I didn't sleep that night. Not really. My mind replayed the gala over and over—the glint of chandeliers, the murmured conversations, and most of all, the shadow of Damian Hale lingering behind my eyes like smoke I couldn't shake. I had thought fear would keep me awake, but it wasn't fear. Not exactly. It was the weight of inevitability.
By morning, my freelance accounts were frozen. Emails bounced. Clients I had counted on vanished as if the world itself had swallowed them. At first, I thought it was coincidence. Then the threats began—subtle, insidious. Anonymous texts warning me to drop the Hale story. My apartment key rattling as though someone had tested the lock. Even my phone felt unsafe, buzzing with numbers I didn't recognize, leaving voicemails I didn't dare listen to.
And then he appeared.
Not in person—at least, not yet. A black envelope arrived, sliding through my mailbox as silently as a shadow. No markings. No stamp. I ripped it open with trembling fingers and pulled out a single sheet of thick cream paper, the words scrawled in precise, elegant handwriting that made me nauseous with recognition:
Meet me tonight. 9 PM. Hale Estate.
No explanation. No signature. Just the date, the time, and the place.
I stared at it, the paper shaking in my hands. My heart thudded in my chest, a drumbeat of both terror and anticipation. I should have thrown it away. I should have called Evelyn. I should have run screaming into the streets, back to my pathetic, predictable Brooklyn life. But the same stubborn streak that had gotten me into this mess refused to let me.
I borrowed another dress from Evelyn—a midnight blue gown that clung to curves I wished were mine in the first place. I applied makeup like armor, painted my lips with defiance, and told myself I was going to get the story, whatever it took.
The drive out to the Hale estate was silent, except for the hum of the engine. The city faded behind me, replaced by dark roads flanked with trees whose skeletal branches clawed at the sky. The mansion appeared suddenly, a Gothic monolith bathed in moonlight, windows glimmering like eyes watching me, judging me, daring me to enter.
I knocked, heart hammering in my ears. The door opened before I could even raise my hand again.
Damian Hale.
He stood there, black suit perfectly tailored, expression unreadable, but his eyes—those damn eyes—burned with something I couldn't name. Possession, curiosity, predation. I stepped back reflexively, but the door didn't close behind me. It wasn't a welcome. It was a cage.
"You came," he said, voice low, smooth, deliberate.
"I came for the truth," I shot back. "Not… whatever this is." My words sounded hollow even to me.
His half-smile was dangerous. "Truth has a price, Mara."
He didn't explain. He didn't invite me in casually. He led me through halls of marble and shadow, corridors that seemed impossibly long, each doorway a reminder that this mansion was a labyrinth designed to impress—or intimidate—depending on who walked through it.
We stopped in a study. Dark wood, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the faint scent of old leather and something else—power, authority, danger. He gestured to a chair. I stayed standing.
"You don't trust me," he observed.
"I don't trust anyone who could ruin me in a single word," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though the tremor in my hands betrayed me.
He chuckled softly, a sound that was more predatory than amused. "Fair. Then perhaps a compromise is necessary."
I frowned, unsure whether to be relieved or terrified. "What kind of compromise?"
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folder, sliding it across the desk. My name was printed on the cover in bold, black letters: Mara Ellis – Contract Proposal.
I froze. "I don't understand."
"You will," he said simply. "Read it."
My fingers shook as I opened it. The paper inside was precise, clinical, and horrifying: a marriage contract. One year. In exchange, all my debts would vanish, my safety would be guaranteed, my freelance accounts reinstated. Refuse, and every safety net I had would disappear—my home, my work, maybe even my life.
I looked up at him. "You can't be serious."
"I am," he said, voice flat, eyes cold. "Do you understand what's at stake?"
"Yes," I whispered, the word tasting like ashes on my tongue.
"Good." He leaned back, studying me like a predator weighing prey. "You'll have your room. Your space. Within the estate, you will follow my rules. You will not leave without permission. You will… obey when necessary. Break the contract, and consequences will follow."
The weight of his words pressed down on me, suffocating. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But I also knew something I couldn't explain—I wouldn't survive in this city without him. Not against him. Not without him.
I looked at the paper again. The numbers, the legal jargon, the cold precision of it all. One year. My life traded in a ledger of domination and control.
And yet… there was a pull I couldn't resist.
"I…" I began, voice trembling. "…I need time."
He shook his head. "No. Decide now, Mara. Every moment of hesitation is a risk you cannot afford."
I swallowed hard, my mind a hurricane of fear, fury, and something darker, something impossible to name. One year. One year with a man who could ruin me with a whisper, a man who terrified me, a man I couldn't stop thinking about despite every warning bell in my head.
"I accept," I finally whispered.
Damian's eyes darkened, a storm contained within his gaze. "Wise choice," he said, standing. His presence filled the room, a tidal wave of power and danger. He didn't smile, not really. But the air between us crackled, a tension that was sharp, electric, and utterly consuming.
I had just signed a contract with the devil. And I had no idea how thoroughly I was about to be consumed.