I looked at the terrifying portrait, and then at him. Paradoxically, the risk, the near-mortal danger, only pulled me in deeper. I saw not only Elena's madness, but the genius that had birthed it. I wasn't Elena. I would not break.
"Where do I sign?"
We returned to the desk. He placed the contract in front of me. Ten pages of fine print. I began to read. My eyes scanned the legalese, pulling out the essence.
Rule #2: The Muse agrees to dedicate all time to the process that the Inspirer deems necessary. Sessions may be scheduled at any time, day or night, without prior notice.
Rule #3: The Muse is forbidden from discussing the terms of the contract or the details of the sessions with any third party. A breach of confidentiality will result in immediate termination and financial penalties (including the failure of her thesis).
Rule #4: The Muse agrees to accompany the Inspirer to all public events he deems necessary for her "education" or "immersion."
...I read on. The control was total. He owned my time, my social life, my emotions. And at the very end, just before the signature line, was the last, shortest rule.
Rule #7: The Inspirer demands absolute, unfiltered honesty.
I picked up the pen. Its heavy, gold-plated body was cold against my fingers. I took a deep breath and signed my name. Sophia Hayes.
Jared Thorpe took the document, signed his own name opposite mine, and closed the folder. The sound was dry and final, like the click of a lock.
"Welcome to the project, Sophia," he smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. The atmosphere in the studio changed instantly. It became dense, electric. The Professor vanished, and only the Inspirer remained.
"Alright," he said, his tone all business. "Your old life is over. The new one begins now. And we will begin with honesty."
He walked to his desk and picked up a small velvet box, the kind used for expensive jewelry. He handed it to me.
I opened it. Inside, on black silk, lay two items: a thick, leather-bound journal and a small, sleek digital voice recorder.
I looked up at him, confused.
"These are your new tools," his voice was level and cold, leaving no room for argument. "Rule number seven, Sophia. Absolute honesty. This is your first assignment."
He paused, looking directly into my eyes.
"You will write in this journal every morning. And you will record a vocal report of your feelings on this recorder every night before you sleep. You will give me both for review every forty-eight hours. Your first drop-off is Friday morning. And, Sophia? Don't even think about lying. I always know."