Inked by the Devil

Chapter 4 – Penthouse Rules

His apartment was on the thirty-eighth floor and looked like someone had designed it to intimidate.

Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city that went on forever. Furniture in black and grey that probably had a designer's name attached to it. A kitchen that had clearly never been used for anything as casual as breakfast. Every surface clean, every angle intentional, the whole place carrying the particular atmosphere of a space that belonged to someone who'd never had to make it feel like home because home had never been the point.

I stood in the entrance with my two bags and my sketchbook backpack and tried not to look like what I was, which was a tattoo artist from the Garment District who had never been anywhere this expensive on purpose.

"Your room is the second door on the left," Damien said behind me. "There's a bathroom attached. I had someone put towels in this morning."

"You knew I'd say yes."

"I knew you'd run out of options." He moved past me toward the kitchen. "There's no meaningful difference."

I turned to face him. "There is to me."

He paused. Looked at me over his shoulder.

"Fair enough," he said. And surprisingly, he seemed to mean it.

***

We established the rules over coffee — his, black and efficient; mine, requiring an amount of sugar he visibly found concerning.

His rules: No guests without twenty-four hours notice. Shared spaces stay neutral. When in public, follow his lead on physical contact. If his staff ask questions, she's his fiancée, they met through a mutual friend six months ago, no further detail required.

My rules: My sketchbooks are not reading material. My studio hours are off-limits for social scheduling. If she needs to leave an event early, she leaves. No argument.

He agreed to mine. I agreed to his. We shook hands across his kitchen island like we were closing a business deal, which, technically, we were.

***

The charity gala was four days later.

Black tie. A hotel ballroom in Midtown full of people who all seemed to know each other's net worth. I wore a dress I'd bought that afternoon — dark green, sleeveless, which meant my tattoo sleeve was visible and there was nothing to be done about it. I'd considered a coverup for exactly thirty seconds before deciding that if Damien Cross wanted a convincing fake fiancée, he was getting the actual version of me, ink and all.

He met me in the lobby. Looked at me for a moment without speaking.

"You look —" he started.

"Don't," I said. "Let's just go in."

Something shifted in his expression. He offered his arm.

The room was everything I'd expected and more exhausting. Damien moved through it like he owned it, which he probably partially did, and I stayed close and smiled at the right moments and answered questions about how we met with the story we'd rehearsed until it came out smooth.

I was doing fine. Right up until the woman in the white dress appeared.

She was beautiful in the way that suggested a great deal of careful effort disguised as effortlessness. Dark hair, perfect posture, a smile that arrived at exactly the right moment. She kissed Damien on the cheek like she'd done it a thousand times before and looked at me with eyes that were warm on the surface and something else entirely underneath.

"Celeste," Damien said. His voice was neutral in a way that suggested it was working hard to be neutral. "This is Maya."

"His fiancée." Celeste's smile widened. "I'd heard. It was quite a surprise."

"I imagine so," I said pleasantly.

Damien was pulled away briefly by another guest. Celeste and I stood beside each other watching him go.

"He's never brought anyone to one of these before," Celeste said, still smiling at the room. "Not once. In seven years."

"People change," I said.

"Damien doesn't." She turned to look at me directly for the first time. Her eyes were very clear. "I just think it's interesting. That's all. The timing. The suddenness." A small pause. "I hope you know what you're getting into."

Before I could answer, Damien was back. He looked between us once — a quick, assessing look — and then his hand found mine. Warm, firm, certain.

First real contact. Right on cue.

Celeste excused herself with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, and I stood there with my hand in Damien's, wondering what exactly she knew, and how long it would take me to find out.

#Vote#