Chapter2
1298 Words
Chapter 2 – The Devil’s Contract
Elara stared at the message glowing on her phone screen.
You just made a deal with the devil. Don’t trust him.
The sender was anonymous. No name. No number. Just words that sliced straight through the fragile layer of resolve she’d forced over her fear.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She thought about replying. Demanding to know who it was. But what would she say? I know I just signed my soul away—care to elaborate?
No. Not tonight.
Instead, she slid the phone back into her coat pocket and walked down the hallway of Damian’s penthouse tower, her heels echoing like gunshots in the marble corridor. The silence wrapped around her like a noose.
The elevator dinged. As the doors slid shut, Elara caught a final glimpse of the city skyline stretching behind her—a view that belonged to men like Damian Voss.
Not girls like her.
By the time she returned to the hospital, her sister was asleep. Elara sank into the chair by her bedside, exhausted and dazed. Her heart thudded like a war drum. She’d done it. She’d sold her freedom. Signed the contract.
A year.
Twelve months.
Three hundred and sixty-five days of being someone else’s wife. In name. In image. And yet…
Damian had promised no strings. No romance. Just business.
But she didn’t believe in strings. They always existed. Invisible, yes. But binding. Unforgiving.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a wire transfer alert.
$1,250,000.00 deposited to account ending in 2447.
Her lungs stopped working for a second.
It was real.
She opened her banking app. The numbers stared back like a dream too bright to touch. She had never seen that many zeroes in her life.
Attached to the alert was a message:
First installment delivered. A jet will be waiting at 7 a.m. for Layna Vale. Details to follow. — D.V.
Her stomach twisted.
He wasn’t wasting time. And neither could she.
By morning, Elara stood on the private tarmac, her coat wrapped tight around her trembling frame. Layna, drowsy from medication but lucid enough to argue, had fought the entire ride to the airport.
“You’re not telling me where we’re going. Or how you suddenly have a jet. Or money,” Layna said, her eyes narrowed beneath dark circles. “What did you do?”
“I got help,” Elara replied. “Legal help.”
Layna coughed into her elbow. “From who? Satan’s law firm?”
The door to the jet opened. A flight attendant smiled and took her sister’s arm gently.
Elara avoided the question. “Just focus on getting better. When you land, a team will meet you. The new treatment starts tomorrow.”
“And you?”
Elara kissed her forehead. “I’ll be fine.”
Layna gripped her wrist. “What did you do, El?”
Elara hesitated.
And lied.
“I took a job.”
Four hours later, she was in a boutique bridal shop on the Upper East Side. Alone.
Damian had arranged everything. The stylists didn’t speak unless spoken to. The gown was already selected—an off-white sheath dress, minimalist and elegant, with sheer sleeves and a tiny train.
She looked in the mirror and barely recognized herself.
Not a nurse. Not a caretaker. Not the girl buried in debt.
A bride.
She wasn’t even sure why a dress was necessary if the wedding was a formality. But she suspected it wasn’t about her at all.
It was about image.
About illusion.
About Damian Voss controlling the narrative before it was ever written.
At exactly 9:00 a.m., a town car arrived.
No limo.
No flowers.
No family.
The ceremony took place in a private hall at City Hall, reserved exclusively for billionaires, foreign dignitaries, and people who could rewrite laws over brunch.
Damian was already there, wearing a tailored charcoal suit and looking every bit the machine he was.
His eyes flicked over her, expression unreadable.
“You’re late,” he said.
“It’s two minutes past.”
“That’s late.”
Elara resisted the urge to punch him. Great start to a marriage.
The officiant appeared—a sharp woman in a tailored blazer. The ceremony began without small talk. No vows. No poetry. No guests.
“Do you, Damian Alexander Voss, take Elara Vale to be your lawful wife for the duration of your legal contract, subject to the terms defined in clause 7.4?”
“I do.”
It was that easy. Just two words.
No hesitation.
“And do you, Elara Vale, agree to this legal union as defined in clause 7.4, for the duration of twelve months?”
She looked at him. The man who had just bought her signature. Her name.
“I do.”
The officiant nodded. “By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you—contractually obligated.”
She didn’t even get a ring.
They exited the building to find a wall of photographers. Elara stumbled back, eyes wide.
“What the hell is this?”
Damian didn’t flinch. “You’re Mrs. Voss now. People want pictures.”
“I thought this was private!”
“Nothing is private when you’re with me.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. To the cameras, it looked like a loving embrace. To Elara, it was cold steel.
Flashes exploded around them.
“Smile,” he whispered through his teeth.
“Go to hell,” she whispered back.
His lips curved into a grin—but his eyes didn’t change.
Click.
The headline would read: “Billionaire CEO Ties the Knot in Surprise Wedding.”
By evening, the internet would have her face on every gossip blog in America.
They returned to the penthouse in silence.
Elara was given a tour of her new home by a quiet assistant named Kara. Everything was sleek, impersonal. The guest bedroom had been converted into hers—complete with biometric locks.
A contract marriage. Not a real one.
But the locks reminded her who held the key.
That night, she stood on the balcony alone, the wind tangling her hair. The lights of the city twinkled below.
Damian joined her, two glasses of whiskey in hand. He offered her one.
She took it. Didn’t drink.
“You’ll be assigned a publicist tomorrow,” he said. “She’ll prep you on appearances, interviews, and background fabrication. You’ll need to know everything about our ‘relationship.’ First date story. Engagement. Shared interests.”
“You’ve got this down to a science.”
He didn’t respond.
“So what happens if I step out of line?” she asked quietly.
“I remind you why you signed.”
Her grip tightened on the glass.
“Do you ever get tired of being an ass?”
“I don’t have the luxury of being anything else.”
He turned to go, then paused.
“You have a doctor’s appointment on Thursday. For a routine exam.”
Her heart froze. “What?”
“Prenatal checkup. I had your records reviewed.”
Her mouth went dry. “You had no right—”
“You’re carrying my child, Elara.”
Everything around her stopped.
“I don’t—what are you talking about?”
“I knew the second I saw your medical file. Hormone shifts. Prenatal supplements. You’ve been hiding it.”
The blood drained from her face.
Damian stepped closer, his voice quiet and sharp.
“You didn’t just sell your name.”
He touched her stomach.
“You sold everything.”
Elara slaps the whiskey glass out of his hand—and whispers, “If you touch me again, I will burn this deal to the ground.”
- Writer
