Married to the Devil of Wall Street

*Chapter 1*: *The Contract* The knock came at 11:47 PM. One knock. Polite. Too polite for 11:47 PM. I was sitting on the kitchen floor counting pills. Twenty-three white tablets in a small plastic cup. Mason’s prescription painkillers from St. Mary’s. He’d been beaten up three days ago by loan sharks he borrowed money from. The hospital gave him enough painkillers for a week. I was stretching it to ten days. Twenty-three pills meant four more days before he’d be in real pain again. “Elena. Don’t open it.” Mason’s voice was hoarse from the hospital phone. I’d called him five minutes ago. “They’re not cops. Don’t talk to them.” I didn’t open the door. I looked through the peephole instead. Two men stood in the hallway. Suits, not tracksuits. The kind of loan sharks who wore thousand-dollar suits to pretend they were legitimate. The taller one held up his phone toward the door. “Miss Carter,” his voice was calm through the door. “We just want to talk about your brother’s debt.” I opened the door an inch, keeping the chain on. “I told you on the phone, he’s in the hospital. He can’t pay.” “We know,” the man said. He showed me the phone. It was a photo of Mason. Two days ago, in a warehouse. He was sitting on a chair, face bruised, hands tied. A note was on his lap: _Pay by Friday or he doesn’t walk home._ “That was before we took him to St. Mary’s,” the man said. “We’re not monsters. We paid his medical bill. But the debt is still two million dollars. And Friday is tomorrow.” My stomach dropped. They’d beaten him, sent him to the hospital, and now they were acting civilized about collecting. “What do you want?” I asked. “Payment,” the man said. “Or a plan. Mr. Carter signed the contract. Two million plus 20% weekly interest.” “I don’t have two million,” I said. “I don’t even have two thousand.” The man sighed like I was wasting his time. “Then Mr. Carter will have to deal with the consequences. We’ll be back tomorrow.” He stepped back. The second man gave me one last look and they turned to leave. I waited. One minute. Two. I counted to five hundred just to be sure they were really gone. At minute six, another knock came. Softer this time. Before I could check, a voice spoke through the door. “Miss Carter? My name is Marcus Holt. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Damian Blackwood. He would like to meet you tonight regarding your brother’s debt.” I opened the door an inch. Marcus was younger. Early thirties. Clean suit. No gold chain, no smirk. He held out a business card. “Mr. Blackwood isn’t buying the debt,” Marcus said. “He’s offering to pay it off for you. No interest. No extra fees. He just wants to talk first.” I stared at the card. _Damian Blackwood. Blackwood Capital._ People called him “the devil of Wall Street” in the business pages. Not because he killed anyone. Because he never lost, and he never showed mercy. “Why would he do that?” I asked. “That’s what he’d like to discuss with you,” Marcus said. “My car is downstairs. It’s up to you, but I’d recommend you come. He doesn’t repeat himself.” I looked back at the apartment. At the phone on the counter. Mason was still in the hospital. If I didn’t go, nothing changed. If I did, maybe it did. “Give me five minutes,” I said. --- I found Damian Blackwood’s office at 12:03 AM. Blackwood Tower. 89th floor. The building didn’t have a name on the front. It didn’t need one. Marcus led me through the empty office. “Mr. Blackwood doesn’t keep staff late,” he said. “Unless it’s important.” He opened the door and stepped aside. Damian was behind a desk that looked like it cost more than my apartment. Black suit. White shirt. No tie. He looked up when I walked in. His eyes were sharp, cold. The kind of eyes that made you feel like he’d already decided your value before you spoke. “You’re Mason’s sister,” he said. Not a question. “Yes,” I said. “You want to pay my brother’s debt?” “I do,” he said. “The loan sharks were going to ruin him. I’m willing to clear the two million plus his medical costs. But I don’t do it for free.” I swallowed. “What do you want in return?” “I want you to sign a contract,” he said. He slid a folder across the desk. I picked it up. Inside was a contract. One page. *Marriage Contract* *Parties: Damian Blackwood & Elena Carter* *Term: 12 months* *Terms: Wife agrees to live with husband, attend public events, and follow house rules. Husband agrees to pay debt of Mason Carter and cover ongoing medical costs. No s****l relations unless mutually agreed. Early termination by either party requires repayment of debt plus 50% penalty.* I read it twice. It was clean. No tricks. No fine print hidden at the bottom. “You want me to marry you,” I said. “I want a wife for public appearances,” he said. “My board thinks I’m unstable because I’m single. This fixes that for a year. In exchange, your brother’s debt is gone and his bills are paid.” “And if I say no?” I asked. “Then the loan sharks come back tomorrow,” he said simply. “I’m giving you an out. It’s up to you if you take it.” I looked at the signature line. If I signed, Mason’s debt was gone. His medical bills were paid. If I didn’t, I was back to counting pills and hoping for a miracle. “What are the rules?” I asked. Damian’s expression didn’t change. “Rule one: Don’t talk to the press about this. Rule two: Don’t touch me unless I initiate. Rule three: Don’t ask about my past. Rule four: Don’t fall in love with me.” I frowned. “Rule four?” “When this ends, I want both of us to walk away without complications,” he said. “Love complicates things.” It sounded cold. It sounded final. My hand hovered over the pen. Outside, the city lights blinked like they were counting down. I thought of Mason’s face in that photo. I thought of the pills on the kitchen floor. I thought of what happened to people who said no to the devil of Wall Street. I picked up the pen. The tip touched the paper. And then I paused. “What happens if I break rule four?” I asked. Damian’s eyes flicked up. For half a second, something unreadable passed through them. He leaned forward. “Then, Miss Carter,” he said quietly, “you’ll find out why they call me the devil.”