Devil's Bride Contract

TITLE: SIGN IT

CHAPTER TWO

I did not sleep. How could I? By morning every news channel in New York had my father’s face plastered across their screens like some national disgrace. VICTOR ROSSI ARRESTED FOR FRAUD, MONEY LAUNDERING, AND TIES TO ORGANIZED CRIME. My name trended with it. Our family name-destroyed in one night. I sat on the couch of our mansion in yesterday's dress, my heels somewhere on the staircase, mascara smudged beneath my eyes like bruises. Mother hadn't stopped crying. Sophia locked herself in her room. Daniel had left after he dropped me off at the house and had not called once. Not once. That told me everything I needed to know. I stared blankly at the television as reporters gathered at our gate like vultures, and I hated all of them. I hated him. Roman Volkov. I hated him even in my mind. He was a man who walked like he owned disaster, as if ruins followed him out of love. I wanted to hate him. I did hate him. Beneath the anger there was something worse: fear. When he had looked at me last night I hadn't felt like a woman, I felt like prey. "Elena." I looked up to see Mother in the living room doorway in a silk robe, her face ashen. For the first time in my life, she looked old. "Your father's lawyer called." I stood instantly. "What did he say?" She swallowed. "They're denying bail." The room spun. "No." "He said the evidence is too strong." "That's impossible." Mother gave a short, dry, bitter laugh. "Nothing is impossible when powerful men decide your life should end." I clenched my fists. No. I refused this. Father made mistakes; he always had. But prison? Public destruction? Humiliation? No. There had to be another way. There was always a way. I knew what it was. Roman Volkov. I grabbed my bag. Mother frowned. "Where are you going?" I met her eyes. "To fix this." Her expression shifted, her eyes widening in alarm. "Elena, no." "Yes." "You will not go near that man." "I don't have a choice." "Yes, you do!" I spun sharply. "No, Mother, I don't. Because while everyone is crying, someone has to do something." Her voice cracked. "He's dangerous." I nodded. "I know." Then I walked out. Because fear was a luxury I could no longer afford. Roman Volkov's office sat at the very top of Volkov International, like a throne that overlooked the city. Glass. Steel. Power. The receptionist even looked expensive and barely flinched when I gave my name. "Mr. Volkov is expecting you." Of course he was. It irked me more than it should have. The elevator ride to the top floor felt like ascending into the gates of hell in designer clothing. When the doors opened, a stark silence greeted me. The whole floor seemed to have fallen still; too quiet, too controlled. As if even sound needed permission to be present. A man in a dark suit stood outside Roman's office, tall and dangerously calm. Probably his bodyguard. He opened the door for me without a word. And there he was. Roman Volkov. Standing by the floor to ceiling window, Manhattan spread out beneath him like an appetizer he was contemplating on buying if he were to get bored. Black shirt. Rolled up sleeves. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of whiskey. He did not turn when I walked into the room. "You came." I hated the sound of his voice-low, controlled, arrogant. I crossed my arms. "Don't sound so pleased." He turned now, and God help me, he was even more devastating in daylight. Gray eyes. Sharp, sculpted features. A face that looked carved from very expensive sin. His eyes scanned me once, slowly, as if trying to catalog every visible inch of me. "I'm not pleased," he stated, his voice like silk wrapped around a razor blade. "I'm interested." I walked toward him. "Drop the charges." Straight to the point, no games. A slight twitch tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No." I stared at him. "You didn't even consider it." "I have." Anger flooded me, burning hot in my chest. "You're destroying innocent people." "Innocent?" His laugh was a dry, cold sound. "Your father sold information that got men killed." My throat tightened. "That's a lie." Roman moved closer, his eyes boring into mine. "No, the lie is the life your family has been leading." I lifted my chin. "Whatever my father did, prosecute him. Not my mother. Not my sister. Not me." His gaze hardened. "Everything your family touched was built on what he did; there is no separating any of you." I swallowed hard. Then I forced out, "What do you want?" He said nothing for a moment, observing me, and in that instant, I wished he would yell, shout, anything but this calm. Calm men were always more dangerous. "Marry me," he finally said. The world tilted. I blinked. "What?" "Marry me, Elena." I laughed, a sharp, incredulous burst of sound. This was insane. "This is a joke." "It isn't." I stepped back, my hands shaking. "No." He took a sip of whiskey, as casually as if we were discussing the weather. "If you marry me, your father walks." I froze. "If you refuse..." His eyes locked with mine, and a chill traced its way down my spine. "...he rots in hell." I couldn't breathe. "You're out of your mind." "Possibly." "You hate me." "Yes." "Then why?" He set the glass down, his movements slow, deliberate as he walked toward me, every step a silent promise of power. He was so close now that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, and his voice dropped to a low murmur that sent shivers through me. "Because revenge should last longer than a prison sentence." I hated how my pulse sped up; I hated him, but most of all, I hated that I noticed the way his hands looked, steady and strong and lethal. "You want to hurt my father through me." "Yes." "You want a wife you despise." "No." His fingers lifted, brushing a stray strand of hair from behind my ear. I gasped, his touch a jolt of electricity against my skin. "I want a woman strong enough to survive me." I backed away as if his touch had burned me. "This is sick." Roman's expression didn't falter. "Probably." I shook my head. "I'd rather die." Something dark flickered in his eyes, and he leaned in. "Be careful, Elena. I don't appreciate dramatics unless there's intent behind them." I stared at him, a wild urge to slap him again surging through me, and a terrifying certainty that I wouldn't survive it this time. He walked to his desk and slid a folder across the surface. A contract. White. Clean. Elegant. Like every truly horrible thing. "Take it," he commanded. I didn't move. "If I sign this..." "You'll be my wife." "And if I don't?" He looked at me, his gray eyes unblinking.

Your father disappears into a prison cell. Your family loses it all. The rest of it, burned for your sister's future."

My eyes stung with unshed tears but I refused to let them go.

Not here.

Not in front of him.

"You're a monster."

Roman inclined his head once.

"Yes."

No denial. It was almost worse that he was the one to say it. I clutched the contract, my hand shaking, not with fear, but with the fury I felt. Toward him. Toward my father. Toward me. Toward this whole damned apparatus of power that allowed men like Roman to write off people, entire futures.

I took a step toward the door.

And stopped, just shy of it.

"One day, Roman..." I didn't look back, but spoke low. "You're going to regret doing this."

His voice was there instantly. Dark. Sure.

"No, Elena."

Finally, I did look. His gaze met mine, locking it like an iron collar.

"You'll be married first."

I walked away before he could see the way my fingers still shook. Holding that document against my chest like a death sentence in the elevator, I understood, but I knew too: This wasn't a proposal. It was a funeral. And somehow...I was expected to walk in without a fight.