"Every contract has fine print. Mine just happened to include my soul."
The walls of Varezzi Holdings gleamed like polished obsidian, mirroring my reflection as I passed. It was the kind of building that reeked of control…too clean, too quiet, the air conditioned to precision. Everything here moved to his rhythm.
The secretary followed me into the elevator, as the doors pressed close, reflecting a lady in a black blazer before me. The door slid open, revealing a grand hallway made of polished marble tiles.
My heels clicked against the tiles as she led me down the hallway. We stopped before a pair of matte-black doors. Gold initials N.V. were carved into the center like a signature on a grave.
"Mr. Varezzi is expecting you."
She turned away before I could answer, the sound of her heels fading into the hush of marble and glass.
I didn't hesitate to grab the doorknob. When I pushed the doors open, the first thing that struck me was the light. Pale winter light filtered through the rain streaking the windows behind him. It turned the office into something both beautiful and cold…like a cathedral built to worship order.
Nikolai Varezzi didn't look up at first.
He sat behind his desk, reading a document as if the world weren't collapsing at his feet…or maybe because he preferred to be the one collapsing it. His posture was precise, shoulders set, cufflinks catching the light.
When his gaze lifted, the room shrank around it.
"Elxara Devereaux," he said, and the syllables carried the faint weight of an old bruise.
"Nikolai." I didn't call him Mr. Varezzi. Not yet.
He didn't react, only motioned to the chair across from him. I crossed the room, the soft hum of the city filling the silence between us.
The desk was bare except for one folder, closed neatly, its edges lined in gold. The contract.
He turned it so it faced me. "You know what this is."
I sat. "I want to hear you say it."
His expression didn't move, but his tone carried something that almost resembled amusement. "Marriage. Two years. Public. Legally binding. In exchange, the Devereaux debts are cleared, your mother's estate restored, your father's name left unsoiled in the media."
The words hit with surgical precision. No cruelty, no pity…just truth.
"And what do you get?"
He met my eyes. "You."
The word hung between us, too quiet, too steady. I felt it, not as a threat, but as possession. The certainty of a man who had already decided how the story would end.
I looked down at the folder. The paper smelled faintly of ink and something metallic. I wondered if my father's signature had once been pressed under this same light.
"I assume you don't expect love," I said.
His voice dropped lower, quieter. "No. I expect loyalty."
Loyalty. The word burned.
My father had been loyal once. It hadn't saved him.
I leaned back in the chair, studying the man who had destroyed our name and was now offering to rebuild it, only so he could own it. He was too controlled, too deliberate; the kind of man who weaponized silence. Everything about him was made to test you – his stillness, his calm, even the faintest lift of a brow when you refused to look away.
"I was told you don't make personal deals," I said.
"I don't."
"Then why me?"
A pause. The faint tick of his watch filled it. "Because your father took something from me. And I intend to take it back, with interest."
My breath caught before I could stop it, but I kept my tone flat. "You're using me as collateral."
His gaze sharpened. "Collateral doesn't fight back."
I didn't answer. There was nothing to say. This wasn't a negotiation. This was an execution dressed in silk.
He slid the folder toward me. "You can walk away."
"And my mother?"
He didn't blink. "Loses everything."
So that was the fine print.
I picked up the pen. It was heavy, engraved with his initials, just like everything else in this place. The gold tip caught the light as I turned it between my fingers. My reflection shimmered faintly on its surface…stranger, colder.
I could feel his eyes on me as I flipped to the last page.
My name waited beside his.
Elxara Malia Devereaux. Nikolai Alessandro Varezzi.
Two names bound by ink and ruin.
My hand didn't tremble. I'd made this choice long before walking through his doors. It wasn't surrender, it was survival.
The pen touched paper. The sound was small, final.
When I finished, I set it down gently and leaned back. "There. You win."
He stood. Slowly. Like he'd been waiting years for this exact moment. The movement wasn't threatening, just absolute. His presence filled the room until the air felt heavier.
"Do you think this is a victory?" he asked.
I looked up at him, meeting the quiet steel of his eyes. "No. Just the cost of staying alive."
Something flickered in his expression; a flash of something darker, sadder, before it disappeared.
He came around the desk, closing the distance until I could smell his cologne – smoke and winter, faint but sharp.
"You could have said no," he murmured.
"I don't say no to survival."
His gaze lingered on me, unblinking. "You remind me of him."
My stomach turned cold. "My father?"
"He had the same eyes when he lied."
I didn't flinch, but the words sank deep. He wanted a reaction; I refused to give him one.
The silence stretched. The city below pulsed faintly against the glass, headlights streaking through the rain. I wondered if anyone out there could feel the gravity of what had just shifted in this room.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring – a plain silver band, no ornament, no warmth. He placed it on the desk between us.
"For appearances," he said.
I slid it onto my finger without hesitation. The metal was cold enough to bite.
When I looked up, he was studying me again…this time differently. Not as prey, but as something he couldn't quite classify.
"Is this where I thank you?" I asked.
"No." His voice was quiet. "This is where you stop pretending you're not afraid."
"I'm not," I lied.
His lips curved slightly, not in amusement, but something close to disbelief. "You will be."
He turned, gathering the contract into a leather folder. My signature gleamed faintly under the light, an oath sealed in black and gold.
When he faced me again, the edge of his composure had returned, polished and precise. The moment of softness…if it had even been that, was gone.
"Tomorrow, the press will know," he said. "Your story is simple: a business alliance born of convenience. You'll smile when I ask you to. Speak when I tell you to. That's all."
"And when you're not telling me to?"
He paused at the door, looking back. The faintest ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "Then I'll be watching."
I rose from the chair, my body calm, my heart anything but racing. The city lights flared behind him, turning him into something carved from shadow and consequence.
He lingered for a moment longer…just enough for the air between us to tighten, then he said it, quiet and deliberate:
"Congratulations, Mrs. Varezzi. Hell looks good on you."