The Devil’s Vote

Two

Miriam’s POV

A sudden, intense pain gripped my heart immediately upon hearing my mother's words.

“Miriam, you understand that your father does not take his promises lightly. You need to return home and resolve this matter.”

Of course, he would do it without remorse; to my dad, wealth and status have always been paramount. Still, I knew I had to navigate his expectations skillfully, playing my part carefully, or risk being disowned and losing everything if he decided to remove me from his will.

I ended the call abruptly. Consumed by anger and frustration that had grown all day, I stormed into my quarters and pushed the door open.

Without hesitation, I retrieved the box I had used to pack my belongings during the past two years when I had run away from home. My hands trembled as I hurriedly stuffed my belongings inside, trying to hold back tears and the heaviness that pressed on my chest.

“Calm down, girl,” said Mia, my closest friend and emotional support, as she observed my distress. I had been so overwhelmed that I had not noticed her presence.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

“Everything,” I replied, immediately breaking into tears. “Everything, Mia.”

She embraced me, gently stroking my back to provide comfort.

“I need to go home,” I managed to say with more stability as I pulled away from her embrace.

“You mean home—home?” She inquired, glancing at her wristwatch, which she always wears. “It is late, Miriam, and there will be traffic.”

“If I do not go, I am likely to remain penniless for the rest of my life,” I responded heavily, my voice cracking with each word. I looked at Mia, whose face was puzzled, her brows furrowing in confusion.

“I did not get the theater role today,” I explained, swallowing hard to mask the pain in my tone. “The casting directors gave the role to someone else, so I must have missed the audition. And I also caught Henry cheating right there in his office with his secretary,” I added, a strained laugh escaping as I wiped a tear from my cheek.

“That dog! He'd better pray I don't set my…” Mia snapped.

“My dad blocked my credit card today,” I continued, desperate to escape the images of the day's humiliations. “If I don't get home soon, I might lose my last name, Mia. He's planning to erase me from his will, just because I refuse to run his company,” I blurted out, turning back to shove my belongings into the nearly full box.

“Okay, relax,” Mia said urgently, grabbing my arms to steady me as tears continued to stream down my face.

“I'm such a failure,” I whispered.

“No, you're not!” she insisted, yanking me gently but firmly. “I'll take you home, okay?”

I nodded weakly, trying to catch my breath.

“You need to compose yourself before facing your father,” she advised and embraced me tightly.

Mia dropped me off later that night and headed back to the town where we both spent our two years together searching for greener pastures with dry pockets. Yet, the last place I wanted to be was within this mansion–an energy-draining environment that crushes the dreams of a young woman.

“Well, look who's back, the prodigal daughter,” my father, Morgan Morris, said casually, closing his newspaper with a flourish on his luxurious sofa. He tossed it onto a glass table that probably cost a fortune.

“You have won,” I snapped, dropping my luggage so all in the mansion could hear. “Are you satisfied now?”

“It took the entire Dallas theater scene to reject you before you finally figured out your way home,” he smirked, then suddenly struck me.

“What?! You're behind all of this?” I yelled, furious. “You crushed my dreams, Dad!”

“Perhaps,” he said casually, rising from the sofa and shrugging playfully.

“I left your house, determined to succeed independently,” I declared fiercely. “Yet, you followed me like a shadow.”

“You have been living off my money,” he stated firmly, his tone reverting to its usual self. “I was generous to support you during your two-year absence. Playtime is over, young lady.”

“Now, go refresh yourself and get some rest. We have a long day at the office tomorrow. I need my daughter to uphold the family legacy, not run away like a child,” he commanded, picking up his newspaper and a bottle of gin he had been drinking, heading upstairs without regard for the pain he caused or noticing the hurt in my eyes.

Tears welled up again. Heartbroken, I turned and stormed out, leaving my bags behind in the living room. House staff would carry them where they needed to go. But who would carry my heavy heart? I wondered. My Dad destroyed my dreams to force me into working in his office, and he succeeded. No one would want me or hire me as an actress now. No film company would train me. I hate my Dad so much!. I sobbed silently as I stepped out into the city's night.

———-

“It's wrong to drink alone,” a husky, deep voice said behind me, as a tall, muscular man with a neat haircut slid into the empty seat beside me.

He possessed piercing brown eyes that could make any girl melt, and I fought the urge to react.

“What? Do you expect me to drink with everyone in the club?” I shot back abruptly, taking a sip of my Negroni cocktail I ordered earlier to forget my troubles.

“You could have ordered something stronger while drinking alone. What, are you twelve?” The stranger smirked, flashing a mischievous grin.

“Can you do me a favor and leave me alone?” I asked, my tone cold.

“What are you running from?” he asked, his tone alluring enough to tempt any woman, ignoring my plea. His possessiveness was obvious, and he noticed that I was unraveling. He seemed to read me like an open book.

Before I could reply, he called out to the bartender, “A tray of six shots, please.”

“That's too much,” I warned.

“I want to help you forget whatever's bothering you tonight,” he said softly, his gaze unwavering, making my heart race.

I fought to keep my expression neutral, hiding how deeply his words, his steady brown eyes, and the way my body responded to every glance from his irresistible lips affected me. The ambient breeze of the casual, low-energy club suddenly felt stifling, as if the air itself grew heavier around me.

“Drink," his voice ordered again, firm but not harsh, imbued with an almost possessive undertone that snapped me out of my drifting thoughts. I turned my gaze to the six tiny glasses he held—vessels that seemed small yet dangerous, and suddenly, something drew my attention.

He bore a faint mark resembling a birthmark, which I had seen on the palm of Henry's right hand.

A jolt of panic clutched my chest. Was this stranger somehow linked to my ex-boyfriend?