"I'm afraid, with the sudden downturn of your profit margins and the expected rise in interest rates, the banks are feeling a little nervous," Parker mumbled, his voice muffled as it emerged from the jungle of paperwork that had overtaken his desk.
Elena's heart pounded as she leaned closer to the cluttered desk, her gaze fierce yet desperate. "Where do they expect me to find…" she began, her voice trembling as she squinted at the file before her, "seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars." Her frustration bubbled up, spilling over into rage; it was better than the fear fast consuming her being.
Parker finally glanced up from the stacks of paper. "I warned you about borrowing against your home," he replied, the gentle reproach in his voice a bitter reminder of the past decisions that had placed her in this precarious situation.
"Yes… well, I'm listening now. What can I do?" The desperation in her voice was palpable. She was standing on the precipice of losing everything she had worked for, and the weight of that thought pressed heavily on her chest.
"You need to pay fifty percent of the loan within three months. The two hundred thousand from the refinancing, you can continue to pay monthly even though, in the long run, it will cost you more. That will buy you twelve months with the banks. It will give both you and them some room to breathe," Parker explained, his tone shifting towards practicality, though the glimmer of hope it offered felt fleeting.
"I don't have two hundred and sixty thousand dollars," Elena whispered, the realization washing over her like ice water. Panic flickered in her chest, tightening her throat.
"Look, I suggested you sell your Warhol print instead of refinancing," Parker insisted. "I can get you good money for the Mick Jagger and Marilyn print. You could come close to what you need by the end of business tomorrow." He glanced back down at his papers as if the conversation were over. "Consider what else you could part with."
Elena's sharp intake of breath was loud enough to pierce through the oppressive silence. Parker met her eyes, startled. "Okay," she finally consented, her resignation palpable. The idea of parting with the prints was a painful decision, especially knowing they had been a gift from Christian. Each piece held memories, having been carefully framed and prominently displayed in her foyer. She could already feel the tightness of the impending loss, not just of the art but also the intimacy of what that art represented. A connection to Christian that she feared was diminishing.
Standing in the foyer of her home, she felt the weight of her life, meticulously cataloging what she could afford to relinquish. Each item was a painful reminder of her relationship with Christian, tainted yet treasured. The trinkets she had collected over the years represented shards of who she once was. Some had depreciated, while others had appreciated significantly—perhaps even more than she ever realized.
The reality of Elena's situation was eerily stark. She had lost Franco, Theo, and Evette just a month earlier; after a raft of canceled appointments, their departure had been swift and merciless. All offered lucrative deals she couldn't hope to match. With them gone, she was forced to spend every waking minute at the Bellevue branch of Esclava. The few clients she had left frequented that branch, and with her best gone, she was the only one keeping them with her.
After Grace distanced herself from Esclava, a ripple effect cascaded through Elena's client list. All the women who had once deemed her a fixture in their lives suddenly evaporated, leaving her feeling like an unwelcome specter haunting her own professional landscape. She had lost thirty percent of her clientele almost overnight. Within an industry that thrived on connections and reputation, that loss had surprisingly been one she survived, although not entirely unscathed.
With the sudden wave of canceled appointments within the last month, where she once enjoyed a bustling business, Elena was now faced with empty chairs and silence. She had two demographics: Grace's age and primarily those within the twenty-three to thirty-five age range. Now, suddenly, she found herself without ninety percent of that demographic. It felt as if the universe were conspiring against her, but for the life of her, she couldn't pinpoint any particular reason. It wasn't just her most experienced stylists' unexpected departure. There had to be a larger factor at play, but the specifics eluded her. To make matters worse, she soon learned the offer to her stylists had come from her competitor, Belle's, the salon Grace had begun frequenting. It was as if they were all conspiring against her, and the feeling of betrayal sliced deeper than she cared to acknowledge.
She laboriously walked through her home, continuing to catalog what she could part with; this was a painful reminder of where she truly stood with Christian. Her phone rang loud and grating, and she raced to answer as always.
"Elena, any news." He barked, his patience long worn.
"Christian, I'm afraid Miss Steele guards her personal life as tightly as you do yours. I've spread the word and carefully shopped her picture around. If anyone knows anything, they are keeping quiet," she replied, her heart thudding painfully as she glanced wistfully at the Warhol prints, a bittersweet ache pooling in her stomach. Soon, those walls would be barren. In truth, she'd barely had time to herself more or less chasing stories of woman who was unfortunate enough to be Elliott's friend. In the month since Christian set his sights on her, he'd made no heard way in getting close to her. At this rate, he never would.
