The Deal With The Devil In Prada

Money Rush

I went back to the club the next night, nerves thrumming in my chest. The music pulsed through the walls, bass vibrating beneath my feet.

I drifted toward the bar, restless, pacing back and forth. Each time I stepped up, I nearly ordered a drink, only to turn away again. I must have done it half a dozen times, my indecision flickering like a bad neon sign. Whether it was the weight of my own frustration or the bartender’s patience finally snapping, I couldn’t tell. He leaned over the counter, eyes narrowing, and barked—

"what do you want?"

I lingered by the bar, clutching the counter. “Um… how can someone… entertain men in the VIP room?” The words came out small, almost swallowed.

The bartender arched a brow. “Are you asking for someone else… or for yourself?”

Heat rose to my cheeks. “I’m… sort of interested.”

“Then you’ll need to meet Miss Lara,” he said, polishing a glass. “She’ll tell you everything. But first, there’s a ten-thousand-dollar entry fee.”

I nearly choked. “Ten thousand? I don’t even have ten dollars. That’s why I’m here.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t panic. There’s another way. Pay her after your first client.”

A wave of relief rushed through me. “That’s… that’s great. Thank you. I’ll never forget this favor.” I turned to leave, then hesitated. “Wait—where do I find her?”

He set the glass down and motioned. “Follow me.”

We slipped past the noise and neon, down a dim hallway that smelled faintly of smoke and perfume. He stopped at a door, knocked twice, and pushed it open.

The room looked like an office disguised as a boudoir—velvet curtains, a sleek desk, soft lighting that didn’t quite hide the danger humming beneath the surface.

A high-backed chair was turned away from us. Slowly, it swiveled.

“Terry, what is it now?” The voice was low, steady, carrying an edge of impatience.

She couldn’t have been more than mid-thirties. Her gown clung to her curves, dipping low across her chest. Dark hair framed sharp, youthful features that hinted at her Asian roots. Her eyes were cool, appraising.

The bartender cleared his throat. “She wants to join the girls.”

“Not tonight,” Miss Laura said flatly.

“Please, ma’am. It’s urgent,” I blurted, stepping forward.

“She’ll be good,” Terry added quickly, glancing between us.

Miss Laura’s gaze sharpened, cutting through me like glass. “You told her about the fee?”

“Yeah. She agreed to pay.”

Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Then she rose gracefully from her chair. “All right, girl. Follow me.”

My legs trembled, but I obeyed.

She led me to a back room where racks of clothes lined the walls and mirrors glowed under bright bulbs. Without a word, she handed me a glittering dress and began her work—powder, paint, lashes, a heavy blonde wig that transformed me into someone I barely recognized.

By the time she finished, the girl in the mirror didn’t look like Soraya anymore.

Miss Lara stood by the doorway, watching me wrestle with my reflection. She disappeared for a moment, and when she returned, I caught the faintest curve of a smile tugging at her lips, as if some decision had already been made without me.

“I used to be like you,” she said softly, her words cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “I thought this kind of work was filthy. But here’s the truth—men are willing to pay fortunes for what you give freely to some broke boyfriend. Why waste yourself for nothing when you could profit from it?”

Her voice was velvet and steel, dangerous in its conviction.

I swallowed hard, nodding weakly. “Thanks for the advice.”

Then, almost in a whisper, “Can I… at least wear a mask?”

She laughed, low and amused, shaking her head.

“You don’t need one. These men are far too rich to care about who shares their bed. But understand this—keeping the mask on would be impossible. Intimacy doesn’t allow for disguises, and their image means everything. They’ll want to see you.”

Her hand rested briefly on my shoulder, her smile sharp and almost reassuring. “It’s fine, darling. Come. Let’s go.”

The mirror was cruel. It showed me someone I barely recognized: a red ruched mini dress clinging too tightly to my frame, thin straps digging lightly into my shoulders. A pearl necklace rested at my collarbone, gleaming like mockery. Red heels lengthened my legs, while the golden-blonde wig with feathered bangs framed a face I had painted into someone braver than I felt. A lifted bow sat at the crown, theatrical and false.

I looked like a stranger.

No—I looked like prey.

By the time I sat in the hotel suite, my knees were crossed but my foot betrayed me, tapping nervously against the carpet. My pride, my so-called worth, flickered like a faulty bulb.

Then came the footsteps. Firm. Unhurried.

The door opened, and the air shifted.

He stepped inside—unreal. Jet-black hair slicked back with precision, storm-colored eyes that seemed to see everything and reveal nothing. His three-piece Prada suit clung to him as if tailored not just to his body but to the aura of absolute control he carried like a second skin. He radiated wealth, power, and a dangerous sort of calm.

“Miss Harris,” he said, lowering himself into the chair opposite mine. His voice was smooth, measured, and final.

My throat closed. “Huh…?” It was all I managed.

“There’s a proposal I believe you’ll want to consider.”

Every nerve in my body tensed. “What kind of proposal?”

“My company—built with my blood and sweat—is about to be stolen from me. All because I don’t have an heir. I need your help.”

The pieces fell into place with a thud that made my pulse stutter. “You want me to… carry your child?”

“Exactly. You give me a child, then you disappear. In return—you’ll receive ten billion dollars.”

The words hit harder than any slap.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, stunned. “Did I hear that correctly?”

“You did,” he said smoothly. “During the pregnancy you’ll be taken care of. Every debt cleared. Your family secured. Your life—transformed.”

It sounded perfect. Too perfect. Deals that neat usually came wrapped in chains.

He leaned forward, eyes unreadable. “I am married. My wife can’t bear children. I love her, but I must do what’s necessary.”

Married. That word alone twisted my stomach. I had promised myself I would never touch another woman’s man. This wasn’t a lover’s affair, though. This was a transaction dressed up as destiny.

“I know it’s a lot,” he continued, sliding a card across the table. “You have twelve hours to decide.”

I stared at that card as though it might burn me.

When I left the hotel, my phone buzzed. A message from Ivana: We’ve been thrown out of the house.

My steps faltered. Heart racing, I looked down at the name on the card: Cardan Gordon. A quick search nearly made me drop my phone—CEO of a multibillion-dollar tech empire. One of the richest men in the country.

But none of that mattered. Not his money. Not his empire. Not his perfect offer.

Because my answer was no.

I couldn’t believe I had even considered giving my body to a stranger for money. I should’ve thrown his offer in his face. I wasn’t a toy to be used and disposed of. I still had worth—didn’t I?

I walked home because I didn’t have the money for transport, each step heavier than the last. Passing by my shop, I saw the final insult: Mrs. Anya had tossed my belongings onto the street. An eviction notice clung to the door like a death sentence.

Something inside me cracked. I collapsed there on the pavement, surrounded by everything I once called mine, and for the first time, I wept without restraint.