BOUND TO THE DEVIL

They called it a “summons,” like I was something that could be called and not a person who could refuse. The black car was already waiting outside my apartment building when I stepped out at exactly 9:00 PM. Not a second early, not a second late. That level of precision didn’t come from impatience. It came from control. And control was always more dangerous than money. I stood on the cracked pavement for a moment, staring at the tinted windows as if they might reveal something human inside. They didn’t move. They didn’t react. They simply waited, like they already knew I would eventually give in. My phone buzzed in my pocket before I could decide otherwise. Hospital: Payment overdue. Insurance grace period ended. The message hit harder than the cold air. My throat tightened instantly. My mother was upstairs in a room that smelled like bleach and fading hope, kept alive by machines I couldn’t afford and time I was running out of. Every second of her existence had a price tag attached to it, and I was always a step behind it. The car door opened. A man in a suit stepped out. Expensive. Tailored. The kind of suit that didn’t belong in my world unless it came to collect something. “Serenity Voss?” he asked. I exhaled slowly. Nobody used my full name unless something was about to go wrong. “It’s Sera,” I corrected automatically. He didn’t respond to that. He simply held my gaze for a second before speaking again. “Mr. Vossano is expecting you.” The name landed like a weight in my chest. Damien Vossano. The Devil. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure he is. Tell your boss I’m not—” “He didn’t ask,” the man interrupted calmly. That was when I noticed it. The slight shift under his jacket. The outline of a weapon. Not threatening in motion. Just present. Like breathing. Like certainty. I stopped speaking. Smart people didn’t argue with guns. They adapted. So I got in. The interior of the car smelled like leather and silence. Not the kind of silence that felt empty, but the kind that felt owned. Controlled. Like even sound needed permission here. As we moved through the city, I watched everything I couldn’t afford blur past the window. Glass towers, rooftop pools, private helipads. A world that existed above mine, untouched by struggle, untouched by waiting for hospital bills to decide whether someone lived or died. My nails dug into my palm without me noticing. The car eventually slowed, then stopped. We were in front of a tower so tall it disappeared into the night sky. Vossano Tower. Of course it was. Because where else would the Devil live if not above everyone else? The elevator inside didn’t have buttons. Only a keycard slot. The man swiped it once, and the doors closed immediately. The ascent was too fast. My ears popped slightly as the city fell away beneath us. “Just so you know,” I said quietly, breaking the silence, “if this is a k********g, I want it on record that I have nothing worth kidnapping.” The man actually smiled faintly. “That’s not why you’re here.” “That’s comforting,” I muttered. He didn’t reply again. Of course he didn’t. The doors opened directly into an office. Not a reception area. Not a waiting room. An office. As if the rest of the building didn’t matter anymore. Floor-to-ceiling glass surrounded the space, spilling the city lights into the darkness like the skyline itself was part of the décor. And at the center of it all was him. Damien Vossano. He didn’t look up immediately. He was still signing something on a black desk, like my arrival was irrelevant to his schedule. Then, without even lifting his eyes, he spoke. “You’re late.” His voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sharp. It was calm in a way that felt absolute. “I wasn’t aware I had an appointment,” I replied. That finally made him look up. And for a second, I forgot how to breathe properly. People don’t prepare you for men like him. Dark suit. Open collar. No tie, like rules were optional. Eyes that didn’t just observe you—they calculated you. Measured you. Reduced you to something measurable. “You’re Sera Voss,” he said. “I already said that.” “Architecture student. Top of your class. Dropped out. Mother in ICU. Debt collectors circling your life like vultures.” My entire body went rigid. “How do you know that?” He leaned back slightly, as if the question itself amused him. “That’s not important.” It should have scared me more than it did. “What do you want?” I asked. That question changed something in the air. He stood slowly, every movement controlled, deliberate. Like time itself adjusted around him. “I want a wife,” he said. I blinked once. Then twice. And then I laughed. Out loud. “You called me here… for a marriage proposal?” “I didn’t call you,” he corrected. “You were selected.” The laughter died immediately. “Selected?” I repeated. “Yes.” “Out of how many women?” His gaze sharpened slightly. “One.” The word landed wrong. “Why me?” I asked. He stepped closer. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just inevitable. “Because you’re desperate enough,” he said calmly, “to say yes.” That word hit harder than anything else so far. Desperate. I swallowed it down. “You don’t know anything about me.” “I know enough.” “And what exactly is that?” He stopped in front of me now. Close enough that I could smell him—expensive cologne, smoke, and something darker underneath that didn’t belong in any legal world. “You have forty-eight hours before your mother’s treatment stops,” he said. My stomach dropped instantly. “You don’t get to say that.” “I already did.” Silence swallowed the room. My fists clenched without permission. “If this is about money—” “It is.” My voice lowered. “…how much?” That was when he smiled. Not warmly. Not kindly. Like I had just stepped exactly where he wanted me. “Ten million,” he said. The room tilted slightly. “That’s not real,” I whispered. “It is.” “And what do you want in return?” He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a problem he had already solved. “A contract,” he said. “One year.” “Public marriage. Private compliance.” My heart slammed once, hard. “…compliance?” “You’ll live here. Appear with me. Smile when required. Disappear when told.” “And in private?” A pause. Then— “You’ll be mine.” The air left my lungs completely. I stepped back immediately. “No.” No hesitation. No thought. “No discussion. No version of reality where that happens.” He didn’t react. Not even slightly. Just watched me like he already knew I’d return. “You’ll sign it,” he said. “I won’t.” “You will.” “Why are you so sure?” That was when he leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “Because I already paid your mother’s hospital bill.” Everything stopped. My breath. My thoughts. My anger. “…what?” “As of this morning,” he said calmly, “she is under Vossano care.” My vision blurred for half a second. “No,” I whispered. “No, you don’t get to just—” “I already did.” “That’s illegal.” “No,” he corrected. “It’s expensive.” My hands trembled despite myself. “You can’t buy people’s lives,” I said. He stepped closer again. And this time, I didn’t move away. Because I couldn’t. “People like you,” he said softly, “are already being bought every day.” That line didn’t just land. It stayed. He turned slightly, picked up a black folder, and placed it in my hands. “Read it,” he said. I hesitated. I should have left. I should have screamed. I should have done anything else. But I opened it. Page one. CONTRACT OF UNION – SERAPHINA VOSS & DAMIEN VOSSANO My name. Printed. Official. Already prepared. Not a proposal. A conclusion. At the bottom of the page, one clause made everything inside me go cold. Failure to comply will result in immediate withdrawal of medical support for Mrs. Voss. My fingers tightened around the paper. “I hate you,” I said quietly. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t react. Just watched. Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. One message. Mom’s condition has stabilized. Vossano funding saved her life. Congratulations. My knees nearly gave out. When I looked up again, Damien Vossano was already watching me like he knew exactly what choice I was about to make. The pen was on the table. Waiting. ..