THE DEVIL'S CONCUBINE

The ring light was burning my eyes, but I couldn’t turn it off. "Just a quick transition, guys," I muttered to myself. I propped my phone against a stack of heavy fashion books. My back ached from spending forty-eight hours straight cutting and sewing a silk corset dress. I forced a big smile, did a quick spin for the t****k video, and stopped the recording. The smile dropped instantly. I watched the replay. The video looked grainy. The background my tiny workspace with fabric scraps, everywhere looked cheap. It didn’t look like a luxury brand at all. I checked my views on the last few videos. 200 views. 150 views. "God, please," I whispered, dropping my head into my hands. The online algorithm didn't care about good sewing. It cared about expensive studios and flawless aesthetics. I didn't have the money for any of that. Material prices were going up every week. My rent was overdue, and my landlord was already calling me with an angry voice. I looked at my clothing rack. I had beautiful, high-end dresses ready, but no one was buying them. My phone buzzed on the table. It was a w******p message from Chief Femi. Chief Femi: The weekend is here, Veekie. Have you thought about that trip to Abuja? The luxury hotel is booked. Let me know so I can send my driver. My stomach twisted. Chief Femi was sixty years old and smelled like old cigarettes. He looked at me like food. But he also had enough money to pay my rent, buy new industrial sewing machines, and pay for massive online ads with one bank transfer. This was the dirty secret behind my "independent designer" dream. Talent didn't pay for premium silk. Men did. Men who looked at my body and decided I was worth a few million Naira. I hated it. I hated fake-laughing at their boring jokes. But looking at my empty bank account made the shame disappear. It was a trade. My body for their cash, just so I could build my business. I needed to grow. I wanted a real boutique. I was tired of scraping by, and I was tired of these old men. I grabbed my phone and typed a reply to Chief Femi: What time should the driver come? Before I could hit send, a new notification popped up. It was an i********: DM from a verified account with a black profile picture. Joshua Cross. I tapped it. The message was short and direct. Joshua Cross: I saw the men's suit you posted on your page. Come to my office at Cross Holdings tomorrow at 8 PM. Bring your measuring tape. Let's discuss a contract. My heart stopped, then started beating fast. Joshua Cross. He was a billionaire into tech and real estate. He was young, incredibly handsome, and famous for sleeping with and discarding top models. If I could get him as a client, my brand would go viral. The internet would explode. I quickly deleted the text to Chief Femi. My fingers shook a little as I typed a reply to Josh. Veekie: 8 PM works. I'll be there. The elevator doors opened on the top floor of Cross Holdings, and the silence hit me first. The hallway was huge, lined with dark marble and glass that smelled like expensive vanilla and money. I looked down at my outfit. I had worn my tightest black pencil skirt and a white button-up shirt that hugged my waist perfectly. If I was going to get this contract, I needed to look professional, but I also knew how men like Joshua Cross operated. I needed him to see the designer, but I didn't mind if he noticed the body, too. A sleek glass door at the end of the hall had his name on it: **JOSHUA CROSS, CEO**. I took a deep breath, walked up, and knocked. "Come in," a deep voice called out. I pushed the door open. The office was massive, with giant windows showing the city lights below. Josh was sitting behind a huge mahogany desk. He had thrown his suit jacket over the back of his chair, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, toned muscles. When he looked up, his eyes locked onto mine. They were incredibly dark, almost black, and intense. He didn't smile. He just looked at me, his gaze moving slowly from my face, down to my chest, over my hips, and back up. My skin instantly flushed hot. I felt a sudden drop in my stomach. I had met rich men before, but Josh had a different kind of energy. It was heavy. Dangerous. "Good evening, Mr. Cross," I said, keeping my voice steady as I walked inside. I pulled my measuring tape out of my bag. "I’m Veekie." "I know," he said, his voice a low purr. He stood up from his chair. He was tall easily 6'2 and he walked around the desk toward me with total confidence. "You're late." I checked the wall clock. "It's exactly 8:00 PM." "If you're not early, you're late," he murmured, stopping just two feet away from me. The scent of his expensive high-end cologne filled my nose. He was even more handsome up close, with a sharp jawline and stubble that made him look rough despite the billionaire title. "Let’s get to it," I said, trying to focus on my business. I held up the measuring tape. "You said you wanted a custom suit. Can you lift your arms slightly so I can measure your chest?" Josh didn't move his arms. He just stood there, staring down at me, a tiny, wicked smirk touching the corner of his lips. "Is that what you think this is about, Veekie? A suit?" I blinked, my hand freezing mid-air. "Huh? Your message said.." "My message was to get you into this office when everyone else had gone home," he interrupted. He took one step closer, completely invading my personal space. The heat radiating off his body was overwhelming. "I’ve seen your i********:. You're trying very hard to build a luxury brand. And I know all about the old men who buy your fabric." My heart slammed against my ribs. Shame and anger flared up inside me. I stepped back, my jaw tightening. "Excuse me? If you brought me here to insult me.." "I don't waste time insulting people," Josh said. In a flash, his hand shot out and gripped my waist, pulling me right back against his chest. I gasped, my breath catching in my throat. His hand was hot even through the fabric of my skirt. "Let go," I whispered, but my voice lacked strength. My heart was racing, and a sudden, sharp ache formed deep in my belly. "You don't want me to let go," he growled, his eyes fixed on my lips. "I know your type. You want success, and you use your body to get it. The difference is, those old men are boring. I’m not." Before I could reply, he bent his head and captured my mouth.