THE DEVIL'S CONCUBINE

INSIDE HIS HEAD

Across the city, on the top floor of his luxury penthouse, Joshua Cross wasn't sleeping either.

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The ice clinked against the glass, the city lights reflecting in his eyes.

He was incredibly annoyed.

Josh didn't get distracted. He ran an empire worth billions, dealt with cutthroat investors, and moved through life with cold calculation. Women were an easy distraction, high-end models who knew the rules, took their expensive gifts, and left without making a fuss.

But right now, the scent of vanilla and raw s*x was still stuck in his head.

He took a big drink of the whiskey, his jaw clenching. He closed his eyes, and all he could hear was the echo of her voice. Ah! Josh! The way her voice had broken, turning into those loud, wild screams when he drove deep inside her. She hadn't tried to be polite or elegant on that desk. She had been completely raw, her body tightening around him like a vice, matching his energy with a desperate hunger of her own.

He remembered the sight of my bare legs wrapped tightly around his waist, my hair splayed across his paperwork. His chest tightened. He had never felt an immediate physical pull that violent. Usually, once he came, his interest disappeared. But with me, the moment he pulled out, he had wanted to flip me over and do it again.

His phone buzzed on the marble counter. It was a report from his security team. He had ordered a full background check on me the second I left his office.

The text read: Subject has regular contact with Femi Alao (Chief Femi), Kevin Robert, and several other wealthy nightlife spenders. Financial records show heavy debt with fabric suppliers and studio rent.

Josh stared at the screen, his eyes narrowing. possessive anger flared up in his stomach, hot and sudden. The thought of some old, bloated politician or some slick lounge owner putting their hands on me, hearing those tight, high-pitched moans that belonged to him... it made his blood boil.

He finished his drink in one gulp.

I was a hustler, using my body to fund my fashion dream. He knew the game. But I had made a massive mistake entering his office. He wasn't going to be just another name on my long list of admirers.

"You're done with them, Veekie," Josh muttered to the empty room, his fingers tightening around his glass until his knuckles turned white. "You just don't know it yet.”

The next morning, my alarm woke me up at 6:00 AM. My body felt incredibly heavy, and when I sat up, a sharp ache between my thighs instantly reminded me of Joshua Cross.

I ignored the soreness, pulled my hair into a bun, and got straight to work. I had orders to finish. I spent the next four hours at my sewing machine, cutting fabric and running seams, trying to drown out my thoughts with the loud, steady hum of the motor.

By noon, my phone started buzzing.

It was Chief Femi calling. I let it ring out, my stomach twisting. Then Kevin Robert texted again, asking if I had seen his message about his lounge this weekend. I left him on read, too. My heart dipped. I knew I was playing a dangerous game. If I kept ignoring them, the funding for my upcoming collection would completely dry up.

Suddenly, a loud knock rattled my studio door.

My landlord didn't knock like that. I stood up, smoothing down my apron, and opened it.

Two men in sharp, identical black suits were standing in the hallway. They looked like professional security. One of them held a massive, sleek garment box tied with a white silk ribbon.

"Veekie Hazen?" the first man asked, using my full name.

"Yes?" I blinked, confused.

"This is for you. From Mr. Cross." He handed me the heavy box.

Before I could even ask a question, the second man held out a brand-new, latest-model iPhone, still in its sealed box, along with a small, unsealed envelope.

"He said to open the note immediately," the man added, his face completely expressionless.

My hands shook slightly as I took the phone and the envelope. The two men bowed slightly, turned around, and walked down the hallway without another word.

I closed the door with my foot, my heart hammering against my ribs. I dropped the box onto my cutting table and tore open the small envelope. Inside was a heavy card with his initials, **JC**, stamped in gold.

Written in neat handwriting were just a few words:

> *Unpack the box. Put it on. Set up the phone. I’m calling you at 8:00 PM. If you answer anyone else before then, I’ll find out.*

By 7:55 PM, I was staring at the brand-new iPhone sitting in the middle of my cutting table. My heart was racing as I set it up. watching the clean screen light up, completely empty except for the factory apps. There was no contact list, no social media, and no messages from Chief Femi or Kevin. Just a blank canvas.

Beside it lay the open box. Inside was a breathtaking, emerald-green silk dress that screamed high luxury. The tailoring was flawless,the kind of construction even I, as a designer, couldn't find a single fault with. It was an expensive, silent demand.

I had slipped it on, the silk hugging my curves perfectly, almost like he had measured me himself.

At exactly 8:00 PM, the phone vibrated.

The screen didn't show a name, just an unknown private number. I picked it up, my fingers against the glass, and slid the screen to answer. I pressed it to my ear, but I didn't say a word. I just listened to the quiet hum of the line.

"You look beautiful in green, Veekie."

His deep voice came through the speaker, low and vibrating with a level of confidence. A chill ran straight down my spine.

I turned toward the windows of my studio, my eyes searching the street below, my heart hammering wildly. "Are you watching me?"

"I don't need to stand outside your window to know exactly how that silk sits on your skin. Did you read my note?"

I swallowed my saliva, gripping the edge of the table. "I read it. You have no right to tell me who I can or can't talk to, Josh. You don't own me because of one night."

"I own whatever I choose to pay for," he said, his tone turning cold and dropping an octave. "And right now, I'm paying attention to you. Those distractions in your call logs the politician, the lounge owner they're gone. If they try to fund your next collection, they’ll find their accounts tied up in compliance audits before sunrise. Your debt with your suppliers? Already cleared."

My jaw dropped, a mix of absolute panic and fury rising in my chest. "You did what? That is my business! I run my own life!"

"You run a struggling fashion house on the whims of old men who want to touch you," Josh snapped, his possessive energy flaring up even over the phone. "That ends today. From now on, your talent is funded by me. You want to build an empire.

The silence stretched between us, My mind was racing, trying to find a loophole, a way to claw back some control. But Joshua had systematically stripped away every single defense I had built to survive in this city.

"I'm waiting, Veekie," his voice dropped lower, the patience in his tone thinned.

"You're a tyrant," I breathed, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound strong. "You think you can just buy people out like assets on a balance sheet."

"I don't think, I know," he replied, entirely unbothered by my insult. "And right now, you are the most interesting asset I possess. I've cleared your path. No more sleeping with old men for fabric money. No more entertaining sleazy lounge owners for studio rent. You wanted a luxury brand? You have the backing of Cross Enterprises now. All you have to do is say yes."