CHAPTER 2: The Devil’s Proposition
1408 Words
Lauren woke to the sound of her phone buzzing like an angry hornet on the nightstand. For a second, she wasn’t sure if it was morning or if she had just dozed for an hour in the same cocktail dress she’d worn to the gala. Her head throbbed faintly, not from alcohol — she hadn’t been able to afford more than one glass of champagne — but from humiliation.
The gala.
The insult.
Nicholas Johnson’s eyes, sharp as obsidian, locked on her across the room.
She groaned and pressed her palms against her eyes. God, Lauren, you’ve ruined everything.
Last night had been her one chance. One glittering evening where she could meet investors, perhaps secure a patron, maybe even sell one of her pieces if she was lucky. Instead, nerves and exhaustion had sharpened her tongue. She had snapped at the most feared man in California — the billionaire whose empire could crush hers with a flick of his hand.
She grabbed the phone, expecting another collection reminder or some alert about overdraft fees. Instead, the notification was from a gossip blog:
“Designer with Fire: Unknown Jewellery Artist Challenges Nicholas Johnson at Gala.”
She skimmed the article, her stomach churning. They called her “the curvy redhead who dared to glare back at the devil.” Pictures of her scowling at Nicholas spread across the screen.
Lauren buried her face in a pillow. “Great. I’m officially toast.”
Her little studio, stacked with unpaid bills and unfinished designs, flashed through her mind. If investors believed she’d offended Nicholas Johnson, no one would touch her work again. She’d be blacklisted before she’d even started.
A sharp knock interrupted her spiralling thoughts.
Her landlord? Debt collectors?
She shuffled to the door in a T-shirt and pyjama shorts, yanking it open without checking.
It wasn’t her landlord. It was a man in a charcoal-grey suit, holding an envelope sealed with black wax stamped with an ornate “J.” His expression was as stiff as marble.
“Miss Lauren Hart?”
“Yes?” Her voice cracked.
He handed her the envelope with a slight bow. “Mr Johnson requests your presence.”
Her heartbeat stalled. “Mr Johnson… Nicholas Johnson?”
The man didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes told her everything.
When she shut the door, Lauren just stared at the envelope like it was a ticking bomb. The wax seal glimmered in the morning light. She broke it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a cream-colored card, written in elegant script:
Miss Hart,
You are invited to my penthouse this evening at 8 o’clock. A business discussion awaits.
– Nicholas Johnson
No threats. No mockery. Just… business.
Lauren sat heavily on the edge of her bed, the letter trembling in her hands. Why would he summon her? To humiliate her further? To crush her career in person?
Or… something else?
⸻
Later That Evening
The city glittered beneath her as Lauren rode the elevator higher and higher into the sky. She had scrubbed herself clean, chosen her most professional-looking dress — a black sheath that hugged her curves without looking desperate — and twisted her auburn hair into a sleek bun.
The mirrored elevator walls reflected her nervous eyes. Dark brown, wide with both fear and defiance.
Don’t show weakness, Lauren, she told herself. He smells fear.
When the elevator doors opened, the penthouse spread before her like another world. All glass and steel, the Los Angeles skyline glowed in every window. Modern art graced the walls. Fresh flowers in crystal vases perfumed the air.
And in the centre of it all stood Nicholas Johnson.
He wore a black suit without a tie, his dark hair falling neatly across his brow, his presence dominating the room. He didn’t move as she stepped inside, but his gaze swept over her, sharp and assessing, like a predator watching prey enter its cage.
“Miss Hart.” His voice was smooth, low, and dangerous. “You came.”
Her chin lifted. “I didn’t think I had a choice.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Everyone has a choice. But I admit, I’m pleased you made the correct one.”
He gestured toward a seating area — black leather sofas, a low glass table with a decanter of amber liquid. She sat cautiously, perched on the edge like she might bolt at any moment.
Nicholas poured himself a drink, the sound of liquid splashing into crystal echoing through the silence. “You caused quite the stir last night.”
Lauren’s stomach clenched. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” He raised a hand, stopping her. “I detest apologies, especially empty ones. You spoke your mind. Rare.”
That caught her off guard. “So you’re… not here to blacklist me?”
His eyes gleamed. “If I wanted you ruined, Miss Hart, you would be ruined already.”
A shiver ran through her despite the warmth of the penthouse.
“Then why am I here?”
Nicholas leaned back, studying her. “Because you have something I need. And I have something you want.”
Lauren blinked. “Excuse me?”
He swirled his drink. “Your work. Your designs. Crude, yes — but there’s fire in them. Potential. At the auction I’m hosting next month, I intend to present a one-of-a-kind necklace. Something unforgettable. Something people will fight for.”
Her pulse quickened. “And you want me to design it?”
“I want you to create it. In my penthouse. Under my supervision.” His gaze pinned her. “If you succeed, I will pay off every cent of your debt. If you fail…” His smile was cold. “Then you’ll have no career to cling to.”
The words struck her like a blow. Freedom from debt. A chance to prove herself. But under him? In his lair, with his rules?
Lauren swallowed hard. “And if I say no?”
Nicholas leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his dark eyes locking with hers. “Then you’ll continue to drown in debt until the bank takes your studio. Until creditors seize what little you have. And no one in this city will hire you again. Not after last night.”
The room seemed to shrink around her. She hated the way he spoke — calm, factual, as if her destruction was just another line in his schedule.
But he was right. She had no other options.
Lauren straightened, forcing steel into her voice. “If I do this, I work on my terms. I won’t design some soulless piece of jewellery just to please you.”
For the first time, Nicholas’s smile warmed, just slightly. “There’s the fire I noticed.” He set down his glass and stood, towering over her. “You’ll have full artistic freedom. But understand, Miss Hart — I expect brilliance. Nothing less.”
Her throat tightened. “And if you don’t like it?”
“Then you’ll learn the true meaning of failure.”
Silence crackled between them, charged, dangerous. She could feel his power pressing down on her, but some reckless part of her refused to bow.
“I’ll do it,” she whispered.
Nicholas’s eyes darkened, satisfaction flickering in their depths. “Excellent. Your workspace will be prepared here by tomorrow morning. You move in at once.”
She blinked. “Move in?”
“You heard me.” His tone brooked no argument. “If I am to invest in you, I want you exactly where I can see you. No distractions. No excuses.”
Her breath caught. Living in his penthouse? Working in his shadow, under his control?
But debts screamed in her ears. The chance of a lifetime dangled before her.
She nodded stiffly. “Fine.”
Nicholas’s lips curved in that half-smile again, as though he’d known she’d agree all along. “Welcome to my empire, Miss Hart.”
Later That Night
The elevator carried her back down to reality, her heart racing. She clutched the invitation still in her hand, its elegant script now a brand on her soul.
She had agreed to step into the Devil’s den.
And as the city lights blurred around her, Lauren couldn’t shake the feeling that Nicholas Johnson didn’t just want her necklace.
He wanted her.
Right where he could watch her.
Right where she couldn’t escape.
- Writer
