Chapter 6 The Offer

I didn't take the folder.

Not at first.

I just stood there, fingers clutched around the edge of the door, every part of me tense and buzzing. My throat was tight. My chest felt thin. I wasn't sure if I was more afraid of what was in that folder - or the fact that someone else knew.

Celeste didn't flinch. She just waited, one hand still outstretched, the folder angled slightly toward me like a peace offering. Her voice had that calm, clipped steadiness I recognized from customer service calls and ER nurses - people trained to make you trust them before you even decide to.

"I know this is unexpected," she said again, more gently this time. "But we need to talk."

My fingers twitched at the edge of the door.

And somehow, I stepped aside.

Celeste moved in slowly, like she was entering a room filled with glass - cautious, aware. She didn't look around, didn't comment on the mess or the air or the fact that I hadn't drawn the curtains in days.

She waited until I followed her in, then hovered just inside the living room.

I motioned toward the kitchen table without saying anything. We sat across from each other - two strangers, one thin folder between us like it might detonate.

Celeste didn't open it yet.

She watched me instead.

Her coat was still buttoned. Her bag rested against one ankle. She looked like someone who didn't plan to stay long but wanted to make every second count.

"I'm not here to pressure you," she said. "Just to explain what's been happening. And what we can do about it."

I nodded once. Or something like a nod. I wasn't sure.

She started slow.

"My client works in surveillance," she said. "Mostly corporate-level cases - fraud, blackmail, internal leaks. That kind of thing. About three weeks ago, someone flagged a stream circulating on the dark side of the net. Hidden, invite-only access. You weren't the only person being watched, but... your stream stood out."

My stomach turned. "He's been watching me?"

"At first, yes. He didn't know what it was. Just that it was real. That it wasn't acted or consented. He kept watching long enough to realize you were being filmed without knowing. That's when he pulled us in."

Celeste reached into the folder and pulled out a short document - not a contract, just a printed brief.

"He asked us to dig. We traced the stream. It took time - it was routed through masked IPs, encrypted layers, offshore servers. But eventually, we followed it back to this property."

She paused.

"To this apartment."

My hands clenched.

I couldn't speak.

"We checked the public lease records," she continued. "Found your name. Found the leaseholder - Jade Elwood. My client requested we review the legalities."

I blinked at her. "How is that even legal?"

"It's not," she said. "Not the surveillance. But Jade was careful. The lease includes clauses that refer to remote 'maintenance monitoring,' vague references to 'security measures,' buried in legalese. It's enough to complicate a direct lawsuit."

"I didn't see any of that," I whispered.

Celeste's voice softened. "Most tenants wouldn't. She knew that."

The silence stretched between us, thick and slow.

"I don't understand," I finally said. "Why does your client care?"

She hesitated.

Then: "Because he thinks what happened to you is wrong. And... he believes he can offer something better than the silence you've been forced into."

I looked down at the folder.

Celeste tapped the cover lightly.

"There's an agreement. Not a demand - a choice. My client is offering to shut down the streams. All of them. Permanently. He'll personally ensure the footage is wiped from every known archive, every server it touched. But in exchange-"

I already knew there was a 'but.'

"There's a condition," she said carefully. "He wants exclusive access. A new place. A new lease. All equipment handled legally, safely, monitored solely by him. Private access. No broadcasts. No shares. Just... him."

My heart stuttered.

"That's still surveillance," I said.

"It is," she admitted. "But it's contained. Safe. Controlled. And optional. You can walk away. But... if you want everything gone - the videos, the comments, the links - this is the fastest, cleanest option."

I stared at the folder again, and suddenly it looked less like paper and more like a loaded gun.

"I don't even know him."

Celeste nodded. "He doesn't want you to. Not yet."

Of course not.

Silence pressed down again.

For a moment, I wanted to throw the folder across the room. To scream. To burn the whole apartment down just to get out from under the weight of it.

But I didn't move.

I just sat there, trying to breathe through the panic and the rage and the ache that had been living in my body for weeks.

This wasn't freedom. Not really.

But it wasn't what I had now, either.

And right now, maybe that was enough to make me listen.

...

This wasn't freedom. Not really.

But it wasn't what I had now, either.

And right now, maybe that was enough to make me listen.

Celeste didn't stay much longer. She stood, smoothed down her coat, and left the folder on the table between us.

"If you want to talk, the number's on the back page," she said quietly. "No pressure. Just... think about it."

The door clicked shut behind her, and for a while, I didn't move.

The apartment felt heavier than before. Like it knew. Like it had always known.

I sat in silence until the light outside turned orange, then grey, then gone.

At some point, I reached for the folder. I didn't open it. I just held it, fingers brushing the edge of the paper like it might burn.

And when I finally lay down on the couch, hours later, I placed it on the coffee table - within reach, but not too close.

It stayed there all night.

Watching me back.