Once His Contract Bride, Now His Hired Nanny

You don’t meet the devil in hell. You meet him in an office with glass walls and a view of the sea. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, but Elena’s knees knocked together loud enough that she was sure the suited man beside her could hear. She clutched her worn fake-leather bag to her chest like it was a shield. It wasn’t. Nothing she owned could shield her from the world of marble floors, silent men in black, and gold-lettered doors that spelled out a name she had only ever heard in whispers. DE LUCA GROUP “Miss Cruz?” the receptionist asked, standing as if her spine was made of steel. Elena swallowed. “Yes.” “Mr. De Luca is expecting you. This way, please.” Her sandals sounded too loud, too cheap, against the polished floor as she followed the woman through a hallway lined with abstract art and smoky mirrors. Every reflection reminded her of the same things: secondhand blouse, neatly braided hair, tired brown eyes that had seen too much for twenty-eight. The receptionist stopped in front of a pair of tall wooden doors and glanced back with a professional, unreadable smile. “Don’t make him wait,” she said, and pushed them open. The office was a world of shadows and sunlight. Floor-to-ceiling glass looked out over the ocean, where waves crashed against the rocky cliffs. The late afternoon sun cut across the room in sharp blades of gold, catching dust motes and the edge of a crystal decanter on a sideboard. And behind a wide black desk, a man sat like a king on a throne he didn’t need. Elena had seen pictures of Matteo De Luca, but pictures didn’t come with presence. He didn’t look up right away. One hand flipped through a leather folder; the other held a pen over a document he signed with clean, unhurried strokes. A watch gleamed at his wrist—simple, expensive, utterly unpretentious in the way that only people who never counted money could be. His hair was dark, cropped close at the sides but longer on top, a careless wave falling over his brow. His jaw was sharp, shadowed with stubble. Even sitting, he radiated something that made the air feel thick: power, danger, or just the certainty that nothing in this room could touch him without permission. The door clicked shut behind Elena. “Ms. Cruz,” he said, finally raising his eyes. They were dark. Not black—nothing was truly black—but a deep, stormy brown, the kind you could fall into and never find the bottom of. They skimmed her from head to toe in a single, efficient scan that left her cheeks burning. She forced her shoulders not to hunch. “You’re late,” he added. “I— it’s only five minutes,” she said before she could stop herself. A faint, disbelieving huff left his throat. “In my world, Miss Cruz, five minutes can mean the difference between a bullet and a clean exit.” He set his pen down with deliberate care. “Come closer.” Every instinct screamed no, but every rational thought said the same thing: you don’t have the luxury of fear. Not with Marco’s shaking hands and pale face flashing behind her eyes; not with the bruises she had seen on his ribs, souvenirs from men who never raised their voices but always raised their fists. Elena took three steps forward, then another two, until she stood across from his desk. Up close, he smelled faintly of something dark and expensive—cedar, maybe, and smoke. The kind of cologne you smelled in high-end malls, not on the overcrowded jeepneys she took to her part-time tutoring jobs. “Do you know why you’re here?” Matteo asked. Her grip tightened around the strap of her bag. “Because of my brother.” “Because of your brother,” he echoed lazily, leaning back in his chair. “Marco Cruz. Currently hiding in a cheap motel outside the city, if my men are correct. He owes money he does not have, to people who have run out of patience.” Elena’s heart stumbled. “He— he told me he was working things out—” “He was lying,” Matteo said simply. “Your brother is not very good at working things out. He is, however, excellent at digging deeper holes.” He opened the folder and slid a sheet of paper toward her. Even from a distance she could see the numbers. They blurred. “That is the amount he owes.” Her mouth went dry. She tried to form words, tried to blink the zeros into fewer zeros, but they just sat there, mocking her. “No one has that kind of money,” she whispered. “Not… not people like us. I could work three jobs, four, I could—” “You could,” Matteo said. “And by the time you pay even a third of it, your brother will have no kneecaps.” She flinched. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. He spoke with the calm of someone who discussed violence the way others discussed weather. “I don’t want Marco dead, Ms. Cruz,” he said. “He is a nuisance, but he is a useful nuisance. At least, he was, until he crossed the wrong people.” “The wrong people,” Elena repeated, her voice hollow. “You mean you.” One dark brow lifted. “Say it clearly.” She licked her lips. “He crossed you.” Something like approval flashed in his eyes. “I did not get where I am by lending money out of charity,” Matteo said. “I am not a bank, Ms. Cruz. I am not a church. And men like your brother do not respect kindness.” “My brother isn’t—” she began, then bit down on the rest. Not innocent. Not blameless. But he was still her family. “He is yours,” Matteo said. “That is the only reason we are having this conversation.” She blinked at him. “What do you mean?” “If it were just Marco, he would already be in the harbor,” Matteo said, as casually as if he were discussing where to put an extra chair. “But his file mentions a sister. A teacher. Clean record. No vices. No debts.” His gaze pinned her in place. “I prefer to receive payment,” he continued. “Not