Chapter 4: Deal with the Devil
1082 Words
Avena’s POV
I knew this was a mistake the moment my finger hovered over ‘Send’.
And yet, I pressed it anyway.
I sat there, staring at the laptop screen, my pulse thrumming in my ears. The email was gone, the decision made.
I had just accepted a job working for him.
Damian Carter.
Arrogant, cold, calculating—and now, officially, my boss.
What the hell had I just done?
The realization settled over me like a weight as I closed my laptop and slumped back into my chair.
"Okay, breathe," I muttered to myself. "It’s just a job. A good job. A job that pays actual money. Money that will help Dad."
That was the most important thing, wasn’t it?
Rent. Medical bills. Food.
I wasn’t an i***t—I knew the reality of our situation. If I kept selling books at the pace I was going, I’d barely scrape by, and my scholarship, while a blessing, didn’t put actual cash in my pocket.
A job at Carter Publishing Group, though? That was stability.
Even if it came with the world’s most infuriating boss.
A shiver ran down my spine as I remembered the way Damian had looked at me today, his eyes sharp and assessing, as if he was cataloging everything about me in real-time.
It had been a battle of words, sure, but it had also been something else.
Something I didn’t want to name.
I shook my head, pushing back from the table. Dwelling on him wouldn’t change the fact that I needed this job.
And if that meant dealing with Damian Carter’s particular brand of arrogance, then so be it.
The Next Morning
When my alarm blared at six-thirty, I groaned and buried my face in my pillow.
It had taken me forever to fall asleep last night, my mind a whirlwind of worst-case scenarios. Would he be worse in the office than he had been at the university? Would he ignore me completely? Would I end up quitting by lunch?
There was only one way to find out.
I rolled out of bed, showered, and pulled on the most professional-looking outfit I owned—black slacks and a cream-colored blouse. I didn’t exactly have a corporate wardrobe, but this would have to do.
As I grabbed my bag, I peeked into Dad’s room. He was still asleep, his breathing steady. Good.
With one last deep breath, I walked out the door.
Carter Publishing Group
I had never set foot inside the company before, but the second I walked into the building, I understood exactly why Damian Carter was the king of the publishing world.
Everything was sleek, modern, and expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows, white marble floors, abstract art that probably cost more than my entire education.
I clutched my bag tighter and walked up to the front desk.
"Avena Cross. I’m here for my first day."
The receptionist, a sharp-dressed woman with perfectly styled curls, glanced up, then checked her screen.
"Ah, yes. You’re expected." She gestured toward the elevator. "Mr. Carter’s office is on the top floor."
Of course it was.
I stepped into the elevator, heart pounding.
I hated that I was nervous. I didn’t get nervous.
But something about him made my stomach twist into knots.
The doors slid open, revealing an open floor plan with walls of glass, endless bookshelves, and a panoramic view of the city.
And there, standing near his desk, was Damian Carter.
He was wearing a crisp black suit, tailored perfectly to his tall, lean frame. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
And he was watching me.
Like he had been expecting me.
Like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
Annoying.
"Miss Cross," he said smoothly, stepping around his desk. "Punctual. That’s a good start."
"I try," I replied, keeping my tone even.
His gaze flicked over me, assessing, before he nodded toward a chair in front of his desk. "Sit."
I sat.
"Do you know why I hired you?" he asked, lowering himself into his chair.
"Because you enjoy torturing people?"
He smirked, but there was something sharp behind it. "Because I don’t like wasting time. And you struck me as someone who doesn’t waste time either."
I folded my arms. "You gathered that from one conversation?"
"I gathered that from the way you didn’t hesitate to challenge me."
His eyes locked onto mine, something unreadable flickering in them. "You’re smart. Quick. And more importantly, you’re good at what you do."
I swallowed, caught off guard by the bluntness of it.
"Graham speaks highly of you. Says you’re the best student he’s ever had."
I blinked. Professor Graham said that?
"Says you’re a damn good writer, too," Damian continued, watching me closely. "You want to be in publishing, don’t you? This is your shot."
Damn him.
Damn him for knowing exactly how to push the right buttons.
"And what exactly would my job entail?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.
"You’ll be working directly under me," he said.
That shouldn’t have made my stomach flip.
"Assisting with manuscript reviews, production schedules, liaising with authors, making sure nothing goes to print without my approval. You’ll also be expected to keep up with the market trends, analyze new submissions, and occasionally deal with difficult clients."
"So I’m your babysitter."
"You’re my assistant."
"Same thing."
His lips twitched.
"If you’re done being difficult, I’d like to know whether or not you’re accepting the offer."
I exhaled slowly.
I knew the answer.
I had known it from the moment I clicked ‘Send’ last night.
"Fine," I said. "I’ll do it."
He leaned back, satisfied.
"Good. You start now."
By the time I left his office hours later, my brain was spinning.
The man worked like a machine—efficient, relentless. He had thrown files at me within the first ten minutes, expecting me to keep up, and to my surprise, I had.
It had been... exhilarating.
Infuriating, but exhilarating.
And now, standing outside the building, staring at the email confirming my official hire, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had just stepped onto a path I couldn’t turn back from.
I had a real job. A real salary. A real problem.
Because Damian Carter was going to make my life hell.
And, worse?
I had the sinking suspicion I was going to enjoy it.
I walked away, knowing full well my life would never be the same again.
- Writer
