Thirty-six hours had passed since the two men who looked like they ate nails for breakfast had shattered my world. Thirty-six hours of a hollow-eyed, frantic existence fueled by stale coffee and pure, unadulterated terror. Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford. My small apartment was a disaster zone, littered with empty mugs and the ghosts of my desperate, failed attempts to find a way out.
I'd called every bank I could think of, my voice cracking as I pleaded for a loan I knew I'd never get. The polite, automated rejections were almost as insulting as the one loan officer who had laughed out loud. I'd even considered calling the few friends I had, but what could I say? *"Hey, sorry to bother you, but my dead brother apparently owed the mafia two million dollars. Can I borrow a cup of sugar and maybe your life savings?"*
Going to the police was a fantasy that lasted about five minutes. The image of the man's cold smile as he looked at Mia's photo was burned into my brain. These weren't the kind of people you filed a report against. They were the monsters that made the police lock their own doors at night.
My laptop screen glowed with the horrifying results of my Google searches for "mafia debt" and "what happens when you can't pay." The stories were grim, filled with violence and disappearances. My stomach churned. I was so far out of my depth I was drowning.
All my frantic searching, all my panicked calls, all led back to the same place: the stark white business card on my coffee table. It sat there, mocking me. A tiny rectangle holding the power of life and death. I had no choice. I had to face the monster at the top of the food chain. I had to walk into the lion's den and pray he wasn't hungry.
My hand trembled so violently I could barely hold my phone. I took a deep, shuddering breath and dialed the number. It rang twice, each shrill tone tightening the knot of dread in my gut. A man answered, his voice a cold, clipped bark.
"Speak."
My own voice was a pathetic squeak. "I-I'm Ella Martins. Your men... they came to see me. About my brother's debt."
The silence on the other end of the line was a weapon in itself. It stretched on, heavy and suffocating, designed to make me squirm. I could feel him on the other end, listening, judging.
Finally, the voice returned, just as cold. "You want to discuss terms?"
"I... I need to speak with your boss," I managed, the words tasting like ash. "Please."
Another calculated pause. "Be ready in one hour. We'll pick you up."
The line went dead before I could even breathe, let alone respond.
One hour. My blood turned to ice. One hour to prepare myself to meet the man who held my life in his hands. A wave of panic washed over me. I scrambled into the shower, the hot water doing nothing to warm the chill that had settled deep in my bones. I needed to look presentable, not like the terrified, sleep-deprived wreck I was. I pulled on a simple black skirt and a plain white blouse. It was the best I could do. Modest. Respectful. The outfit of someone who knew her place.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A stranger looked back at me, her hazel eyes wide with terror, dark circles like bruises underneath them. *What are you doing, Ella?* my reflection seemed to scream. *You're walking into a trap.*
Just in case, I scribbled a quick note to my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Gable. *"If you don't hear from me by tomorrow, please call Sarah, Mia's mom. Tell her I love them."* It was a pathetic little SOS, but it was all I had. I tucked it under a magnet on my fridge, grabbed my small purse, and went to wait by the window, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.
Exactly one hour later, a sleek black Mercedes sedan pulled up to the curb, its tinted windows looking like voids in the fading daylight. It was so out of place on my rundown street that it might as well have been a spaceship. The same two mountains of muscle got out. They didn't look up at my window, but I knew they knew I was watching.
My legs felt like jelly as I walked down the stairs and out the front door. One of them opened the back door for me, a gesture that was so surprisingly polite it was almost more terrifying. I slid onto the plush leather seat, and they got in on either side of me, sandwiching me between their solid, immovable bodies. The doors closed with a heavy, final-sounding thud.
No one spoke. The silence was thick and suffocating. I stared out the window, watching my familiar, gritty neighborhood blur into the upscale districts of the city. The buildings grew taller, the storefronts shinier, the cars more expensive. With every mile, the anxiety in my chest grew tighter, winding itself around my lungs until I could barely breathe.
Finally, the car turned onto a private road and slowed before a set of massive, wrought-iron gates. Security cameras perched on the stone pillars like gargoyles, their black lenses following our approach. The gates swung open silently, and the car proceeded up a long, winding driveway.
And then I saw it.
It wasn't a house; it was a fortress. A sprawling, modern mansion made of dark stone and black glass that seemed to absorb the light around it. It was imposing, beautiful, and utterly terrifying. *This is where the devil lives,* I thought, a hysterical bubble of fear rising in my throat.
The car stopped. A guard escorted me up a set of wide marble steps and through a front door that was taller than I was. The inside was just as intimidating as the outside. It was less a home and more a museum dedicated to power. The floors were polished black and white marble, the ceilings soared two stories high, and the walls were adorned with massive, abstract paintings that probably cost more than I'd make in a lifetime. Everything was cold, opulent, and designed to make you feel small. It was working.
They led me through a series of long, silent hallways. I tried to memorize the route, a primal survival instinct kicking in. We passed staff-maids in crisp gray uniforms, more guards in dark suits-and none of them made eye contact. They all looked down, their faces carefully blank, as if looking at me was a crime. The fear in this house was a palpable thing.
We stopped in front of a set of massive double doors made of dark, polished ebony. One of the men knocked once, a sharp rap of knuckles on wood.
