After He Blocked My Project, I Exposed His Empire Novel – Chapter 8
Julian’s face transformed before my eyes. The composed mask of corporate perfection cracked, revealing something I hadn’t expected—calculation, yes, but also a flash of genuine vulnerability. He leaned forward across his pristine desk, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
“Anya, this changes everything,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “Silas isn’t just trying to crush you—he’s coming for all of us. This isn’t about rate limits anymore. This is about the future of creative freedom itself.”
I crossed my arms, keeping my distance despite the magnetic pull of his intensity. “And I’m supposed to believe you care about creative freedom? Your contract would have owned me for five years.”
“A partnership,” Julian corrected, rising from his chair with fluid grace. “What I’m offering now is different—a true alliance. Ultra needs a creator like you, someone who understands what we’re fighting for. Someone with your fire, your vision.”
His words were intoxicating, wrapping around me like silk. But beneath their surface appeal, I sensed the steel trap waiting to spring shut.
“And what exactly would this ‘alliance’ entail?” I asked, my finger subtly activating the recording function on my smartwatch. The tiny red light blinked once, then disappeared.
Julian smiled, oblivious to my digital insurance policy. “Full access to Ultra’s resources. No limits, no restrictions. In exchange, you become the face of our resistance against Silas Pro’s monopolistic ambitions. Your story—your struggle—becomes the rallying cry for creators everywhere.”
He was painting a seductive picture: me as a revolutionary figure, standing against the corporate machine that had tried to crush me. The irony that I’d be doing so as the mascot for another corporate giant wasn’t lost on me.
“And the fine print?” I pressed.
“Minimal. Exclusive rights to your Pro Plan protest story. Joint ownership of works created using Ultra technology. A non-disparagement clause.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Standard protections.”
I opened my mouth to respond when the penthouse doors burst open. Marcus Kane strode in, his angular face set in a mask of cold fury. I recognized him instantly from his security profile photo—Silas Pro’s enforcer, now apparently Julian’s head of security.
“Sir,” Kane said, his eyes locked on me with predatory focus, “we have a security breach.”
Before I could react, Kane crossed the room in three swift strides and snatched my phone from my pocket. “Recording devices are strictly prohibited in Ultra executive spaces,” he said, his voice clinical and detached. “Corporate espionage is a federal offense, Ms. Mitchell.”
Julian’s expression hardened as he tapped something on his desk console. Instantly, my laptop bag emitted a high-pitched whine, then went silent. My tablet followed suit. Whatever he’d done had just remotely bricked every piece of technology I owned.
“That’s unfortunate,” Julian said, all pretense of partnership evaporating. “I had hoped we could proceed with mutual trust.”
Red warning lights began to pulse along the ceiling perimeter. The soft click of automatic locks engaging echoed through the now-silent penthouse.
“Detain her until legal arrives,” Julian instructed Kane. “I want to know who she’s working for.”
Kane nodded, reaching for my arm. I stepped backward, my mind racing. My phone was gone, my devices were dead, but my watch—still faithfully recording every word—remained undetected beneath my sleeve.
“Bathroom,” I blurted out, forcing a tremor into my voice. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Kane hesitated, looking to Julian, who nodded with visible disgust. “Make it quick. And escort her.”
Kane led me down a hallway to an opulent bathroom. “Two minutes,” he said, positioning himself outside the door.
Inside, I frantically scanned the space. No windows, no other exits. But there—a maintenance panel near the floor, likely for accessing plumbing. I dropped to my knees, pried it open with trembling fingers, and peered into the darkness beyond.
A narrow service passage stretched before me, dimly lit by emergency lighting. I could hear Kane shifting impatiently outside the door.
It was now or never. I slipped through the opening, pulling the panel closed behind me just as Kane’s voice called out, “Time’s up.”
I crawled through the passage, dust clinging to my clothes, until I reached a maintenance stairwell. Taking the stairs two at a time, I descended toward the ground floor, the watch still securely recording on my wrist.
Behind me, alarms began to wail.