Chapter 1: The Offer You Can't Refuse
The Devil's Pet Wife
Elara Monroe stared at the hospital bill in her hands, the paper crumpling between her trembling fingers. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The numbers blurred before her eyes. Rent was due. Her mother's treatment was past overdue. And now her manager had fired her—on her only off day—without warning.
Because the café was "downsizing."
Because they didn't "need her anymore."
Because the world never needed someone like her.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them away. Crying wouldn't save her mother. Crying wouldn't fix the zeros in her bank account. Crying wouldn't bring back the life she lost five years ago when her father's business collapsed—and took her family's name down with it.
She sat on a rusted bench outside the hospital, hugging her coat tighter. It was still early, but the sky was already a moody gray. The air smelled like rain. Her phone buzzed against her thigh.
Unknown Number:Come outside.
She frowned. She was already outside. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She considered deleting it. Blocking the number.
But before she could decide, a black car pulled up in front of her.
Sleek. Expensive. Polished to a mirror shine. The kind of car that didn't belong in her world anymore.
The back door opened.
And there he was.
Damien Blackwood.
He hadn't changed. Sharp jaw, colder eyes. That same unreadable face carved from stone and money. A tailored black suit, a dark silk shirt beneath, and no tie—he didn't need one. Power dripped from him like smoke, like poison in the air.
Elara froze.
The man who'd destroyed her father's company. The one whose lawyers dragged her family through the mud, press conference after press conference, until her father died of a stroke two months after the verdict.
What the hell was he doing here?
"Elara Monroe," he said simply. "Get in."
Her spine stiffened. "You've got the wrong girl."
"I never have the wrong anything," he replied.
She glanced around. The hospital parking lot was empty. Cold dread crept up her neck.
"You think I'd step into a car with the devil himself?"
He smirked faintly. "I think you're broke, freezing, and desperate. And I'm offering you something you need more than your pride."
Her lips parted. Her heart pounded. "What could you possibly offer me?"
He didn't answer. Not directly. Instead, he held up a black folder. Sleek, thick, and stamped with the logo of his company—Blackthorn Industries.
"Last chance," he said. "You get in, or I drive away."
The words hit harder than they should have.
She got in.
The door shut behind her with a soft click. The leather seats smelled expensive. She didn't belong in this car—hadn't belonged in his world since her family lost everything. Still, she sat stiffly beside him, watching his every move like a cornered animal.
He didn't look at her. Just opened the folder and pulled out a document.
When she saw the bold letters across the top, her breath caught.
ENGAGEMENT AGREEMENT.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"I never kid about money," Damien said coolly. "This is real."
Elara stared at him, wide-eyed. "You want to marry me?"
He chuckled, low and sharp. "Don't flatter yourself. It's a fake engagement. Temporary. Public appearances only. Events. Photos. Press interviews."
She blinked. "Why me?"
"Because you're a nobody. A clean, quiet one. And because no one would ever believe I'd fall for you."
She flinched.
"I don't need a scandal. I need an image," Damien continued. "The board is pressuring me to settle down. They think a woman will make me more 'stable'." He said it like it tasted bitter.
"So, I'm your… prop?"
"You're the perfect distraction."
Elara clenched her fists. "Find someone else."
"Someone else wouldn't work." He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "You, Elara, come with baggage. Tragedy. Sympathy. You're still seen as a victim. You're exactly what the press wants to see on my arm."
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to scream. But mostly, she wanted to cry.
Instead, she asked, "What's the price?"
"One million dollars," he said smoothly. "Half now. Half when the engagement ends."
Her jaw dropped.
Her heart stopped.
That was more than enough to cover her mother's treatment. Enough to move them out of their tiny apartment. Enough to breathe again.
But from Damien?
"I'd rather starve," she whispered.
He turned his head finally, those icy gray eyes locking onto hers. "Then your mother dies. Maybe next week. Maybe sooner."
Her blood went cold.
"How do you—"
"I know everything," he interrupted. "The debt. The diagnosis. The rejection letters. You think you're invisible, Elara. But the world still watches when you bleed."
She looked down at the folder. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the last page.
He stopped her with a firm grip on her wrist.
Elara froze.
His touch wasn't rough. But it wasn't gentle either. It was… commanding.
He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed her cheek.
"You'll smile," he said softly. "Obey. And keep your legs closed."
Then he added, with a whisper of a smirk—
"Unless I change my mind."
Her skin burned where his fingers touched. She hated the way her body reacted to him—like some buried part of her remembered this man. Remembered wanting him before she learned to hate him.
Elara pulled her hand back sharply. "You're disgusting."
Damien leaned back with a cool smile, watching her like a predator watches prey.
"And yet here you are," he murmured.
"I'm only here because you offered me money," she shot back.
"Exactly." He tapped the folder once. "And that means we're already doing business, Miss Monroe. You might as well read the fine print."
She flipped through the pages with shaking hands. She didn't understand all the legal jargon, but one thing was clear—this wasn't just about public events.
He wanted access to her life. Full control.
Where she went.
What she wore.
Who she spoke to.
And at the bottom of the page, in bold black ink:
"No physical intimacy unless publicly required."
Elara laughed bitterly. "Publicly required? What is this, a scripted porno?"
Damien didn't laugh. "You'll be seen. Touched. Photographed. The press will expect affection."
"And if I refuse?"
He tilted his head. "Then you breach the contract. And your mother's treatment vanishes with your pride."
Her stomach twisted. "You really are the devil."
His voice dropped. "And you're in my palm now, little thorn. Might as well sharpen your edges."
The car slowed. She looked out the tinted window—and froze.
This wasn't her neighborhood. This was uptown. Gated estates. White pillars. Iron fences lined with roses and armed guards.
He was taking her to his home.
"I didn't agree to anything," she said quickly.
"No," Damien murmured. "But you will."
The gates opened. The car slipped through like a shark into open water.
Inside, the mansion loomed like a castle—sharp lines, cold windows, beauty carved into stone. A black and white world, just like the man who ruled it.
The moment she stepped out, rain began to fall.
Damien didn't offer her an umbrella.
She walked past him, spine stiff, shoulders square. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her shake.
The entryway smelled like leather and something darker—something male. His scent was everywhere. Power and sin.
"You'll stay in the east wing," he said, his voice echoing in the silence. "A maid will prepare your room."
"I didn't say yes."
He turned to her slowly. "You got in the car."
"That doesn't mean I'm yours."
He stepped closer.
So close she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.
His voice was soft. Dangerous.
"Everything inside my house is mine, Elara. Especially the things I bought."
"You haven't signed yet," she breathed.
"You will."
He reached out, slowly brushing a wet strand of hair from her face.
"You just haven't decided how far you'll fall first."
Her breath caught in her throat.
And the scene went still—thick with tension, heat, and danger.
Then his phone buzzed.
He answered it without looking away from her. "What?"
A pause.
"Tell the press the engagement is official. I've already brought her home."
Elara's blood ran cold.
"You—you didn't even wait for my answer!"
Damien turned his back on her. "Then I suggest you start acting like a fiancée, Miss Monroe. Or I'll make the role harder for you."
He walked away, voice low, final:
"The cameras arrive tomorrow. You have twelve hours to decide if you're going to be a pet... or a problem."