Christian remained quiet on the line, the tension growing palpable. Elena dared not hurry the conversation, relishing the silence. "How about a large financial incentive? Surely, there's a sub or two out there willing to talk," he suggested, his desperation evident. The world of BDSM operated with rigid codes of silence, but Elena knew well enough that every person had a price—and Christian was prepared to meet it.
A slow smile spread across Elena's face as the pieces fell into place. Perhaps her financial troubles weren't quite as dire as she initially thought. With some negotiations, she could play her cards right and maybe extract a quarter of a million or more from Christian. "I will put out the word, but darling, I don't expect much," she responded, deliberately affecting a somber tone to mask the glee bubbling beneath the surface.
"Do your best," he grumbled, ending the call abruptly.
"You might hate me, but you still can't do without me," Elena murmured to the now-silent phone, her spirit buoyed. Staring again at the Warhol prints, she began to smile, an unsettling sense of victory coursing through her. "You are staying right where you are," she cackled softly.
Elena had become painfully aware that Christian hated her. She'd caught a fleeting look in the reflection in the window of the Mile High Club. It had knocked the breath out of her. It had happened four and a half months after the truth came out, the night of his birthday.
That night had changed everything. Grace had overheard their private conversation, unleashing a whirlwind of chaos. In a fog of anxiety, Elena had waited for the inevitable fallout, dreading what lay ahead. To her astonishment, Christian had arrived at her doorstep, refusing to sever ties with her. Ugly words had been exchanged, was all he would say. She had acted suitably guilty every time the subject of his family came up.
Elena celebrated that night. Her worst fears had come to pass, and instead of the nightmare she expected to follow, her wildest dreams were coming to had picked her over his family. She had known they would never turn their backs on him or see him as the monster she had drummed into his head for over a decade. What Elena hadn't expected was him, despite their love and understanding that he would still pick her. She had been shocked by just how well she had fucked with his mind. A job so well done he would turn away from the love his family so openly gave. She congratulated herself on a job well done.
The days that followed were some of the best of her life. He gifted her his shares in Esclava. Diner became a regular occurrence despite not having any business to discuss. The invite to his penthouse became a frequent affair. When it came, the look of pure and utter loathing had been a gut-wrenching surprise. Suddenly, she was analyzing every interaction they'd had in the last four months, every action taken, and she could understand why. Her plans were suddenly put aside, and her delay in finding a sub, thinking he would jump back into her bed, was quickly thrown aside. She couldn't shake the impression of malice that lingered in his gaze when it fell upon her.
Elena refinanced her home to secure the services of Charlotte Cavendish, affectionately known as CC. Charlotte was undoubtedly one of the best subs the planet had to offer. Elena had once considered securing her services for Christian, but as luck would have it, Charlotte relocated to D.C., having landed a job offer.
She hadn't given much thought to the rumors of Charlotte moving back to Seattle. Weeks later, Elena, desperate to secure her services, offered her a staggering sum, funds she barely possessed. Charlotte, of course, was no fool and quickly accepted Elena's offer.
Worse, weeks later, she'd learned Christian gifting her Esclava was not all it was cracked up to be. The water heater at the Pike Market salon broke down spectacularly, flooding the salon. She learned that morning that she was now responsible for managing the building and any subsequent repairs. Christian's maintenance company was no longer responsible for it. Christian had been absorbing the cost, leaving her with healthy profit margins. Despite all that, her profits were still eight percent more than she had previously made. It had taken nearly a year before the worst news hit. Christian was no longer securing her loans. Financially, Christian had washed his hands of her. It had all looked like a gift in the beginning; now, it felt like a noose around her neck.
Charlotte had put a smile on Christian's face, the likes of which she had never witnessed. He was back to his old self, as Charlotte had added the ability to seek his services even on weekdays when work got on top of her. As a lawyer, those were often, and Christian reveled in it. Unfortunately, that had lasted ten months, and Charlotte was tasked with heading a class action suit, and her time became nonexistent. Christian's trust and gratitude quickly morphed into bitterness and impatience. Hundred thousand dollars for ten months; if anything, she had the right to feel bitter. Before he chose her over his family, she would have told him to grow the fuck up. Who knew she would wish for the days his family were in the dark. Now, she wouldn't dare do or say anything that would see her cut off. Because that time would come, it wasn't a question of if, but when.