THE DEVIL FIANCE

CHAPTER 1: THE DEVIL'S RULES

I wasn’t supposed to be on the 80th floor.

Assistants don’t get to ride the private elevator.

Assistants don’t get to breathe the same air as Dahlia Cross.

And assistants definitely don’t get hired because HR “made a mistake.”

But here I was, clutching a thrifted blazer and a resume with coffee stains, staring at gold letters on black marble:

“CROSS INDUSTRIES”

My dad’s hospital bill was $300,432.18.

My sister’s tuition was due in 3 weeks.

And my bank account had $43.27.

So I took the elevator.

The doors opened straight into glass and night. New York glittered below me like it was daring me to jump. The office smelled like perfume, whiskey, and money I’d never touch. White marble floors. Assistants in headsets moving like they were afraid to make noise.

“Mr. Hart?”

A woman in a pencil skirt looked me up and down. Her eyes stopped on my shoes. Payless.

“Ms. Cross will see you now. Five minutes. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t be a distraction.”

Distraction. Right.

The doors to her office were taller than mine. Black. No nameplate. Just power.

I knocked once.

“Enter.”

Her voice was low. Cold. The kind of voice that signed papers that ruined lives.

Dahlia Cross didn’t look up when I walked in.

She was standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands behind her back, suit jacket tailored to cut. Diamond choker at her throat. Patek Philippe watch. Hair dark and sleek like she’d just stepped out of a boardroom execution.

“Elias Hart,” she said. Still not looking at me. “ One internship. Fired from your last job for ‘insubordination.’”

My throat went dry. “That wasn’t”

“Don’t.” She finally turned.

And oh.

Cold gray eyes. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Red lips that had never smiled in their life.

They call her “The Devil in Heels”

Looking at her, I believed it.

“You’re not qualified for this position,” she said. “My last assistant had 6 years experience.”

“I know.” I forced my shoulders back. The blazer suddenly felt two sizes too big. “But I need this job.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

Because my dad had a stroke and the insurance company called it a ‘pre-existing condition.’

Because the hospital said “pay by Friday or we will transfer him to the county.”

Because my sister’s acceptance letter was sitting on my kitchen table with a yellow sticker that said We’re so proud of you and I couldn’t tell her I didn’t have the money.

Instead I said, “I work hard.”

For the first time, something flickered in her eyes. Not kindness. Assessment. Like I was a stock she was deciding to buy or burn.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it and her jaw ticked.

“The board,” she muttered. Then to me: “You start Monday. 6 AM. You will answer my emails, manage my schedule, and you will be invisible.”

Relief hit me so hard my knees almost gave out. “Thank you, Ms. Cross. I won’t”

“You will also sign an NDA,” she cut in. She walked to her desk and pulled out a folder. Thick. Legal. “And you will never discuss my personal life. Ever.”

I reached for the pen.

That’s when the door slammed open.

“Dahlia.”

A man stood there. Blond. Designer suit. A watch worth more than my car. He looked like he’d been carved out of a GQ cover and dipped in venom.

Victor Kensington.

I knew the name from Google. Socialite heir. Biggest investor in Cross Industries. Dahlia’s ex-fiancé.

Dahlia’s expression didn’t change. But the air in the room dropped 10 degrees.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Same thing you are.” He smiled at me. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Trying to clean up your messes.” His gaze dragged over me. “And who is this?”

“My new assistant,” Dahlia said flatly.

Vic laughed. “He looks 12.”

I felt myself shrink. Payless shoes. Thrifted blazer.

Dahlia stepped between us. “Get out, Vic.”

“Not until we talk about the board meeting.” He dropped his voice. “You know what they want. 30 days, Dahlia. Or we take the company.”

He left. Cologne lingering like a threat.

Silence.

Dahlia stared at the closed door for a long time. Then she looked at me. Really looked. Like she was seeing me for the first time and not liking what she saw.

“You heard him,” she said.

I nodded.

“Good. Then you know this job isn’t going to be easy.”

She slid the NDA across the desk. 40 pages.

And underneath it, another document. Different font. Smaller.

*PRIVATE AGREEMENT*

I frowned. “What’s this?”

Dahlia picked up a pen. Clicked it once. The sound was loud in the quiet.

“Pretend to be my fiancé for 4 months,” she said, like she was ordering coffee. “I’ll pay off your father’s medical debt. Your sister’s tuition. $200,000 extra pay. You wear the ring. You attend the events. You kiss me only when the cameras are on.”

The pen slipped from my hand.

“What?”

“Sign it, Mr. Hart.” Her gray eyes were unreadable. “Or walk out that door and go back to being broke.”

My dad’s hospital room flashed in my head. Beeping machines. The nurse said “we need payment by Friday.”

My sister’s acceptance letter. Full ride, except for housing.

Four months. That’s all she was asking.

Four months to save them.

“I don’t understand,” I managed. “Why me?”

“Because you have nothing to lose,” she said simply. “And no one will believe you’d do this for money. You look desperate. You look real.”

The words should’ve hurt. They didn’t. They were true.

I picked the pen back up.

My hand was shaking.

“One contract,” Dahlia said quietly. “One devil. No way out.”

I signed.

She took the paper. Her fingers brushed mine. Cold. Then she leaned across the desk, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something expensive and sharp.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because the cameras are already here.”

The office door opened.

Flash.

And 20 reporters were staring right at us.

Dahlia straightened instantly. She stepped around the desk and took my hand. Her grip was firm. No hesitation.

She slipped a ring onto my finger. Platinum. Cold. It fits.

“Smile, Mr. Hart,” she murmured, for my ears only. “You’re engaged to me now.”

The cameras went off like gunfire.

Dahlia Cross engaged to a mysterious assistant.

Who is Elias Hart?

My name. On every screen in New York.

By tomorrow, my dad will see it from his hospital bed.

By tomorrow, Victor would know.

By tomorrow, there was no going back.

Dahlia didn’t let go

of my hand.

And as the flashes kept coming, I realized something:

I’d just sold the next 4 months of my life to the most dangerous woman in New York.