.
There was no ring inside.
Just a key.
To her apartment.
To her world.
To a space that had nothing to do with his empire.
"I want to stay," he said.
"No more rooms in opposite wings. No more doors between us. No more clauses. Just this—" he held up the key, "and your permission."
Ana didn't take it right away.
She walked past him, picked up the torn contract, and studied it.
Then she looked up.
"I'll let you stay," she said finally.
"But this time—"
She pressed the key back into his hand.
"You come through my door."
He smiled, quiet and stunned.
Not because she forgave him.
But because she didn't have to.
And she still did.
That night, Christian Blake didn't sleep in the penthouse.
He slept on her couch.
With her blanket.
And her scent all around him.
And for the first time…
He didn't feel powerful.
He felt safe.
To be continued…