Chapter Two

Paige

The footsteps stop at my desk, but I don’t look up, I can’t.

The air around me feels heavier, charged with something sharp and dangerous, like standing too close to exposed wire. 

Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to run, but my legs won’t move. 

My hands are trembling so badly I have to curl them into fists beneath the desk to keep my coffee from spilling. I already know it’s him.

I have memorized the sound of Dante De Luca’s presence over the past three years the way conversations die when he enters a room, the precise rhythm of his stride, unhurried and confident, like the world naturally parts for him.

He doesn’t say my name, he doesn’t raise his voice.

He simply stands there in silence, and somehow that’s worse.

“Paige,” he finally says.

Just one word.

My name sounds different coming from him. Colder. Sharper. Like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.

“Yes,” I whisper, my throat tight as I slowly lift my head.

He is dressed immaculately, as always. A dark charcoal suit that probably costs more than my yearly rent, crisp white shirt, no tie. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal his watch sleek, understated, impossibly expensive. His expression is calm.

Not angry, not amused, Just controlled.

Which terrifies me.

“Come with me,” he says.

That’s it. No accusation. No question.

I nod numbly and stand on unsteady legs, ignoring the curious glances from coworkers who are pretending very badly not to stare. I follow him down the corridor, each step feeling like a march toward my own execution.

His office doors close behind us with a soft, final click.

The room is vast and minimalist, all glass and steel and sharp edges. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, the skyline stretching endlessly beyond him, his kingdom.

He gestures toward the chair across from his desk. “Sit down Paige.”

I do immediately.

My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.

Dante doesn’t sit. He circles the desk slowly, deliberately, like a predator assessing prey. He stops beside the window, hands clasped behind his back, his reflection staring back at me from the glass.

“I will ask you one question,” he says calmly. “And I expect an honest answer.”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“Did you tell an adoption agency that you are engaged to me?”

The words hit like a physical blow.

I feel the room spin, my pulse roaring in my ears. There is no point lying now. The truth is already splashed across every business site and gossip blog in existence.

“Yes,” I manage to whisper.

He nods slowly, as if confirming something he already knew.

“Did you have my permission?”

“No.”

“Did you consider the legal, financial, and reputational implications of using my name?”

“No,” I admit.

Silence stretches between us.

I wait for the explosion, but It doesn’t come.

Instead, Dante turns to face me fully for the first time. His eyes steel gray and unreadable lock onto mine. There is no warmth in them. No mercy. Just intelligence and calculation.

“You have worked for me for three years,” he says. “You have been efficient. Discreet. Loyal.”

My chest tightens painfully at the word loyal.

“You know,” he continues evenly, “that I do not tolerate carelessness.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, the words spilling out of me in a rush. “I didn’t mean for it to go public. I was desperate, and I”

He lifts a hand and I stop instantly.

The power in that small gesture makes my stomach twist.

“Desperation,” he says calmly, “is not an excuse. It is a weakness.”

Shame burns through me, hot and relentless.

“I’ll accept whatever punishment you decide,” I say quietly. “If you want to fire me, I understand.”

The words taste like ashes.

Dante studies me for a long moment, his gaze sharp enough to peel me apart layer by layer. I feel exposed in a way I never have before, like he can see straight through my skin to the fear underneath.

“Fire you?” he repeats softly.

My heart leaps and then plummets when I see the faint curve of his mouth. Not a smile. Something colder.

“That would be inefficient.”

I blink, confused.

He moves back to his desk and finally sits, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “Do you know how long the press has been trying to fabricate a scandal about my personal life?”

I shake my head mutely.

“Years,” he says. “Do you know how many investors have threatened to pull out because they find me ‘unrelatable’?”

I swallow a bit confused. 

“They want a human story,” he continues. “A soft angle. Something reassuring.”

My pulse quickens.

“You just handed them one,” he says, his gaze sharpening. “On a silver platter.”

I stare at him, my mind struggling to keep up.

“You should be terrified,” he goes on calmly. “But not for the reason you think.”

I clutch the armrests of the chair. “I don’t understand.”

“No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”

He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a tablet, tapping the screen a few times before turning it toward me.

Headlines glare back at me.

Photos of us cropped, manipulated, intimate. Speculation. Analysis. Praise.

DEVIL CEO Softens ENGAGEMENT CHANGES EVERYTHING

My stomach churns.

“The board is pleased,” Dante says. “Share prices are up. Investors are reassured.”

He leans back in his chair. “Which means your lie has become useful.”

My heart starts to race.

“I never intended”

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in smoothly. “Intent does not negate outcome.”

A chill runs down my spine.

“I know why you did it,” he says suddenly.

My breath catches.

“You are trying to adopt a child,” he continues, his voice disturbingly gentle. “Your deceased friend’s baby. Single women are rarely approved. Financial instability is frowned upon.”

My hands shake. “How did you”

“I have resources,” he says simply. “And you’ve been careless.”

Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “I was trying to save her,” I whisper. “I made a promise.”

He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“Promises,” he says quietly, “are dangerous things.”

He stands, retrieves a slim folder from the desk, and walks toward me. Each step feels deliberate, measured, final.

He places the folder on the desk between us.

“This is my solution,” he says.

I stare at the folder like it might bite me.

“A contract,” he continues. “An agreement. Mutually beneficial.”

My throat tightens. “A contract for what?”

“For our engagement,” he says calmly. “To make it real.”

My breath leaves me in a rush. “Real?”

“You will continue to play the role you invented,” he says. “Publicly and privately.”

My pulse roars in my ears.

“In exchange,” he adds, “I will ensure the adoption process goes smoothly. Funding. Legal support. Stability.”

My hands curl into fists. “And if I say no?”

His gaze hardens, just slightly.

“Then I will correct the narrative,” he says. “Publicly. Immediately.”

The implication is clear, my world will burn.

He opens the folder and slides it toward me.

“Read it,” he says.

I look down at the neatly typed pages, my name printed in black ink at the top.

And in that moment, I understand.

I didn’t lie my way into salvation.

I trapped myself in a deal with the devil himself.