A Deal With the Devil

CLARA

The shrill, violent blare of my cheap digital alarm shatters the morning quiet, jolting me awake. I gasp, my heart immediately hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My neck aches fiercely from the restless, uncomfortable position I had eventually collapsed into, and my limbs feel like lead. But worse than the physical exhaustion is the immediate, agonizing question that loops relentlessly in the forefront of my mind the second I open my eyes: *Did I really make the right choice calling him last night?*

I lie completely still for a moment, staring blankly at the spiderweb cracks creeping across my bedroom ceiling. The memory of my own trembling voice surrendering to Roman Bancroft echoes in my head. I drag my heavy, protesting body out of the tangled bedsheets and force myself to walk into the tiny bathroom. I grip the edges of the cracked sink, staring at my pale reflection and the dark exhaustion shadowing my eyes.

*I am doing all of this for Mom,* I remind myself strictly. *I’d do absolutely anything for her. Even sell my soul to the devil himself.*

I quickly scrub my face, throw my hair into a tight, practical knot, and head to my pathetic excuse for a closet. I hastily throw on a plain, unflattering ash-grey skirt and a stiff, white button-down shirt. It is far from glamorous, but it is one of the only clean, professional outfits I have left. I grab my worn-out bag and rush toward the front door, silently praying that the morning goes smoothly.

However, my forward momentum comes to an abrupt, terrifying halt the exact second I step out of my apartment.

A massive, imposing figure is casually leaning against the doorframe of my building, entirely blocking my path to the stairwell. Rocco. My stomach drops, twisting into a sick, icy knot. He is the creepy, ruthless casino owner who happily fuels my father’s highly destructive gambling habits.

"Where’s Mick?" Rocco gruffs, his voice sounding like jagged stones grinding together.

I instinctively take a sharp step back, my heart pounding wildly. His dark, beady eyes sweep over me with a cold, calculating malice that makes me want to shrink into the floorboards. The stale, suffocating stench of cheap tobacco and stale liquor clings to his heavy jacket.

"He owes me money," Rocco adds, tilting his large head.

A fresh wave of sickening anger washes over my fear. My dad had just violently drained my entire life savings yesterday. Every single penny I had painstakingly scraped together for my mother's treatments was completely gone. What the hell had Mick even used it for if he still owed this monster?

"I don’t know," I reply firmly, desperately trying to mask the raw terror vibrating through my veins. "I kicked his drunken ass out last night."

Rocco doesn't move a single inch. Instead, he gives me a slow, highly disgusting once-over. His dark gaze travels from my scuffed sensible heels all the way up to my face. His tongue darts out to slowly lick his dry, chapped lips. It is a deeply invasive, predatory look that makes my skin crawl with pure revulsion.

"One day, Clara," he mutters.

It is a dark, sickening warning. A promise that hangs heavily in the chilly hallway air, turning my blood to absolute ice. Before I can even process the full weight of his threat, he finally pushes off the peeling paint of the wall and slowly walks away, his heavy boots thudding ominously down the stairs.

I stand frozen for a few agonizing seconds, my chest heaving, desperate to escape the vile encounter. I sprint out of the building and hurry onto the busy main road, praying I can just get to work and leave this nightmare behind.

But my relief is instantly shattered. A speeding, reckless car suddenly veers too close to the curb, violently plowing straight through a massive pothole. A huge wave of filthy, freezing, mud-filled water splashes up, thoroughly drenching my legs and completely soaking my only clean work clothes.

"Hey!" I scream at the retreating taillights, but the driver doesn't even hit the brakes.

I look down at my ruined skirt and mud-splattered blouse, frustrated to the absolute point of tears. The icy water seeps through the fabric, biting into my skin. I cannot possibly walk into Bancroft Tech looking like a drowned rat. Defeated and shivering, I am forced to hurry back inside my apartment. I desperately tear through my pathetic, severely limited closet, throwing aside threadbare t-shirts and ripped jeans. Finally, with no other viable options left, I settle for a faded, excessively baggy, mustard-colored sweater that completely swallows my frame. It is undeniably hideous, but it is dry.

