Tempting the Devil

Chapter2

The elevator doors opened into the top floor of Blackwell Tower, and Isabella Cruz was immediately swallowed by silence. Not the calm kind, it was the heavy, suffocating hush of a place designed to intimidate.

Floor-to-ceiling windows turned the entire city into a backdrop, glittering like a field of stars caught beneath glass. The office itself was more like a lair than a workspace minimalist, cold, every line precise, every detail screaming money and power.

And at the heart of it, behind a desk of black marble that seemed better suited for an emperor than a businessman, sat Adrian Blackwell.

He didn’t look up immediately. His fingers moved across a tablet, sharp movements that radiated control. His suit was perfectly tailored, the charcoal fabric molded to a body honed by more than just boardroom battles. Power didn’t just sit on him—it exuded from every deliberate motion.

When his eyes finally lifted, Isabella nearly faltered. Gray, like storm clouds before lightning. Piercing, unreadable, and yet somehow seeing too much.

“Miss Cruz,” he said. Smooth. Velvet laced with steel. “You’re braver than most. Few walk willingly into the lion’s den after painting him as the devil.”

Her throat was dry, but she lifted her chin. “I don’t scare easily.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Good. Fear bores me.”

She crossed the room, her heels clicking against marble, notebook in hand like a shield. “You asked me here. What do you want, Mr. Blackwell?”

Adrian leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Clarity. You’ve made a career off other people’s reputations. I find myself curious how you’ll fare when the spotlight turns in your direction.”

“Deflection won’t work.” She opened her notebook, poised to write. “Why don’t we start with your company’s off-shore shell accounts?”

For the first time, something flickered in his gaze—amusement, not alarm. “Straight to the jugular. Refreshing.” He rose, coming around the desk. She hadn’t realized how tall he was until he closed the distance, his presence swallowing the space between them.

“You think you’ve uncovered corruption,” he said softly. “What you have are fragments. Pieces of a puzzle you don’t yet understand.”

Her pen hovered. “Then explain it to me.”

His smirk deepened. “No. I’d rather show you.”

She blinked. “Show me?”

“For the next two weeks, you’ll follow me. Sit in my meetings. Watch me work. You want the devil unmasked? I’ll give you a front-row seat.”

Her laugh was sharp, incredulous. “You expect me to play shadow to you? To let you stage some elaborate performance so I’ll write a flattering retraction?”

His eyes darkened. “I expect you to see the truth. Whether it ruins you or ruins me, we’ll find out.”

The room felt smaller, the air heavier. Isabella fought the urge to step back. “You’re insane.”

“Possibly.” His voice dropped, intimate in its calm. “But you’ll agree, because if you walk away now, every door in this city closes to you. Editors. Publishers. Sources. I own them all.”

Her chest tightened. Damn him. He wasn’t bluffing—and they both knew it.

“You can’t control me,” she said, though her voice lacked the certainty she wanted.

“Not yet.” He studied her with predatory patience. “But I will own your time, Miss Cruz. Two weeks. Starting now.”

Her pen snapped shut. “We’ll see.”

She spun toward the door, fury making her movements sharp.

But fate or Adrian wasn’t done with her yet.

The hallway outside was too quiet, and when she jabbed the elevator button, the soft ding echoed like a gunshot. She stepped inside, eager to put distance between them, only for a large hand to slide between the closing doors.

Adrian.

He stepped in, unhurried, his scent enveloping the confined space—cedar, smoke, and something darker she couldn’t place.

Her shoulders stiffened. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Escorting you,” he said smoothly, pressing his card against the panel. All other buttons went dark. “Can’t have my newest… employee wandering off unsupervised.”

“Employee?” She barked a laugh. “That’s not what this is.”

“Oh, but it is.” His voice was a lazy purr. “Two weeks. Observation. Access. Call it what you like, but you’ll answer to me.”

She gaped at him, fury sparking hot in her chest. “I’m not on your payroll.”

“Not yet.” He tilted his head, studying her with unnerving intensity. “But give me time.”

The elevator hummed downward, the silence between them thick. Isabella stared at the glowing numbers, willing herself not to look at him. But she could feel his gaze like heat against her skin.

Finally, she snapped, “Do you ever stop staring at people like they’re prey?”

A slow smile curved his mouth. “Only when they stop being interesting.”

Her pulse spiked. She hated that her breath caught, that heat curled low in her stomach at the way he said it. God, don’t you dare blush now.

The elevator chimed at the ground floor. Relief surged through her, only to vanish when he matched her stride as they crossed the glittering marble lobby.

People moved out of his way instinctively, some murmuring greetings, others lowering their eyes. Adrian barely acknowledged them, his attention fixed on Isabella. She straightened her back, refusing to shrink beside him.

At the revolving glass doors, he paused. “Nine a.m. sharp tomorrow. The jet leaves with or without you.”

She spun on him, eyes blazing. “Don’t wait up.”

He leaned in, voice a whisper of silk. “I never wait, Miss Cruz. I take.”

A shiver traced her spine, betraying her. She shoved through the doors into the city air before he could see.

The cab ride home was a blur of lights and noise. Isabella sat stiffly, notebook open on her lap, pen frozen above the page. Normally, she’d already be scribbling quotes, impressions, the perfect headline.

But her hand wouldn’t move.

Because what was she supposed to write? That Adrian Blackwell was the monster she’d described—arrogant, dangerous, untouchable? That his empire reeked of rot?

Or that standing near him made her pulse race in ways she refused to analyze?

“God, get a grip,” she muttered, snapping the notebook shut.

Two weeks. Two weeks to outlast him. Two weeks to prove she couldn’t be bought, bullied, or seduced into silence.

Two weeks to dance with the devil without getting burned.

And if her skin still tingled where his eyes had lingered—well, that was adrenaline. Nothing more.

She repeated that lie all the way home.

Adrian watched her storm out through the glass doors, his reflection smirking back at him.

Most people bent too easily. Isabella Cruz was steel wrapped in silk, a challenge rare enough to intrigue him.

Oliver, his assistant, approached. “Sir? Tomorrow’s manifest—one passenger or two?”

Adrian’s gaze lingered on the doors she had vanished through, the faintest hunger sharpening his features.

“Two,” he said softly. “And make sure she’s seated beside me.”