Kiss Me Like You Hate Me

The Devil's Bargain

I didn’t call him that night.

Or the next morning, when I sat on my lumpy studio bed eating stale cereal straight from the box and pretending like I had other options. Spoiler: I didn’t.

Tuesday I wasted hours googling pro bono lawyers, thinking maybe some saint in a suit would swoop in and save us. Turns out “pro bono” doesn’t cover fifty-million-dollar embezzlement charges. Wednesday I pawned the last of Mom’s jewelry, the little pieces she left me before she disappeared into her fog of pills. The guy at the shop looked at me like he was doing me a favor, like pity was part of the bargain. I kept my chin up anyway.

By Thursday, I was down to two hundred bucks, a fridge with nothing in it but mustard, and the gnawing realization that Adrian Cross probably knew this exact timeline. Like he’d been sitting in his penthouse, sipping thousand-dollar scotch, counting down the days until I broke.

I was in some overpriced SoHo coffee shop, stretching one sad espresso for two hours, when my phone rang. Dad’s lawyer.

“Miss Moretti, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

Patterson always sounded tired, like a man who’d delivered bad news so many times it was just muscle memory by now.

“The prosecutor is pushing for remand. They want your father held without bail until trial.”

My hand shook so bad the cup rattled against the saucer. “What does that mean?”

“It means they’ll argue he’s a flight risk. And… the judge might agree. If so, he stays in custody until trial.”

“How long?”

“Eight months. Maybe more.”

Eight months. For a man who’d never spent a night without silk sheets or a housekeeper knocking on his door with breakfast. Eight months would chew him alive.

“What can we do?”

The silence on his end was heavier than the words that came after. “We need witnesses. People willing to vouch for him. But given the circumstances…”

“No one wants to touch us.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Isla. Without resources—real resources—this isn’t a case I can win on intentions alone.”

I stayed in that coffee shop until the barista’s looks got sharp enough to cut skin. Then I walked the city for hours, past the kind of buildings my father used to own, past neighborhoods where I’d grown up untouchable.

Everything looked different when you were broke. Harsher. Like New York could smell the desperation on you.

By the time I got back to my apartment, the decision was already sitting in my chest, heavy and final.

I called Adrian.

He answered on the first ring. “Miss Moretti.” Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d circled this exact hour on his calendar.

“I want to hear the terms. All of them.”

“Of course. Can you be at my office in an hour?”

I looked at my jeans, my worn sweater, the outfit of someone pretending not to be desperate. “I’m not dressed for the Cross Maritime building.”

“Then we’ll meet elsewhere. Café Laurent, East 67th. You know it?”

Of course I knew it. The kind of place where a single appetizer cost more than my entire grocery budget. “Fine. One hour.”

“Isla?” His voice dipped lower, curling over my name. “Don’t bring a lawyer. Not yet.”

And then he hung up.

*****

Café Laurent was just as pretentious as I remembered. Dark wood, chandeliers, waiters who looked like they’d been painted by some Renaissance artist. I got there five minutes early and hid in the bathroom, trying to make my reflection pass for someone who belonged.

Adrian was already at a corner table, half-hidden behind an ornate screen, like he was both part of the room and above it. His eyes swept over me as I approached, efficient, cataloguing.

“You’re punctual,” he said, standing to pull out my chair.

“I’m desperate,” I said flatly, sitting before he could.

His mouth curved. “I appreciate honesty.”

The waiter appeared like magic. Adrian ordered some French wine I couldn’t even pronounce. I asked for water.

“You should eat something,” he said. “You look like you’ve lost weight.”

“I’m fine.”

“Isla.” My name in his voice wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order wrapped in velvet. “Order.”

I wanted to argue, but I ordered soup. The cheapest thing, which still cost more than I usually spent feeding myself for a week.

He leaned back, calm as a predator. “The terms.”

He placed a leather portfolio on the table, neat, deliberate. Everything about him screamed expensive, his watch, his shoes, even the silence he carried like it was worth money.

“One year marriage contract,” he said. “You live in my penthouse. Attend events as my wife. Maintain the appearance of a happy marriage anywhere it matters.”

“Define matters.”

“Cameras. Reporters. Galas. Boardrooms. Any place where reputation has teeth.”

I nodded, trying to look like I was negotiating instead of drowning.

“In return,” he continued, “fifty thousand dollars a month. Full access to my legal team. And ten million at the end.”

The numbers punched the air out of me. Fifty thousand a month. Ten million at the finish line.

“What’s the catch?”

“Several.” He slid the contract toward me. “First, silence. No selling stories, no interviews, no memoirs.”

“Fine.”

“Second, fidelity. No other men. Not even a hint of one.”

I bristled. “That’s a little controlling, don’t you think?”

“It’s practical. Scandals are expensive. I don’t pay for other people’s mistakes. The same applies to me.” His eyes didn’t waver.

I swallowed. “Obviously.”

“Third, you learn me. My world. My business. You play the role so convincingly no one questions it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you act like you’re in love with me.”

The words stuck in my chest. Love him. Or at least fake it. Touch him, smile at him, look at him like he was the center of my world.

“That’s… going to be difficult.”

His smile was sharp. “You’ll manage. You’re adaptable.”

The waiter returned. Adrian swirled his wine like someone who’d never ordered anything cheap in his life. I clutched my water and tried to breathe.

“What about after?” I asked. “When the year’s done?”

“Clean divorce. You take the settlement and vanish.”

“And my father?”

“My team starts tomorrow. I’m not promising he won’t serve time. But I promise he won’t die in prison.”

My throat tightened. It was the hope I needed. Just enough to keep me hooked, not enough to let me dream.

“Why me?” I asked. “You could pick someone from your world. Someone who knows how to play.”

“They’d want love,” he said simply. “They’d want to change me. I’m not offering love, Isla. I’m offering a transaction. You need help. I need a wife who won’t try to fix me.”

“And you think I won’t try?”

“I think you’re smart enough to know better.”

I hated that he was right.

“I want guarantees,” I said. “In writing. My father gets the defense no matter what happens between us.”

“Done.”

“And if you get bored, you don’t punish him for it.”

“Agreed.”

“And I want to see the penthouse first. If I’m going to live there, I want to know what I’m walking into.”

He looked almost surprised. “You want a tour?”

“I want to see where I’ll be sleeping. Where I’ll be… performing.”

Something flickered in his face at that word, then smoothed away. “Fair enough. We can go now.”

“Now?”

“Do you have somewhere else to be?”

No. I didn’t. And he knew it.

“Fine,” I said.

He paid without looking at the check, stood, and waited for me to follow.

In the mirror by the door, I caught our reflection. We looked like a couple, him sharp and commanding, me tucked neatly under his arm. Like we belonged. Like it wasn’t all a lie.

“I haven’t said yes,” I reminded him.

His smile was razor-thin. “You will.”

And as I walked past him into the cool Manhattan night, breathing in his cologne, I knew he was right.

I was going to say yes.

The only question was whether I’d survive it.