I rush back down to the street, completely panicking about the time. Then comes the horrific nightmare of morning traffic. I manage to hail a cab, but we immediately hit a solid, immovable wall of gridlock. I sit trapped in the back seat, staring out the window as the commute drags into a painful, agonizing crawl. Blaring horns and the smell of exhaust fill the air. It truly feels like the universe itself is throwing every conceivable obstacle directly at me. It feels like one final, cosmic chance to back out of my desperate deal with Roman.

I stare blankly at the glowing digital clock on the cab's dashboard, watching the minutes tick away. I know I cannot back out. I simply cannot. Mom's life entirely depends on this insane contract.

By the time I finally rush into the towering glass structure of Bancroft Tech, I am a full twenty minutes late. My heart thunders violently against my ribcage as I bypass the main lobby and take the private executive elevator all the way up to the top floor. The doors slide open silently, and I slowly step out, my pulse roaring in my ears.

The door to the pristine, intensely intimidating executive conference room is propped open. Gideon is already sitting casually at the long, polished mahogany table, comfortably sipping a steaming cup of coffee like he hasn't a single care in the world.

And then there is Roman.

He stands tall by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the sprawling city skyline. He looks like a perfectly tailored picture of absolute power and freezing ice. His dark suit hugs his broad shoulders impeccably. When he hears my footsteps, he slowly turns around.

When our eyes finally meet, the air in the room instantly shifts. I watch his sharp, calculating expression alter for a mere fraction of a second. His gaze flickers over my wet hair and the horrific, oversized sweater drowning my body. But just as quickly as the flash of surprise appears, his impenetrable, cool detachment returns in full force, locking his features into a mask of pure authority.

"You're late," he states, his voice low, measured, and echoing heavily in the large, quiet room.

"Traffic," I reply, swallowing the thick, nervous lump forming in my throat.

Gideon leans forward from his leather chair, raising a highly amused brow. "Or cold feet?" he teases lightly, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"Neither," I respond, squaring my shoulders and fighting fiercely to keep my voice steady and unwavering. "I said I’d do this, and I meant it."

Roman holds my gaze for a tense, breathless second. Then, he slowly turns fully away from the massive window and deliberately closes the distance between us. He walks with a slow, predatory grace until he stands just inches away from me. I am forced to tilt my head back just to meet his intense stare. The rich, intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne—something dark, woody, and utterly expensive—hits my senses instantly, twisting my stomach into tight, nervous knots.

He doesn't speak right away. He uses his towering height to establish dominance, looking down at me as if I am nothing more than a new asset to manage.

"We'll draft the terms today," he states with absolute, uncompromising authority. "You’ll move in by the end of the week. Appearances matter, and if anyone suspects this is fake, we both lose everything. We'll set ground rules. You’ll attend dinners, events... whatever is necessary. I'll handle the media. You just smile and look like you’re hopelessly in love with me. Think you can manage that?"

Every single instinct in my body screams at me to back away from his overwhelming presence, but I refuse to cower. I harden my resolve, channeling all the frustration and anxiety of my disastrous morning into defensive determination. I lift my chin defiantly, meeting his dark, icy gaze head-on.

"Do I get a say in the rules?" I demand, my voice ringing out clearly.

Roman's eyes narrow slightly. His lips slowly curve into a very slight, dangerous smirk that sends a sudden thrill straight down my spine. "We’ll see."

Breaking the intense, suffocating standoff, Gideon claps his hands together loudly, the sharp sound making me jump. He stands up from his comfortable chair, practically vibrating with entertainment. "Well, this should be fun," he announces brightly, gesturing to the empty chairs. "Shall we get started, lovebirds?"

My heart resumes its frantic, deafening thundering in my chest as I finally break eye contact with Roman. I walk forward on shaky legs and move to take a seat directly across from him at the heavy mahogany table.

As I pull out the leather chair and sit down, the massive, overwhelming reality of the situation completely crashes over me. I am really doing this. The negotiation has officially begun. I am going to sign my life away and become his wife for three long, unpredictable years. I tell myself it is strictly all for my mother. It has to be.

And maybe, just maybe, deep down in the darkest, most closely guarded corners of my mind, it is for something more I haven’t fully admitted to myself yet.