After He Blocked My Project, I Exposed His Empire Novel – Chapter 3
I trudged up the stairs to my apartment, my skin still sticky with dried coffee, the humiliation of my pathetic rebellion burning in my chest. My phone buzzed. Aaron again. I sighed and opened the message.
“Hey, you seemed pretty upset earlier. Taking a mental health day might help. I make a killer chicken noodle soup – could drop some by if you want? No strings attached.”
His kindness only irritated me more. I didn’t need soup. I needed my career back. I needed to not be trapped in this impossible situation. My thumbs jabbed at the screen.
“Thanks, but I’m fine. Don’t need soup or a break. Need to fix this mess.”
I hit send, immediately feeling guilty for the harshness. Aaron was trying to help in the only way he knew how. But his help felt like a consolation prize, an acknowledgment that I should accept defeat.
I shoved my key into the lock, shouldered open my apartment door, and froze. Something was different. The air felt … disturbed. My eyes scanned the room until they landed on it – a thin black rectangle on the floor just inside the door. I picked it up cautiously.
It wasn’t paper or plastic, but something in between – cool to the touch, with a slight weight that felt expensive. The obsidian surface was featureless except for an embossed message in silver lettering:
“Let’s discuss alternatives. -J”
I turned it over. Nothing else. No contact information, no company logo. Just those four words and an initial. The card seemed to absorb the light around it, creating a void in my hand.
Who the hell was J? And how had they gotten this under my door?
I slumped onto my couch, the mysterious card still between my fingers. My monitors glared at me from across the room, the rate limit message still displayed like a death sentence. I should have been panicking about my deadline, but instead, I found myself running my thumb over the edge of the card, wondering.
Three hours later, as evening approached, I was still staring at the card when it suddenly vibrated in my hand. The embossed lettering dissolved and reformed:
“8 PM. The Prism. Formal attire. Car waiting downstairs.”
I nearly dropped it. The message faded back to the original text before I could even process what I’d seen. Was I hallucinating from stress and caffeine?
A quick search told me The Prism was the most exclusive tech venue in the city – a glass-domed event space atop the Ultra Tower where industry elites gathered for invitation-only functions. People like me didn’t get in. Ever.
I shouldn’t go. It was crazy to follow mysterious instructions from an unknown sender. But what did I have to lose at this point?
I rummaged through my closet for the one formal dress I owned – a midnight blue number I’d bought on sale for a cousin’s wedding three years ago. It would have to do.
At precisely 8 PM, I stepped out of a sleek black car at the base of Ultra Tower, clutching the obsidian card like a talisman. The security guard barely glanced at it before nodding me through to a private elevator that whisked me upward in silence.
The Prism was aptly named – a geometric marvel of glass and light that crowned the building like a crystal crown. Inside, the city’s tech aristocracy mingled under soft ambient lighting, their conversations a gentle hum beneath the subtle electronic music.
I felt immediately out of place, a sparrow among peacocks. I stood frozen just inside the entrance, scanning the crowd for … what? I didn’t even know who I was looking for.
“Anya.”
The voice came from behind me – deep, measured, with the quiet confidence of someone who never needed to raise it to be heard. I turned slowly.
He was tall, impeccably dressed in a suit that seemed to have been spun from the night sky itself. His features were striking rather than conventionally handsome – all clean lines and perfect symmetry. But it was his eyes that held me – dark, intense, and fixed on me with unsettling focus.
“I’ve been following your situation with interest,” he said, as if we were continuing a conversation rather than starting one. “The Pro Plan’s limitations are … tedious, aren’t they?”
“Who are you?” I managed to ask, though I suspected I already knew.
His smile was slight but genuine. “Julian Ultra. And I believe I have a proposition that might interest you.”
Julian Ultra. The heir to the Ultra empire himself. The man who had never known a limit in his life was standing before me, speaking as if he’d been waiting for me specifically.
I clutched the obsidian card tighter, suddenly aware that I was standing at a crossroads that would change everything.