The Deal With The Devil In Prada

Boomerang

Clause 9: No emotional attachment. Ever.

My heart twisted. That was the real cost. Not just my body. Not just my freedom. My heart.

Was I ready to carve that out of myself?

I glanced up and found him watching me again. That long, unsettling stare—measured, unreadable. The kind of stare that made you wonder if he saw straight through your soul. Each time I caught him, he’d look away, as if guilty of something neither of us could name.

The pen felt heavy in my hand as I finally signed. My chest tightened with the knowledge of what I had just agreed to: to become the other woman. To help a husband betray his wife.

The air between us shifted. We sat in silence, staring at one another across the desk, as if acknowledging a line we could never uncross.

Then, his voice cut through. Low. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Aren’t you leaving yet?”

“Oh—right,” I muttered, fumbling to stand. Heat rushed to my cheeks. I twisted my fingers in my lap, then hurried out before my courage could collapse.

Behind me, the door clicked shut. And with it, so did the last piece of the life I once knew.

By the time I got back to the hospital, the bills had already been paid and Dave was in surgery. The nurse said the doctor mentioned a philanthropist had stepped in. But only I knew the truth.

Two days later, Dave was stable. He was discharged with a smile weak but alive. Relief washed over all of us. Soon after, I moved my parents and siblings into a new home—nothing extravagant, just a simple, elegant apartment that finally felt like safety.

Life settled into something almost normal again. Dave started recuperating. Ivana, though, grew curious, asking every so often where I had gotten the money. I always deflected with flimsy excuses about odd jobs, refunds from my L.A. trip, or selling old belongings. She never pressed too hard, but I saw the questions lingering in her eyes.

One Sunday afternoon, Jenna appeared without warning.

“Soraya,” she said softly, stepping into the living room.

“Hey, sis,” I replied, my tone cool as ice.

“Ivana told me about everything.”

The words lodged between us like a blade.

“Okay,” I said flatly.

“Okay? Where did you get the money?” Jenna’s voice cracked, urgent.

“Somewhere,” I shot back, sharper than I intended.

Her eyes narrowed. “What have you done, Soraya?”

I said nothing.

She took a step closer, repeating, “What have you done?”

That was it. The dam broke. “What did you expect me to do, Jenna? You blocked us out. You wouldn’t even listen!” My voice rose, thick with rage and exhaustion.

“I didn’t know Dave was sick,” she whispered, guilt flickering across her face.

“That is not an excuse!” I snapped. “You kicked us out. And now—now—you dare come here asking how I got the money?”

Her silence infuriated me. The words spilled out like venom. “You don’t visit unless it’s the holidays. You only come to flaunt your perfect life—your prince charming, your luxury, your jackpot family. Well guess what? I hit the damn jackpot too. And I’ll deal with it!”

“Soraya, see—” she started, voice trembling.

But I cut her off, my voice sharp as glass. “I am done with this conversation.”

And I walked out, leaving her standing in the ruins of what was left of our sisterhood.

I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, my hands twisting in my lap. The silence pressed in on me, too heavy, too sharp. Every tick of the clock made my pulse quicken. I had never felt so exposed, so out of place, perched in a room that smelled faintly of leather and cologne.

The door opened.

Cardan stepped inside like he owned not just the room but the air itself. The dim light caught the hard lines of his face, the storm in his eyes, the immaculate cut of his suit. My throat went dry.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply closed the door, the sound echoing like a verdict, then crossed the room with steady, unhurried strides. I tried to look away, but his gaze held me still, pinning me in place.

“You’re nervous,” he said at last, his voice low, certain.

A shaky laugh escaped me. “You think?”

His faint smile was unreadable—part cruel, part tender—and it made my chest tighten. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

When he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb along my cheek, warmth seared through me, scattering every coherent thought.

