CHAPTER 1: Shattered Facade
1374 Words
The diamond caught the light and fractured it into rainbows, but Lauren Hart could see only flaws. She held the half-finished pendant under her magnifying glass, her fingers trembling from hours of delicate work, her eyes burning from lack of sleep. The stone itself wasn’t worth much—cheap quartz wrapped in silver—but she treated it like it was the rarest thing in the world. Maybe, if she could create beauty out of nothing, someone out there might pay her enough to keep the lights on for one more month.
But as the light bent across the gem, her gaze drifted to the corner of her cluttered workbench. Bills piled there like vultures, sharp beaks of Final Notice glaring at her. The studio smelled of solder and desperation. Outside the cracked windows, downtown Los Angeles glowed with neon signs and endless noise—reminders that the world kept moving even as hers seemed to shrink smaller and smaller.
Her phone buzzed. She didn’t need to look at the screen. She already knew it was a creditor. She pressed her lips tight and let it ring until the voicemail cut off. A moment later, the screen lit again. Another call. Another warning. Another weight pressing down on her ribs.
Lauren exhaled shakily, rubbed her hands over her face, and forced herself to focus on the stone. The work had always been her escape. Since she was a child, she’d loved gems—the way they held light, the way they were created under unbearable pressure. Like me, she often thought. Maybe that was why she couldn’t stop. Each piece she made was proof that she hadn’t been broken yet.
But passion didn’t keep the studio afloat.
Her best friend, Mari, burst into the room like a gust of perfume and chatter. “Lauren! You are not going to believe this.”
Lauren blinked, setting down her tools. “If it’s another debt collector at the door, I can believe it.”
Mari grinned, waving a sleek white envelope. “Better. Much better. An invitation. Gala. Tonight. The rooftop at the Sterling Tower. Do you know who will be there? Everyone.”
Lauren snorted. “Everyone who wouldn’t give me the time of day. Mari, I don’t even have a dress that qualifies for valet parking, let alone a gala.”
“That’s where I come in.” Mari flourished a garment bag from behind her. “Vintage Versace. My aunt owes me. You’re wearing it, you’re walking into that gala, and you’re going to charm someone rich enough to throw you a lifeline.”
Lauren rubbed her temples. “Mari…”
“No excuses,” Mari cut in. “You’re brilliant, you’re drowning, and this is the only raft I can toss you. Besides, you’ll thank me when you’re designing tiaras for Hollywood royalty.”
Lauren laughed weakly, but the sound cracked in her throat. A gala. A room full of people who lived in a world she couldn’t even imagine. What was she supposed to do—hand out business cards between flutes of champagne?
Still… something in her stirred. Desperation, yes, but also a flicker of defiance. Maybe she didn’t belong there. Perhaps she’d be laughed out of the room. But what if—just what if—someone noticed her?
She glanced again at the stack of bills. Final Notice. Overdue. Termination Pending.
Her chest tightened. “Fine. But if I trip in those heels, I’m haunting you for the rest of your life.”
The Sterling Tower glittered against the night sky like a beacon of excess. Forty stories above the city, the rooftop garden was transformed into a palace of glass and gold. Strings of lights twinkled over marble tiles, champagne flowed endlessly, and laughter rose like the chiming of silver bells.
Lauren clutched her borrowed clutch, the Versace dress clinging to her like armour. She had painted her lips crimson, twisted her auburn hair into an elegant knot, and practised her smile in the mirror until it no longer looked like a grimace. Even so, the moment she stepped into the crowd, she felt like an imposter wrapped in silk.
She slipped past a cluster of women draped in diamonds that could have paid off her debt ten times over. Every laugh, every careless sip of champagne reminded her of the gap between her world and theirs. She forced herself to breathe, to look confident. She had to act as though she belonged—because tonight, failure wasn’t an option.
Snatches of conversation drifted around her.
“… Johnson’s here. Of course he is. He owns half the city…”
“… they call him the Devil of Wall Street. Ruthless doesn’t begin to cover it…”
“… no one crosses Nicholas Johnson and survives.”
The name rippled through the crowd like a warning bell. Lauren froze, curiosity prickling her skin. She had heard the name, of course. Who hadn’t? Nicholas Johnson—the billionaire who built his empire on ashes, who devoured rivals and spat out their bones. A man whispered about in fear, not admiration.
She spotted him then. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A presence that seemed to draw gravity itself. His suit was black, tailored within an inch of perfection, his dark hair slicked back, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t just a man in a room—he was the room. Conversations died when he passed. People shifted nervously, their smiles sharp and false.
And his eyes—God, his eyes—were a steel-grey storm, cold and assessing, as if he measured every soul within reach and found them wanting.
Lauren swallowed hard. She told herself to look away, but she couldn’t. Something about him was magnetic, terrifying, impossible to ignore.
She turned sharply, desperate to put space between them, and nearly collided with him.
Her clutch slipped. His hand—large, warm, commanding—caught it before it fell. Their eyes met.
And she panicked.
“Careful,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and dangerous, like velvet wrapped around a blade.
Lauren blurted, “Some things can’t be bought, no matter how much money someone thinks they own the world with.”
The words hung between them, sharp as shattered glass.
The surrounding crowd fell silent. Someone gasped. A woman whispered, “Oh, God…”
Lauren’s heart plummeted. What did I just do?
Nicholas’s mouth curved, not in anger but in something worse—amusement. Interest. He studied her like a puzzle no one else had dared hand him.
“And what,” he asked softly, “do you think I believe I own?”
Her throat went dry. She wanted to take it back, to vanish, but her pride forced her chin up. “Everything.”
For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Then Nicholas handed her clutch back, his fingers brushing hers. “Interesting,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. “What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Lauren.”
“Lauren.” He rolled the name slowly, tasting it. Then he smiled—not kindly, but like a man who had just discovered a new game. “Enjoy your evening.”
He turned away.
The crowd buzzed with whispers, disbelief, and speculation. But Lauren barely heard them. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She had insulted Nicholas Johnson, the Devil himself. Her career—already on life support—was finished.
She fled the gala before anyone could say more, heels clicking desperately against marble.
Hours later, her tiny studio was dark except for the desk lamp. She slumped into her chair, ripped off the borrowed dress, and buried her face in her hands. The night had been a disaster. She should have stayed home, soldering cheap quartz.
A low rumble broke the silence. Tires on pavement. She frowned, rose, and peered out the window. A sleek black car idled at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the city lights.
The driver stepped out, his suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. He opened the back door and inclined his head.
“Miss Hart,” he said. “Mr Johnson would like to speak with you.”
Lauren’s blood turned to ice.
The Devil wasn’t finished with her yet.
- Writer
