CHAPTER 4: The Devil Wears a Three-Piece Suit
1434 Words
Elena
People talk about powerful men like they’re storms—loud, chaotic, hard to ignore.
But the most dangerous ones aren’t hurricanes.
They’re silent.
Steel wrapped in thousand-dollar wool.
And tonight, silence wears a charcoal three-piece suit and eyes the color of a drowning sky.
“Ms. Torres.” His voice cuts through the library like a scalpel—sharp, clean, designed to leave a mark.
I stay seated, mostly because I’m not sure my legs will work if I try to stand.
“You must be Damien,” I say, keeping my tone level. “The man with the gun.”
His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. More like a flicker of amusement that died halfway up his face.
“If I’d wanted to use it, you’d be dead.”
Charming.
“Then to what do I owe the pleasure?”
He steps inside, and the room seems to tighten. Every molecule bends toward him, like even the air knows who has the power.
He doesn’t sit. Of course not. Sitting is vulnerability.
Instead, he moves to the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantle like he owns the entire damn house.
“I came to make you a proposition,” he says.
“I’m not interested in shady business deals or guns pointed at my—”
“A marriage.”
The word hits like a slap. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just sudden. Unflinching.
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
He turns to face me fully now. “Marry me.”
I blink.
Then laugh. “Wow. Okay. You’ve got range.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s the problem.”
He walks toward me with the calm, unhurried grace of a man who’s never been denied a single thing in his life. “It’s not personal. It’s strategic.”
“Well, thank God for that.”
He pauses at the edge of the carpet, just far enough not to invade my space—but close enough to set off every internal alarm I have.
“You have something I need,” he says. “Access. Legitimacy. Leverage.”
My jaw clenches. “And what makes you think I’m for sale?”
“You signed a contract with Roman Sutton twenty-four hours after meeting him. You impersonated a dead woman for cash. And you’re wearing a five-thousand-dollar blazer that doesn’t belong to you.”
My spine straightens. “You don’t know me.”
“I know desperation when I see it.”
I stand.
Big mistake. He’s taller than I expected. Not by a little. By enough that it makes breathing feel like an uphill battle.
“I don’t care what you think you know,” I snap. “I’m not your pawn.”
“I’m not asking you to be a pawn,” he says. “I’m asking you to be my queen.”
“On a chessboard you control.”
“Yes.”
The audacity.
I take a breath, then another. “Why me?”
“Because you’re already in the game. Victoria made sure of that.”
I freeze. “What do you know about Victoria?”
“She was my mentor. My enemy. My reminder that power is a currency, and trust is a liability.”
“That sounds about right.”
“She left you something,” he adds. “Something more than Roman knows.”
My blood goes cold. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. But I intend to find out. And when I do, I need to make sure you’re on my side.”
“Is this a war?”
“It’s always a war.”
I cross my arms. “You want a paper marriage.”
“I want a merger.”
“You’re making this sound like a corporate acquisition, not a vow.”
“Because that’s what it is.”
There’s no warmth in him. No softness. Just precision.
God help me, I believe him.
“I assume there’s a contract?”
He hands me a folder. Of course he does.
I skim the top page.
Marriage Agreement – Terms & Conditions
Duration: Six months minimum.
Assets: Separate.
Public Appearances: Required.
Intimacy Clause: Optional.
My hands tighten around the edge of the paper.
“You really thought of everything,” I murmur.
“I always do.”
“And what do I get?”
“Protection. Access. Influence.”
I look up at him. “And money?”
“Enough to erase the past ten years of your life.”
“Why not just pay me off?”
He shrugs. “Because some doors only open with a ring.”
The air thickens between us.
This isn’t an attraction. It’s combustion.
“I need time,” I say.
“You have until tomorrow morning.”
Of course I do.
He turns to go, then pauses at the door. “You should know—Roman won’t like this.”
“Let me guess: you don’t care.”
His eyes meet mine, glinting steel.
“I count on it.”
He leaves without another word.
I stare at the contract in my hands like it might start bleeding.
Later that night, I sit in the kitchen of Hartwell Manor, lights low, contract spread across the marble island.
Roman walks in, barefoot, shirt rumpled like he’s slept all of fifteen minutes in the past three days.
His eyes land on the folder.
He doesn’t speak.
“Did you know he’d come?” I ask.
“I hoped he wouldn’t.”
“Why does he hate you?”
“He doesn’t hate me. He wants to be me.”
“Because of Sutton International?”
“Because of everything.”
I exhale. “Why do you think he wants to marry me?”
“Because he never met someone Victoria trusted. Not fully. Not until you.”
I shake my head. “You’re both insane.”
“You’re not wrong.”
Silence.
Then he asks, softly, “Are you going to say yes?”
I stare down at the contract again. “I don’t know.”
His voice is tight. Controlled. “Don’t do it to spite me.”
“I’m not. I’m doing it because my life is one missed call from collapsing.”
He doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t try to stop me.
He just nods.
And walks away.
The next morning, Damien’s driver picks me up at eight sharp.
No words. Just a black car, tinted windows, and a manila envelope waiting on the seat.
Inside: a wedding license. Two rings. And a note.
Meet me at the Tower. Noon. Don’t be late. – D
I want to throw the whole thing into the snow.
Instead, I hold it tighter.
At eleven fifty-seven, I walk into the Sutton Tower penthouse.
He’s already there.
Immaculate, of course. Dark suit. Black tie. Silver watch. One hand in his pocket like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“You came,” he says.
“I signed.”
He doesn’t smile. But something flickers in his eyes.
“Let’s begin.”
The justice of the peace enters. Neutral expression. No questions. Clearly well-compensated.
I recite the vows like a hostage reading a ransom letter.
He says he’s closing a deal.
And then it’s done.
A signature. A photo.
A ring.
I stare at my hand.
I’m married.
To a man I don’t trust.
To a devil in a suit.
Damien Cross is now my husband.
We walk into his office, silence trailing behind us like a second veil.
He pours two glasses of champagne.
Hands me one.
“To leverage,” he says.
I raise my glass, but don’t drink.
“You said this was business,” I say. “No secrets.”
“Correct.”
“So tell me the truth. Why now?”
He sets his glass down. “Because everything is about to unravel.”
“What is?”
He leans in. Close enough to smell his cologne—sharp, clean, expensive.
“Victoria didn’t just leave you something. She made you something.”
My heart pounds.
“She built you like a time bomb,” he whispers. “And now the countdown has started.”
Before I can speak, his phone buzzes.
He answers, listens.
Then hangs up.
He looks at me.
“They’re here.”
“Who?”
He opens the blinds.
Down on the street: black SUVs. Suited figures. Press badges. Cameras.
I take a step back. “What is this?”
He turns to me, voice low.
“They know.”
- Writer