"Sir, Miss Martins is here."
A voice came from inside, deep and resonant, vibrating through the thick wood of the door. "Send her in."
That voice. It slid down my spine like a shard of ice. The door swung open, and one of the men gestured for me to enter.
The office was enormous. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window offering a breathtaking, panoramic view of the city lights. Bookshelves lined the other walls, filled with leather-bound volumes-an unexpected detail that felt jarringly out of place. In the center of the room was a massive desk, a slab of polished black wood that looked like it had been carved from a block of obsidian.
And behind it... sat him.
My breath caught in my throat. He sat there not like a man in a chair, but like a king on a throne. He was tall even sitting down, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of a perfectly tailored black suit. His dark hair was slicked back from his forehead, revealing a sharp, aristocratic jawline and a small, faint scar that cut through his left eyebrow.
But it was his eyes that held me captive. When he finally looked up from the document he was reading, his gaze pinned me to the spot. They were the color of a storm cloud, a piercing, intelligent gray that seemed to see right through me. He was beautiful. Not in a soft, handsome way, but in a dangerous, predatory way. Like a fallen angel who hadn't just been cast out of heaven but had burned it down on his way out.
He didn't greet me. He just let me stand there, his eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep from my worn-out flats to my terrified face. It was a power play, and we both knew it. He was making me wait, making me feel every second of my insignificance.
"Sit."
His voice was even deeper in person, a low, cold command that left no room for argument. My legs moved on their own, carrying me to the leather chair in front of his desk. I sank into it, realizing too late that it was positioned lower than his, forcing me to look up at him. Another calculated move to assert his dominance.
The silence stretched again, thick and heavy. He was testing me, waiting to see if I would break, if I would start babbling or crying. I bit the inside of my cheek and met his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away.
Finally, he spoke, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. "Ella Martins. Age twenty-three. Kindergarten teacher. Annual income: thirty-two thousand dollars. Savings: two thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven dollars. You have one living blood relative: a niece, Mia, age four."
My blood ran cold. He knew everything.
"Your brother, Adam Martins, died four days ago of a drug overdose," he continued, stating the facts of my tragedy as if he were reading a grocery list. "He owed me two million dollars." He leaned forward slightly, the movement subtle but charged with menace. "Tell me, Miss Martins, how does a kindergarten teacher plan to pay back that debt?"
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I... I can't. You know I can't." My own words sounded pathetic in the cavernous office. "Adam is dead. The debt should die with him."
His expression didn't flicker. "That's not how this works."
Desperation clawed its way up my throat. "Please," I begged, hating the weakness in my voice. "I didn't know about any of this. I had nothing to do with whatever Adam was involved in. I'm just a teacher. I don't have any money. I don't have anything."
A cruel, humorless smirk touched his lips for a fleeting second. "Everyone has something." He sat back, steepling his long fingers under his chin. "Your brother made choices. He took my money. He made promises. He broke those promises. In my world, debts are always paid. Someone has to pay."
"Then take what I have!" I cried, the words tumbling out in a rush. "My apartment, my car, my savings-it's not much, but it's all I have!"
He actually chuckled then, a low, dark sound that held no warmth. "Your apartment is rented. Your car is worth less than one of my suits. Your savings wouldn't cover the interest on your brother's debt for a single month." He paused, his gray eyes boring into me. "You have nothing I want." Another pause, this one more charged than all the silences that had come before. "Almost nothing."
The way he said that one word-*almost*-made my stomach plummet. "What... what do you mean?"
He stood up. The movement was fluid and graceful, like a panther uncoiling. He was tall, at least a foot taller than me, and radiated an aura of raw power that was both terrifying and magnetic. He began to walk slowly around the desk, circling me like a predator sizing up its prey. I shrank back in my chair, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run.
He stopped directly beside my chair, forcing me to crane my neck to look up at him. "I have a problem, Miss Martins," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I'm a businessman. In my line of work, my associates and rivals need to see stability. A family man is seen as more reliable, more trustworthy, than a bachelor."
My mind raced, trying to connect the dots. "What does that have to do with me?"
"You need your debt erased," he stated simply. "I need a wife. A presentable, controllable wife, for business purposes. A temporary arrangement." He looked down at me, his expression unreadable. "We can help each other."
The absurdity of his words shocked me out of my fear. I shot to my feet. "You can't be serious!"
His eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. "I don't joke about business."
I backed away from him, shaking my head in disbelief. "No. I'm not... you can't just... this is insane!"
"Sit down, Miss Martins." His voice wasn't loud, but the absolute command in it froze me in place. My body betrayed me, and I sank back into the chair, hating myself for my obedience.
He returned to his throne behind the desk, his power once again absolute. "You will hear my full offer. Then you will decide." He leaned forward, his gray eyes locking onto mine, trapping me. "But know this. I am giving you a choice. Many people in your position do not get one. So you will sit. You will listen. And you will choose wisely."
He let the threat hang in the air, a promise of what would happen if I chose wrong. "Because once you leave this room, the offer expires. And if you refuse..."
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I was cornered, with no way out.
I came here hoping for mercy. Instead, I found the devil. And he was offering me a deal I couldn't afford to refuse.
_______
What would you do if the only way to save your life.. was to marry the devil himself?