The Devil’s Bride

Chapter 2: The Devil’s Offer

Ethan’s POV

The penthouse office smelled exactly as it should—aged Macallan, polished mahogany, and the faint trace of my five-hundred-dollar cologne. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked down on the city like it belonged to me. Because it did.

I adjusted my custom cuffs, irritation already crawling under my skin. “Father, I don’t have time for games. The Emerald City permits came through. Construction starts next week. I’m not delaying for another lecture about my image.”

Richard Vance leaned back in his leather chair. He looked weaker and pathetic than last month, but his eyes were no less ruthless. “You’ll make time, I’ve just solved your marriage problem.”

I let out a sharp, cold laugh. “Liliana Williams is already lined up. Her family’s political connections will lock in the final approvals. The press will see a perfect, humble union.”

“No.” His voice cut through the room like a blade. “You will only marry the girl I chose and i already found one her name is Moore. Twenty-four. A ballet dancer. No name, no money, no scandals. To the public, she will look like a sweet, modest choice. Perfect for your reputation.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“Deadly serious,” he replied, tapping a finger on a manila folder on his desk. “My team has been quietly scouting for a candidate with a completely clean slate—someone humble enough to soften your public image. An hour ago, an opportunity fell right into our laps. This girl's stepmother was just admitted to the public hospital for a cardiac emergency. They are completely broke, and the woman is dying as we speak. Moore will agree to anything. Desperation is a beautiful motivator.”

I walked to the window, staring out at the skyline as the pieces clicked together. Ten million dollars for some broke ballerina. “And if I refuse?”

“I cut you off. Everything. The company, the trusts, the legacy. I’d rather burn it down than watch you ruin it with your ego and disposable socialites.”

The silence in the office grew thick. I hated being cornered. Marriage was just a business tool, but I liked choosing my own weapons. Liliana Williams was ice-cold and understood how power worked. This Moore girl would be pathetic. Weak. An embarrassment to my name and image.

“Bring her,” I said finally, turning back around. “Let’s see what ten million dollars buys.”

My personal assistant, Marcus, had already carried out the quick test.Armed with the paperwork, Marcus had arrived at the hospital waiting room forty minutes ago, right when Moore was on her knees begging for help. He paid the impossible fifty-thousand-dollar deposit on the spot, handed her a tissue, and told her that her family’s permanent salvation waited in a sleek black town car downstairs.

Now, the private elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

She stepped into my world like a frightened rabbit entering a slaughterhouse.

She wore a cheap black coat and worn ballet flats. Her hair was pulled back into a messy, frantic ponytail. No makeup, just a mid girl.And then there was that smell—cheap supermarket lavender soap. In a space that breathed money and sterile perfection, her scent invaded everything. It clung to the air, stubborn and impossible to ignore. It annoyed me. I already wanted to scrub it out of the room.

Her eyes widened as she looked at the original Monet painting on the wall, the custom Italian leather furniture, and the city view worth more than her entire bloodline would ever touch.

My father spoke to her gently, laying out the terms in his business-like tone. Ten million dollars. Full medical coverage for her stepmother. School fees, rent, and complete financial security for her younger siblings. All she had to do was marry me. On paper. In public. For as long as I required it to secure my position.

I watched her hands tremble as she clutched that pathetic coat. She was painfully ordinary. Tiny waist, decent legs from dancing, perhaps, but nothing that would turn heads at a high-society event. Definitely not standard wife material.

Yet, when she lifted her chin—showing a small, quiet spark of defiance—something dark stirred in my chest.

She had stubborn roots. She was in my way, practically begging to be managed. I would tear down her pride the exact same way I cleared out old obstacles for my building projects.

I stepped closer, towering over her and blocking out the city lights behind me. The lavender scent flooded my lungs again, sharper this time. It irritated every single nerve in my body.

“You understand what this contract means, right?” My voice dropped to a low, commanding baritone. “Behind closed doors, you become my property. My name. My house. My rules. You smile when I tell you to smile. You lie beneath me when I demand it. And when I am finished with this arrangement, I will discard you. Do you understand?”

Her breath hitched. Those wide, terrified eyes flicked up to mine for a split second before dropping back to the marble floor. Her knuckles went bone-white against her coat.

I leaned in closer, demanding total submission. “Say it. Verbalize your consent. Out loud.”

She swallowed hard. I could see her lips trembling, but she didn't break.

“I… I agree,” she whispered, her voice shaking but unbroken. “Ten million dollars… Annastasia is safe. I can survive this.” I heard her whisper to herself.

A slow, merciless smirk curved my lips.

“Oh, little ballerina.”

You have absolutely no f*****g idea what surviving me really means.