THE DEVIL’S OFFER
1206 Words
The smell of disinfectant burned my throat.
It was the same smell that had been in this hallway for 6 days straight.
Day 7 started in 3 hours.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the nurse’s station. My reflection looked back at me. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles. 22 years old and I looked 30.
“Aria Moretti?” The nurse didn’t even look up. “Dr. Chen said 7 days. After that, we can’t hold the donor. Insurance won’t cover it.”
Seven days.
To get 50,000 dollars.
For Leo.
My little brother. 8 years old. Leukemia.
The only family I had left.
“My parents’ insurance lapsed,” I whispered. My voice cracked. “Can I... can I set up a payment plan? I can work. Double shifts. Anything.”
The nurse finally looked at me. Pity. The worst kind.
“Honey, this is a private hospital. The bone marrow match came from Switzerland. They fly him in on day 7 or they give the marrow to the next kid on the list.”
She slid a paper across the counter. Final notice. Red stamp.
“Without the deposit by Friday 8AM, we discharge him.”
Discharge.
That was a nice word for "let him die at home."
I took the paper with shaking hands. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown number. Probably another debt collector.
I walked out. Past the pediatric wing. Past room 314.
Leo was asleep. Tubes in his arms. He looked so small in that bed.
When I was 15, I promised Mom I’d take care of him. She died 2 years later. Dad died 6 months after that.
It was just me and Leo.
And I was failing him.
I made it to the hospital parking lot before I broke.
Sat on the curb. Didn’t care that my thrift-store dress was getting dirty.
Cried silently. Because if I screamed, security would come.
50k.
I could sell a kidney and still be 20k short.
I could sell myself and it still wouldn’t be enough.
A black car rolled to a stop in front of me.
Not an Uber. Not a taxi.
A Maybach. Tinted windows. Two men in suits got out first. Then the back door opened.
He stepped out.
Tall. Black coat. Black shirt. No tie.
Hair dark, cut sharp. Jaw like it was carved from stone.
And his eyes. God, his eyes.
Gray. Like a storm. Like he’d seen things that should’ve killed him and just... didn’t.
The Devil’s Son.
That’s what the tabloids called Damien De Luca.
Mafia heir. 29. Billionaire. Rumored to have killed 3 men before he turned 25.
He never looked at cameras. Never did interviews.
And he was standing 5 feet from me.
I scrambled to my feet. Wiped my face. “You’re in the wrong parking lot.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. Just looked at me like I was a math problem.
“Aria Moretti,” he said. My name in his voice was low. Rough. “Age 22. Works two jobs. Barista 6AM to 2PM. Waitress 4PM to 11PM. Brother in room 314. Needs 50k by Friday.”
My blood went cold. “How do you know my name?”
“I know everything that happens in this city,” Damien said. He took one step closer. He smelled like expensive cologne and rain. “And I know you’re out of options.”
“I’m not selling myself,” I spat. Even though that was a lie. I was 5 minutes away from it.
Damien tilted his head. “Good. I’m not buying that.”
He pulled an envelope from inside his coat. Black. Thick.
“1-year marriage contract. You become Mrs. De Luca on paper. You attend 3 events with me per month. You live in my house. You do not speak to the press. You do not ask questions about my business.”
I stared at him. “Why? You could buy a hundred wives.”
“Because,” Damien said, and for a second something flickered in those gray eyes. Grief. Old and deep. “Because I need a wife who has nothing to lose. And you, little mouse, have nothing left.”
Little mouse.
The nickname hit me wrong. Too soft for a man like him.
“What’s the catch?” I asked. “50k doesn’t buy a year of my life.”
“50k wired to St. Mary’s Hospital in 2 hours,” he said. “Another 50k at the end of the year if you don’t break the contract. A roof over your head. Food. Protection.”
He paused.
“And you stay away from me.”
That last part should’ve made me feel safe. It didn’t.
“Rules?” My voice was barely a whisper.
Damien’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
“Rule 1: No love.
Rule 2: No touching.
Rule 3: I break the rules.”
I laughed. It sounded hysterical even to me. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “But your brother dies on Friday if you walk away.”
He held out the envelope. Inside was the contract. And a pen with red ink.
“Sign it, and Leo gets his surgery. Don’t sign it, and you can watch him die knowing you had a choice.”
That was the moment I hated him.
And the moment I needed him.
My hand shook as I took the pen. The red ink looked like blood.
I flipped through the pages. 12 pages. Legal jargon. One clause highlighted:
_Party B agrees to cohabitate for 365 days. Failure to comply results in immediate forfeiture of all payments and legal action._
There was no way out.
I looked up at Damien. At his empty eyes. At the man who’d just bought me like a piece of furniture.
“Will you hurt me?” I asked. Because I had to know.
Damien was quiet for a long time.
“No,” he said finally. “I don’t hurt things that are already broken.”
Then he added, softer, like he didn’t mean to: “I only break them more.”
I signed.
Aria Moretti.
The ink bled into the paper.
The moment I dotted the last letter, one of his men took the contract.
Damien didn’t touch me. Didn’t congratulate me.
He just looked at me. Really looked.
And I saw it. The emptiness. The same kind that was in me.
“Car will pick you up at 8PM,” he said. “We sign the marriage license tomorrow. City Hall. No guests.”
He turned to leave. Stopped.
“Pack one bag, Aria. You won’t be coming back here.”
Then he was gone. The Maybach swallowed him and the two suits and disappeared into Port Harcourt traffic.
I stood there. Contract signed. Soul sold.
My phone buzzed. Bank alert.
`+50,000.00 USD deposited to ST. MARY’S HOSPITAL. REF: LEO MORETTI SURGERY.`
I sank to my knees on the dirty pavement.
Not because I was free.
But because for the first time in 6 days, Leo had a chance.
And I had sold the next 365 days of my life to the Devil’s Son to buy it.
- Writer
