His Innocent Obsession

The Devil's Bargain

The morning light spilled across my living room, soft and golden, catching on the empty wine glasses and the blanket Mira had kicked off in the night. She was already awake, humming tunelessly in the kitchen as she rummaged through my cupboards.

“Do you ever buy real food?” she called, her voice muffled.

I groaned, pulling the pillow over my head. “I have food.”

“You have crackers and tea bags,” she countered, emerging with a triumphant grin and a half‑empty box of cereal. “Breakfast of champions.”

I sat up, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. “You’re the one who brought wine. You don’t get to complain about my pantry.”

Mira laughed, pouring cereal into two mismatched bowls. “Fair. But next time, I’m bringing eggs. You need protein.”

She set the bowl in front of me and plopped onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. For a moment, we ate in silence, the only sound the crunch of cereal and the faint hum of the city outside.

When she was done, Mira stretched, yawning. “I should head out. Work’s calling, and I promised my mom I’d stop by later. You’ll be okay?”

I nodded, though my chest felt heavy. “Yeah. Thanks for last night.”

She leaned over, kissing the top of my head like a sister. “Anytime. And remember — no overthinking. It’s Saturday. Do something nice for yourself.”

And then she was gone, leaving the apartment quiet again.

I sat for a long time, staring at the empty bowls on the table. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy. I tried not to think about yesterday, about the skyscraper, about the man whose eyes had pinned me in place.

Instead, I forced myself up. It was Saturday. My one day off.

I opened the windows, letting in the warm breeze. The city smelled faintly of roasted peanuts from the vendor down the street, of car exhaust, of life moving on whether I was ready or not.

I watered the plants on my balcony, their leaves stretching toward the sun. I swept the floor, folded laundry, made tea. Small, ordinary things. Things that reminded me I was still me.

By afternoon, I curled up in my chair with a book I’d been meaning to finish. The words blurred sometimes, my mind drifting, but I kept reading, letting the rhythm of the sentences soothe me.

When the sun dipped lower, I made myself a simple dinner — pasta with garlic and olive oil — and ate it slowly, savoring the quiet.

Sunday passed much the same. I went to the market in the morning, weaving through stalls of bright fruit and fragrant spices. The vendors called out cheerfully, pressing samples into my hands. I bought too many peaches, their skins warm from the sun, and carried them home in a cloth bag.

In the afternoon, I baked. The kitchen filled with the scent of sugar and butter, the oven humming softly. I wasn’t much of a baker, but the act of measuring, mixing, waiting — it calmed me. I ate one cookie warm from the tray and set the rest aside for Mira.

That night, I sat on the balcony with a cup of tea, watching the city lights flicker on one by one. The air was cooler, the hum of traffic softer. For a little while, I let myself believe everything was normal.

But Monday came.

I slipped into a pale yellow summer dress, light and airy, the kind that made me feel like I could breathe again. It hugged my waist, skimming over my curves in a way that made me hesitate in front of the mirror. For a moment, I considered changing into something plainer. But then I shook my head. It was just a dress. Just Monday. Just work.

I tied my hair back with a ribbon, grabbed my purse, and stepped out into the bright morning. The city was alive, the air warm with the promise of summer. For a moment, I let myself believe it would be an ordinary day.

But when I reached the shop, my steps faltered.

Two men in dark suits stood outside the door. Their broad shoulders blocked the entrance, their expressions unreadable.

My heart sank.

“Excuse me,” I said, forcing a polite smile. “I need to open the shop.”

They didn’t move.

I frowned, stepping closer. “Please. This is my shop. I need to get inside.”

Still nothing.

Frustration welled in my chest. “Why are you doing this?” My voice cracked, tears stinging my eyes. “Why won’t you let me in?”

One of the men finally spoke, his voice flat. “Our boss wants to see you.”

My stomach dropped. “Your boss?”

“Mr. Moretti.”

The name hit me like a blow.

Before I could respond, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb. The back door opened, and one of the men gestured. “Get in.”

I froze. Every instinct screamed at me to run. But the memory of Lucien’s eyes, his voice, his promise — you belong to me — held me in place.

“I…” My voice faltered. “I don’t—”

“Get in,” the man repeated, firmer this time.

My hands trembled as I clutched my purse. For a long moment, I hesitated. Then, with a shaky breath, I slid into the car.

The door shut behind me, sealing me in. The car pulled away from the curb, the city blurring past the tinted windows.

We drove for what felt like forever, until the buildings thinned and the streets grew quieter. Finally, the car turned down a long, winding drive lined with tall iron gates.

At the end of the drive, the estate came into view.

