Contract with the devil ceo

Chapter 1

Elara Voss clutched her worn portfolio like a shield, heart hammering as the elevator doors slid open on the top floor of Blackthorne Tower.

The air smelled of money, crisp, cold, and expensive.

Marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the city skyline.

This wasn’t just a building. It was a kingdom.

Don’t screw this up, she told herself. Mom’s next treatment is due in two weeks.

She smoothed down her only decent black pencil skirt, the one that hugged her curves a little too tightly after she’d skipped too many meals to pay bills.

Her white blouse was crisp but simple, and her long chestnut hair was pinned up in what she hoped looked professional. At twenty-four, she was tired of scraping by as a freelance graphic designer. Today’s interview for the junior creative position at Blackthorne Empire was her last real shot.

She took a steadying breath and stepped forward only to collide with a solid wall of muscle.

Hot coffee exploded across a pristine white shirt.

“s**t!” Elara gasped, staring in horror at the dark stain spreading over the broad chest in front of her.

The cup slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

Strong hands shot out to steady her as she stumbled back. Her gaze traveled upward slowly over a perfectly tailored charcoal suit jacket, a powerful neck, and then a face that could make angels sin.

Damien Blackthorne.

The Damien Blackthorne. The man whose face had been on the cover of Forbes twice this year. Sharp jawline, piercing steel-gray eyes, and black hair styled with ruthless precision.

He was taller than in person than she’d imagined, easily six-three, with shoulders that strained against his jacket like he could bench-press a boardroom table.

And right now, those eyes were locked on her with dangerous intensity.

“I—I’m so sorry,” Elara stammered, grabbing napkins from a nearby reception desk and pressing them frantically against his ruined shirt.

Her fingers brushed the hard planes of his chest through the damp fabric. Heat radiated from his body, and for one electric second, she felt the steady thump of his heart under her palm.

“I didn’t see you. God, your shirt.”

“Leave it.” His voice was low, commanding, like velvet wrapped around steel. He caught her wrist, stopping her frantic dabbing.

His grip was firm, warm, sending an unwelcome spark straight down her spine.

Elara froze, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were.

The faint scent of his cologne sandalwood and something darker wrapped around her. Up close, he was devastating.

A faint scar traced along his left cheekbone, adding a dangerous edge to his perfect features. His eyes dropped for the briefest moment to where her blouse had pulled tight across her chest from the collision, then flicked back to her face.

“You’re late,” he said flatly.

Her stomach dropped. “You’re… conducting the interviews yourself?”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, cold and unreadable. “I oversee everything in my company, Miss…?”

“Voss. Elara Voss.” She said shyly.

He released her wrist but didn’t step back. The air between them crackled. “Follow me.”

Elara’s legs felt unsteady as she trailed him into a massive corner office.

The door clicked shut behind them with a finality that made her pulse race. Floor-to-ceiling glass on two sides, a sleek black desk that probably cost more than her entire apartment, and a leather couch that looked sinfully soft.

“Sit.”

She perched on the edge of the chair across from him, clutching her portfolio in her lap.

Damien shrugged off his ruined jacket, revealing a white shirt now partially translucent from the coffee.

The fabric clung to defined pectorals and the ridges of his abs. Elara forced her eyes to his face, cheeks burning.

He leaned back in his chair, studying her like she was a puzzle he intended to solve. Or break.

“Your portfolio,” he said, holding out a hand.

She handed it over. His long fingers brushed hers, and damn it, another jolt of heat shot through her.

What was wrong with her? This man was terrifying.

Everyone knew the stories said about him.

He was ruthless in business, colder in his personal life.

Women went in and out of his world like seasonal trends.

Damien flipped through her designs in silence. The tension stretched until she thought she might snap.

“Not bad,” he finally murmured. “You have talent. But talent doesn’t impress me, Miss Voss. Results do.”

“I can deliver results,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’ve worked on campaigns that—”

“You’re desperate.” He cut her off, closing the portfolio with a soft thud. Those gray eyes pinned her in place.

“Medical bills. Rent three months behind. Freelance gigs drying up. I make it my business to know who walks into my building.”

Elara’s mouth went dry. “That’s… private.”

“Not when you want to work for me.” He rose from his chair and circled the desk like a predator.

When he stopped in front of her, she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “I have a proposition for you.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. “A… job?”

“More than that.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “My grandfather is dying. He wants to see me settled before he goes. A merger worth billions hinges on the image of stability. I need a fiancée. Six months. You’ll live in my penthouse, attend events on my arm, and play the part convincingly.”

Elara blinked, sure she’d misheard. “Excuse me?”

“In exchange,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “I’ll clear every debt you have. Your mother’s treatments at the best facility in the country. A salary generous enough to make your head spin. And when it’s over, you walk away richer, with connections that will open every door you want.”

He leaned down, bracing one hand on the arm of her chair, caging her without touching. His breath brushed her ear.

“You’ll be mine on paper, Miss Voss. But I expect you to make it believable. The eyes, the touches… the nights when the world is watching.”

Heat flooded her body. The way he said nights sent wicked images flashing through her mind, his hands on her waist, that hard body pressing her against cool glass windows, his mouth claiming hers with the same intensity he brought to boardrooms.

“This is insane,” she whispered, but her voice trembled with something dangerously close to excitement. “Why me?”

“Because you’re ordinary enough to be believable,” he said, straightening. A flicker of something darker crossed his face.

“And because you just ruined a ten-thousand-dollar shirt. Consider this your compensation package.”

He slid a contract across the desk toward her. The words Confidential Agreement stared back in bold letters.

“Sign, and your new life begins tonight. Refuse… and you can walk out of here with nothing but the memory of spilling coffee on the devil.” He smirked.

Elara’s fingers hovered over the papers. Her mother’s frail smile flashed in her mind. The mountain of bills.

The endless nights wondering how she’d survive another month.

But when she looked up at Damien Blackthorne, standing there like sin incarnate with coffee still damp on his chest and possession burning in his eyes, she knew this deal came with chains wrapped in velvet.

And part of her, the reckless, aching part wanted to find out exactly how tight those chains would feel.