corpses.” Her stomach twisted. “I… I don’t have money. I barely pay rent. I can’t—” “You can’t pay me in cash,” he cut in. “But you can pay me in something else.” The way he said it made her spine stiffen. “I’m not that desperate,” she said immediately, heat flaring in her cheeks. “If you think I came here to sell my body—” His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Relax, Ms. Cruz. If I wanted a warm body, I wouldn’t be interviewing the woman who spends her weekends grading homework.” She should have been offended. Instead, absurdly, she felt a flicker of relief. “Then what?” she asked warily. He studied her for a long moment, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed like he was weighing more than her height and build. Like he was measuring her soul. “You’re strong,” he said finally. “Not physically.” His gaze flicked to her thin arms. “But here.” He tapped his temple. Then, after a beat, his chest. “And here.” She bristled. “You don’t know me.” “I know you took three jobs last year to help your mother with hospital bills,” he said, and the breath punched out of her lungs. “I know you finished your education degree while working nights at a café. I know you have never missed a payment, never broken a promise, and never run away from a problem. Until now.” Her throat closed around the words. Until now. “You shouldn’t know that,” she whispered. His eyes didn’t soften. “I know everything about the debts I choose to collect.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “I’m offering you a contract, Ms. Cruz.” The word sent a cold shot through her veins. “What kind of contract?” “Marriage.” The room tilted. For a second, Elena thought she had misheard him. That word did not exist in the universe of loan sharks and broken fingers. It belonged in cheap romance novels, not in a man whose ringless left hand still looked like it could snap necks. “Marriage?” she repeated faintly. “A legal marriage,” Matteo said. “One year. No more, no less. At the end of that year, your brother’s debt is forgiven. Completely.” Her pulse roared in her ears. “You’re joking.” “Do I look like a man who jokes?” he asked. No. He didn’t. The thought of him smiling at anything felt wrong. “Why?” Elena demanded. “You don’t even know me. You could have any woman you wanted—” “That’s precisely the problem,” he cut in. “Women who want me are rarely useful. You, on the other hand, are not here because you want me.” She flinched at the bluntness. “I need a wife,” he said. “For reasons that do not concern you. Someone who can attend events, smile at the right people, keep quiet around the wrong ones, and not stab me in the back while I sleep.” “And you think that’s me?” she asked, incredulous. “You’re loyal,” he said simply. “To your family. If you marry me for them, you will not betray me easily. Your fear is an asset; it will keep you alive. And your brother will stay in one piece.” Elena’s heart hammered so hard it hurt. A year. One year of her life, in exchange for Marco’s. She imagined her brother’s face, the way he had looked when he was eight and gave her the bigger piece of bread, telling her he wasn’t hungry. The way he’d looked two nights ago, stronger hands pinning him to a wall while he gasped apologies that meant nothing. “You’d let him go?” she asked hoarsely. “No more threats? No more… harbor?” “If you honor the contract,” Matteo said. “You will move into my house. You will be my wife in public. In private…” He paused, watching her carefully. “In private, we will decide what we can tolerate.” Heat licked up her neck at the implication. At the same time, anger flared. “So that’s it,” she said. “You buy me like a— like a thing, parade me around on your arm for a year, then throw me away when you’re bored?” Something flickered in his eyes. A flash of admiration? Surprise? “I don’t throw away what I pay for,” he said quietly. “I release it when the deal is done.” “That’s not better,” she shot back, but her voice shook. “Better than your brother’s burial,” he said. Silence pressed in. Outside the glass wall, a wave smashed against the cliff, sending spray into the air. The sound reached them a second later, dull and distant, like the echo of a choice she hadn’t made yet. “Do I have time to think about it?” she asked. “In other circumstances, yes,” Matteo said. “But the men your brother owed before I bought his debt are… impatient. They will not wait.” She closed her eyes. Her life had been small but hers. A rented room, a classroom full of sticky-fingered kids, the routine of lesson plans and cheap coffee. She had dreamed of more—maybe a better school, maybe someday a tiny place with a balcony and plants she wouldn’t kill by accident. But those dreams had never included marble floors and men with guns. When she opened her eyes, Matteo was still watching her. Still, calm, deadly. “If I say no?” she asked softly. He didn’t look away. “Then you walk out of this office the same woman you came in. And in a few days, you will be planning a funeral.” The words felt like a hand closing around her lungs. Her fingers trembled on the strap of her bag. “You’re a monster,” she whispered. One corner of his mouth lifted, humorless and cold. “I’ve been called worse.” He slid a pen across the desk, the click of plastic on wood echoing like a gunshot. “One year, Ms. Cruz,” he said. “You give me that, and I give your brother his life. Decide.” Elena stared at the pen. Her heart said run. Her mind said there is nowhere to run that he cannot reach. She thought of Marco. Of her mother’s gravestone. Of the kids in her classroom and their bright, hopeful faces. Then she reached out, picked up the pen, and heard herself say, in a voice that didn’t sound like hers at all: “Show me where to sign.”