The Deal With The Devil

Her trainers sank into a Persian rug that likely cost more than her father's whole estate when she entered the apartment. The room's wide floor-to-ceiling windows let in the nighttime expanse of New York City, which looked like a kingdom.

With his hands in his pockets, Isaac Blackwell stood close to the glass. His sleeves were rolled just enough to show off his powerful forearms, and his fitted shirt clung to his broad shoulders. The city lights made it impossible to read his face.

He said, "Sit," without looking back.

Her pulse faltered at the command. After hesitating, her legs complied. Too soft, too alien, the sofa enveloped her.

She said, "Nice place," in a weak voice.

He pivoted. "It's functional."

She glanced at the minimalist furnishings, the harsh white walls, the sleek black furniture, and the abstract paintings that seemed to be windows into someone's broken psyche.

She questioned, "What am I doing here?"

Without offering her one, Isaac went to the bar, filled a glass with amber liquid, and took a sip. His gaze fell upon hers. "You listened to a conversation you weren’t meant to hear," he stated. "Now you’re useful."

beneficial. Her sensibilities were pricked by the word.

Fear gathered in her belly as her fingers dug into the fabric.

For what purpose is it useful?

Between them, the glass table shone like a sheet of ice. Isaac carefully and methodically placed a folder on it. Evelyn's eyes followed the action, fear mixed with interest.

Asking, "What's this?"

When he opened the folder, a hefty contract was visible. The front page said: Marriage Agreement - Blackwell & Drake in bold, black characters.

Her lips went parched. "Marriage?"

"Yes." Leaning back, he observed her with the dispassion of a chess master assessing the bewilderment of an opponent. "A year. You will be my wife in public. Nothing more than a placeholder in private.

With a giggle of disbelief, Evelyn shook her head. "You’re joking."

"Do I look like I joke?"

No, he didn't. His face was etched with hard lines, sharp angles, and stone. There was no trace of humour in his eyes, simply icy calculating.

Her words, "This is insane," "Why me?"

"Because you’re nobody."

She recoiled at the bluntness.

His tone remained firm. "You don't have any relatives. No hidden agenda. You'll comply, get the money, and then vanish a year later."

Her heart pounded. "And if I refuse?"

Isaac's eyes become stony. You return to your run-down flat, where you are drowning in debt. Creditors are calling. You are eventually evicted by the landlord. Perhaps a nice person employs you to clean the toilets in a mansion similar to mine. Or..." He pointed to the agreement. "You secure your future."

Panic constricted around Evelyn's chest as she gazed at the well-printed lettering, the words fading.

union. An agreement. A year imprisoned in a cage of gold.

Her mind cried out to flee. However, the oppressive recollection of her father's hospital bed and the mounting bills like an avalanche revealed a harsh reality: sacrifice is always necessary for existence.

She raised her gaze to Isaac. He waited, predatory and patient.

"Sign it," he said.

Isaac responded, "You're hesitating," in a quiet but firm voice. With his elbows resting on his knees, he sat opposite her. The impression of silent domination that clung to him like a second skin was deepened by the shadows cast across his face by the dark lighting.

"I should hesitate," she raged. "You're asking me to marry a stranger."

"I'm asking you to survive," he made amends. "The rest is irrelevant."

Her defences were cut down by the words. Make it through. Since her father's passing, the convent, and the realization that the world didn't reward virtue but instead ate it up, the term had plagued her.

She gripped the pen tighter. Memories flashed through her mind: her father's collapse at the dinner table, the landlord's sneer as he nailed the eviction notice to the door, and the long evenings spent figuring out numbers that never added up.

Through the fog, Isaac's voice could be heard. "Evelyn, this has nothing to do with fairy tales or love. It has to do with power. safety. One year later, you are free. I receive what I require.

She looked him in the eye. "And what’s that?"

"Control."

She gasped. He didn't flinch. Unquestionably, the weight of his honesty coiled around her.

An inch above the paper, the pen hovered.

Sign it, murmured survival. Live after signing it.

She jerked her wrist. The line was met with the nib. Like a vein being opened, the ink flowed.

With a hand that no longer felt like hers, she put the pen down when it was finished.

With a subdued snap, Isaac seized the contract and flipped it shut. "Congratulations," he murmured while getting to his feet. "You're officially Mrs. Blackwell."

Evelyn felt the floor wobble under her. Her throat tightened. "What happens now?"

He made cufflink adjustments. "Now you move into the manor."

As though beckoned by his order, the penthouse door opened. Her legs were leaden as she turned towards it.

"Oh, and Evelyn?"

She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

"Welcome to hell."

Behind her, the door clicked shut. The lift plunged into obscurity. The pressure she had put on the pen caused her fingers to hurt.

She was doomed.

The demon she had recently married didn't even turn around.

Her hands shaking, she stuffed a pair of jeans into her battered duffel bag. She felt as though she was closing a door to the life she had once dreamed of with each thing she packed. The door was rocked by a knock.

"Evelyn?"

It was the same voice, soft with a hint of concern. She had only one friend, Sophia Langley.

The door was opened by Evelyn. As soon as Sophia entered, she noticed the partially packed luggage. She pursed her lips. "You're really doing it?"

Evelyn collapsed onto the bed's edge. "I signed the contract."

Sophia furrows her brows. "You don't really know him. Isaac Blackwell poses a threat.

Evelyn remarked, "He's my only way out," in a brittle voice.

Sophia knelt next to her. "You're making a deal with the devil."

Evelyn laughed without humour. "The devil pays better than the debt collectors."

Sophia winced. "You are welcome to remain here. Together, we'll figure it out.

"With what do you figure it out? The debt of my father? The weekly knockers who are collectors?" Evelyn jerked to her feet. "I can’t live like that anymore."

Sophia slumped her shoulders. She took Evelyn's hand in hers. "Don't let them destroy you."

Evelyn resisted the squeeze. "They won’t."

The vehicle slowed. The iron gates of Blackwell Manor loomed ahead, surrounded by marble lions that appeared to be following her gaze. Fear twisted around her ribs as the gates creaked open. The vehicle proceeded down the cobblestone driveway and came to a halt in front of the mansion's imposing entryway.

The door opened. The smell of roses and something colder, more metallic, filled the chilly morning air. Evelyn went outside. The sound of her trainers crunching on the gravel was lost in the stifling silence of the mansion.

Hands clasped behind her back, Natalia Westbrook stood at the top of the stone steps. Her dark hair, tied into a tight bun, glinted in the morning sun. Evelyn's pants and tattered blazer caught her piercing, indifferent stare.

"Welcome back," replied Natalia in a cold voice. She turned a little and pointed at the enormous doors that were open, like the jaws of some sleeping monster. "Let the games begin."

Evelyn felt sick to her stomach. Games.