And then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss hit me like fire—commanding, relentless, but impossibly sweet beneath the heat. My breath caught, my fingers curling into his shirt as though I might drown if I let go. He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding behind my neck, the other pulling me flush against the solid strength of his body.

My heart pounded wildly. The world outside this room ceased to exist. There was only Cardan’s lips moving against mine, claiming, coaxing, consuming—and the dizzying realization that I never wanted him to stop.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against mine, his breath warm and uneven.

“You taste like temptation,” he murmured, voice rougher than before.

My lips trembled, still bruised from his touch. “And you,” I whispered back, “feel like danger I can’t resist.”

The words had barely left my mouth before I pulled him back to me. This time, there was no hesitation, only hunger. He responded instantly, his mouth crushing mine in a surge of heat that sent a shiver racing down my spine. His hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head just enough to deepen the kiss, while the other pressed firmly against the small of my back, holding me so close I felt the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine.

My hands moved restlessly, tugging at the lapels of his suit. The fabric was smooth beneath my fingers, but it wasn’t enough. I needed him—not the armor of expensive tailoring. With a swift pull, I slid the jacket from his shoulders. It fell silently to the floor, forgotten.

My palms skimmed over his shirt, feeling the taut muscles shift beneath the crisp fabric. Heat coiled low in my stomach.

I hesitated at the buttons, my breath stuttering, until I looked up at him. His gaze locked with mine, steady and unblinking, daring me.

My fingers moved. One button, then another, slow and deliberate, until the shirt parted just enough to reveal sculpted muscle, the ridges of his abdomen hard and defined beneath the faint glow of the lamp.

My breath hitched. The sight was devastating—power and restraint carved into every line of him.

I traced my fingertips against his skin, tentative at first, then bolder, following the hard planes of his chest. He drew in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as though he were forcing himself to remain still beneath my touch.

The kiss that followed was different—deeper, fiercer. No longer just temptation, but a dangerous promise neither of us seemed willing, or able, to break.

I was so exhausted aftermaths but before leaving, my eyes caught on a small silver pendant resting on the table. It belonged to Alexander. Against my better judgment, I opened it.

Inside was a picture of a woman—his wife. She was radiant, smiling as she clutched a bouquet of white roses, her pink floral dress catching the light. Happiness radiated from her face, the kind of joy that made my chest ache.

Guilt clawed at me instantly. I snapped the pendant shut and set it back where I’d found it, my fingers trembling. I had become a worse version of myself—a shadow I barely recognized—all for money. No matter how hard I tried to shrug it off, the image of her smile lingered, haunting me.

That night, I lay in bed with a heavy heart, sleep refusing to come.

A month passed. By then, my body carried the undeniable swell of pregnancy. My emotions were fragile, strung taut between shame and longing, when a sharp knock rattled my door.

I opened it—and froze.

Sasha.

Her expression shifted from shock to fury in a single heartbeat. Before I could speak, her hand struck my face. The sting burned across my cheek, and then another slap followed, harder, crueler. She grabbed my hair, yanking until tears stung my eyes, dragging me like I was nothing more than dirt beneath her feet.

“You ruined everything!” she screamed, her words cutting deeper than her blows.

And then came the humiliation. Within hours, photos of me were splattered across social media, each post stamped with Sasha’s venom. Homewrecker. Wicked slut. Money-hungry w***e.

The world believed her. Everybody hated me.

Even Jenna, with her endless tongue, finally seized her chance to spit poison. Her smug “I told you so” echoed louder than any scream.

I became an outcast. My family’s disappointment was a weight I could no longer bear. Depression dragged me into its pit, anxiety shredded my every breath. And then came the cruelest twist of all—pain tearing through my body until I lost the child I had carried.

A hollow silence followed.

I collapsed to the floor, clutching my stomach, a raw, piercing cry ripping out of me. It wasn’t just grief—it was the sound of something inside me breaking, a banshee’s wail that filled the empty room and reminded me of the truth I couldn’t escape.

I had lost everything.