The Devil's Proposal
1022 Words
Tricia stared at the ring in Christopher Knight’s palm like it was a weapon.
Because it was.
A diamond the size of a tear glinted in the morning sun, mounted on platinum. It looked expensive—obscenely so—but to her, it looked like chains.
“I’m not marrying you,” she said, her voice trembling.
Christopher tilted his head slightly, like a tiger deciding whether to pounce. “You don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” she hissed, stepping back. “You can’t blackmail me into something like this. I’ll go to the press. I’ll tell them the truth.”
He actually chuckled.
“And say what? That you—what?—accidentally seduced a billionaire in his own hotel room?” His voice turned sharp. “Tell them I was drugged? You’d be putting a target on your back. There are people who would love to see me exposed. They’d tear you apart just to get to me.”
Tricia’s stomach twisted. “I don’t care! I didn’t agree to this—I didn’t agree to any of this!”
Christopher took a slow step forward. His bare chest was inches from her. His presence was overwhelming—like standing before a hurricane in a silk robe.
“You did,” he said coldly. “The moment you stepped into my room, the moment you touched me, the moment you let me—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t twist this into something I wanted.”
For a beat, something flickered behind his eyes. Something unreadable.
He sighed, walked past her, and picked up his phone from the nightstand. He made a call.
“James,” he said. “Move the press conference forward. Two hours. Issue the marriage announcement. No, I don’t care what PR says. Handle it.”
Tricia’s breath caught. “You’re serious.”
He turned back to her.
“You want to leave? Fine. Walk out that door.” He pointed to the suite’s double doors. “But when you do, understand this: You will be followed. Your life will never go back to what it was. The press will eat you alive. You’ll have reporters on your lawn. At your school. Your job. Your friends.”
Tricia clenched her fists. “You think you can scare me into saying yes?”
“No,” he said. “I can promise you it will be worse if you say no.”
A beat of silence. Then:
“Why me?” she asked quietly. “Why not deny it? Say it was nothing. Sweep it under the rug.”
His expression darkened.
“Because the men I work with… they don’t respect weakness. And they already suspect too much. If I appear soft—if I let a scandal erupt—they’ll smell blood. And you—” his eyes raked over her—“you’re beautiful. Innocent. Perfect for the story I’m about to sell.”
“And what story is that?”
He smirked. “That I fell in love.”
She laughed bitterly. “You’re insane.”
Christopher stepped toward her again, his voice low.
“You have until this afternoon. Either you walk beside me… or I’ll bury you under the weight of my world.”
Then he handed her the ring.
---
Later That Day...
The limo pulled up to a hidden penthouse across the street from the Knight Tower.
Tricia sat frozen in the back seat, dressed in a form-fitting black cocktail dress someone had delivered “on Christopher’s orders.” Her makeup was perfect. Her curls were loose. Her wrists were trembling.
Christopher stepped in beside her, dressed in black tailored Armani. He didn’t speak.
She glared at him. “This is kidnapping.”
“It’s damage control,” he replied.
“I don’t even know your favorite color.”
He looked out the window. “Black.”
“Shocking.”
A short silence.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked again, softer now. “Why not just… let me go?”
Christopher turned to her. His eyes, cold before, now shimmered with something far more dangerous: obsession.
“Because I don’t let go of what’s mine.”
Her breath caught.
The limo stopped. The door opened.
And the cameras exploded.
Flashbulbs. Reporters. Security. Applause.
A publicist approached. “Mr. Knight, the press is waiting for your official statement—”
He held up a hand. “Later.”
Christopher extended his hand to Tricia.
And like a woman walking toward her own funeral, she took it.
They stepped into the tower together.
---
Knight Tower, 40th Floor – Private Ballroom
The ballroom was filled with gold, glass, and power. Business executives. Government men. Beautiful women. Mafia eyes hiding behind tuxedos and champagne flutes.
Tricia tried to smile.
Christopher stood tall beside her, whispering smooth lies to journalists.
“We met a few months ago in Florence,” he said with a rehearsed smile. “It was instant.”
Tricia nodded stiffly. She hated him. She hated him so much. But she couldn’t stop her eyes from drifting to his hand—where that same diamond ring now sat on her own finger.
“Tricia,” a voice whispered.
She turned—and nearly fainted.
A man stood near the bar, tall, blonde, in a white suit. His smile was warm, but his eyes were ice.
“Do you know who that is?” she asked Christopher.
He followed her gaze. His jaw locked.
“Stay away from him.”
“Why?”
“That’s Julian Castelli. My rival. Head of the Castelli Syndicate.”
Her throat went dry. “He looked at me like he knew something.”
Christopher stepped closer to her, placing a possessive hand at her waist.
“If he even thinks about touching you,” he said darkly, “he dies.”
She stared at him.
“My God. You’re not just some businessman, are you?”
Christopher gave her a slow smile.
“I told you. I’m not someone you should have met.”
- Writer