It was sprawling, with multiple buildings scattered across the grounds — sleek, modern structures that looked like they served a thousand purposes. But my eyes were drawn to the mansion at the center.

Black and white stone, towering columns, windows that gleamed like mirrors. It wasn’t just a house. It was a statement.

The car stopped at the front steps. A doorman in a crisp uniform opened my door. I stepped out, my legs unsteady.

“Thank you,” I murmured automatically.

He inclined his head, then led me to the massive front doors. They opened silently, revealing a grand hall of marble floors and chandeliers.

And there he was.

Lucien Moretti.

He sat in a high‑backed chair that looked more like a throne than a piece of furniture, his posture relaxed, one hand resting on the armrest. His dark eyes found me instantly, and the corner of his mouth curved.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself forward. “Why were your men outside my shop? Haven’t we already come to an agreement?”

Lucien’s smile deepened, teasing. “No greeting? No ‘good morning, Mr. Moretti’? You’ve gotten quite bold, little flower.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I— I just want to know why.”

He rose from the chair, moving toward me with slow, deliberate steps. “Because you haven’t done anything yet about the deal. As it was stated in the letter, if the debt wasn’t cleared by Monday morning, my men would come to your shop. And here we are.”

My chest tightened. “I told you, I don’t have the money.”

“I know,” he said smoothly. “Which is why I’m offering you another way.”

I frowned, clutching my purse tighter. “Another way?”

Lucien’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. In exchange for the debt being cleared, you will be mine. For three months. After that, we go our separate ways. You’ll never hear from me again, and I’ll never hear from you.”

My breath caught. “Be yours? I don’t understand. Do you mean… working here? As a maid? Or some kind of assistant?”

Lucien smirked, tilting his head. “No, little flower. Nothing of that sort. You know I’m a man. And every man has needs.”

The meaning hit me like a wave. My cheeks burned hot, my stomach twisting. “You mean—”

He leaned closer, his voice low. “When you came to my office, you said you’d do anything. This is what I want. You’ll tend to my needs.”

I stumbled back a step, my face burning. “No. No, I’m not that kind of girl. I won’t do that. Surely there are other jobs. Something else I can do.”

---

Lucien’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m afraid not, little flower,” he said smoothly, the nickname curling off his tongue like smoke. “There are no other jobs. No other arrangements. This is the deal.”

I huffed, my chest tight with anger and shame. “Then tell me how much. How much is my father owing exactly? I want to know.”

Lucien’s eyes flicked toward the door. “Bring me Hart’s file,” he ordered.

One of his men appeared within moments, carrying a thick folder. Lucien opened it with deliberate calm, flipping through the pages before turning it toward me.

The number stared back at me, black ink on white paper. My breath caught.

It was impossible. No matter how many bouquets I sold, no matter how many weddings I supplied, no matter how many side jobs I took — I could never repay that amount. Not in a lifetime.

My hands trembled as I pushed the file back toward him. My mind spun, flashing with memories: my father’s tired smile as he locked up the shop at night, his voice telling me stories about my mother, the way he said she had adored the flowers, how she had poured her heart into the Velvet Stem before she died. I had been only four, but he had kept her alive for me through every petal, every stem, every ribbon.

And now it was all slipping away.

I closed my eyes, swallowing hard. “I can’t pay that. Not ever.”

Lucien leaned back in his chair, watching me with quiet satisfaction. “Which is why my offer is generous. Three months. You give me what I want, and the debt disappears. You keep your shop. You keep your legacy. After that, we go our separate ways.”

I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze. “And you’ll never bother me again?”

He inclined his head. “That’s the deal.”

Silence stretched between us. My heart pounded, my palms damp. Every part of me screamed to say no, to run, to fight. But then I thought of the shop, of my father, of my mother’s memory. If I lost it, I would lose them all over again.

Finally, I whispered, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Lucien’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. “Good girl.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks, a mix of anger and something I didn’t want to name. “But after three months, it’s over. You clear the debt, and we never see each other again. Right?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Three months. Then you’re free.”

I nodded, my throat tight.

Lucien leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “You’ll find, little flower, that three months can feel like a lifetime. Or like no time at all.”

I stood quickly, clutching my purse. “I should go.”

He didn’t stop me. He only watched, his smirk lingering, as if he already knew something I didn’t.

The doorman led me back outside, and the car returned me to the city. When I reached the shop, the men were gone. The doorway was clear, the street quiet, as if nothing had happened.

I unlocked the door with shaking hands, stepping inside. The familiar scent of roses and lilies wrapped around me, but it didn’t comfort me the way it used to.

I sank into the chair behind the counter, staring at the flowers I had once loved so fiercely.

Three months.

What had I gotten myself into?