The Deal With The Devil In Prada

Finally?

Cardan’s black Mercedes awaited me at the hotel exit, its engine purring like a patient beast. He slid into the driver’s seat before I could climb in, eyes already on me as I approached.

“You’re worried your elder sister will find out,” he said the moment I got inside, voice flat.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. I don’t want my family to know I’m sleeping with a married man.”

“Feeling guilty, by chance?” he asked.

“Do you care?” I shot back.

“No.” He didn’t bother to hide the indifference.

“How do you even know she’s my sister?” I asked.

He shrugged as if it were nothing. “I read your profile. I know everything about you.”

When we reached the bus station by my neighborhood, I asked him to stop. “Drop me here. I don’t want to raise suspicion.” He obliged without a word, the Mercedes disappearing into the morning traffic while I trudged home on tired feet.

I planned to take the day off; I needed it. I collapsed onto my bed, doom-scrolling through social media while nibbling biscuits. A week ago I’d been scraped and hungry; now I had money, a fashion house, emails asking for fittings. Wealth had arrived like a miracle — but it came with a weight I could almost taste.

Ivana’s knock was soft but insistent. “Could you pick Dave up from the hospital? He’s being discharged today.”

“Oh—today?” I sat up, rubbing my eyes.

“You seem preoccupied these days,” she said, cool and sharp.

“Why can’t someone else? Dad, Mum—”

“I have Tiara’s school pickup. Dad’s gone off to work. Mum’s still at the clinic,” she snapped.

“Fine.” I sighed. “I’ll go. Just don’t be late.”

She left, and I dressed quickly. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and waiting. Dave was pale but smiling, clutching a teddy someone had given him. For a second everything felt ordinary—until I saw Sasha at the nurses’ station.

She looked up. Her face crumpled when she spotted me; then she hurried over, voice cracking before she could stop it. “Soraya—”

An Uber took Dave home; I stayed. Sasha folded into herself and began to cry.

“I came in for a checkup, but he—Cardan—he was late,” she said between sobs. “He doesn’t want me. No matter what I do, he… he just ignores me.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, though the words felt thin.

“Nothing brings me joy,” she continued. “Only Cardan.” Her voice broke. “And baking. Baking used to.”

“Then bake,” I urged gently. “If it makes you happy, do it.”

“He won’t let me,” she whispered, hysterical now. “He gets angry. He says—” Her hands fluttered helplessly.

Cardan arrived then, cool and composed as ever. Sasha’s face lit up like a candle catching wind. “You came,” she breathed.

She introduced us. “Soraya, this is my husband, Cardan.”

He looked at me the way he always did—centuries of patience and a blade hidden in his gaze. I wanted to run, to disappear into the antiseptic air, but I forced a smile.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said with the absolute politeness of a man who never let anything touch him.

“The pleasure’s mine,” I replied, and we behaved like strangers.

Cardan excused us both gently. “Could you please give us a moment?” he asked the nurse, and then he steered Sasha away. A few minutes later she returned, cheeks flushed, a small, bewildered smile curling her lips.

“I’m so sorry I kept you waiting,” she said to me, gratitude trembling in her voice. “Cardan asked me to come home with him to talk. Thank you, Soraya.”

She left, and I watched her go with a strange stab of jealousy—foolish, self-directed and ridiculous. Were they going to work things out? Would Cardan forget me in a puff of domesticated reconciliation? The thought tightened something in my chest and I pushed it away.

That night, Cardan appeared uninvited. He leaned casually against my office door unluckily it was late and all staffs had gone home already, but the sharpness in his eyes told me he hadn’t come for pleasantries.

“You’ve been… distracted,” he said smoothly, stepping inside without permission.

I crossed my arms, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Or maybe I just don’t jump every time you snap your fingers.”

His brows lifted at my defiance. “Careful.” He closed the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off him. “You’re treading a dangerous line.”

My chin tilted upward, daring him. “Then maybe you shouldn’t underestimate me. I’m not just some secret you can summon when you’re bored.”

His smirk cut like glass, though his voice dropped to something quieter, darker. “You think you matter in this game?”

My heart pounded, but I didn’t flinch. “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

For a moment, the tension between us was electric, suffocating. Then, with a sharp laugh, he stepped back, shaking his head. “Bold. Dangerous… but bold.”

Since then there had been no word from him.

And without another word, he slipped out the door, leaving me trembling—not from fear, but from the fire he’d lit in mu veins.

Work swallowed me the next day. Mrs. George had commissioned a dress with a tight deadline. The studio smelled of starch and thread; mannequins watched as I cut, stitched, and pinned until my fingers blurred. The dress came together like a prayer answered—clean lines, a perfect seam where my breath hitched. For a few hours, the work made me feel useful in a way the other parts of my life never did.

Days fell into a rhythm. Cardan’s calls were sparse while Sasha’s messages grew lighter—she said he’d been kinder lately. We took photos together and posted them, two women on a feed that didn’t know how fragile we both were. I taught her bakery tricks; she told me about the recipes she’d inherited from her grandmother. She was the friend I had needed and never known.

The studio was chaos. Assistants rushed with armfuls of fabric, models spun impatiently in half-fitted gowns, and my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with calls from sponsors and press.

The New York Fashion Gala was only days away, and my designs were the centerpiece. my name was already being whispered across the industry—too loudly for comfort.

“Miss Harris, one of the gowns ripped at the seam!” an assistant cried.

I grabbed the dress, my hands shaking as she tried to re-stitch. I hadn’t eaten all day, my temples pounding, but the whispers around me cut deeper than hunger.

“Who’s bankrolling her?”

“No one gets this far this fast.”

“She has backers, no doubt—but who?”

I clenched my jaw, pretending I didn’t hear. No one could ever know the truth. If they guessed Cardan’s name, it would destroy everything—my career, my family, and what little was left of my soul.

So I bent lower over the fabric, working until my fingers burned, determined to drown the rumors in perfection.

Then one night after everyone had gone, a sharp pain knifed through my belly. At first I blamed the greasy meal from Sasha’s favorite restaurant. I tried to stand and work through it, but the pain doubled, white-hot and unforgiving. I clutched my middle and swayed. My vision shimmered, tears stinging at the corners.

There was no one to call.

I took a tentative step and the world slipped. The floor rushed up to meet me; panic flooded every inch of me as the room dissolved into black.

Was this it? I thought wildly. Was I dying? Was this the end?

Then nothing—an endless, suffocating nothing.