The Devil’s Proposal

Chapter 3

(Sophia's POV)

The shattered champagne glass lies in glittering pieces at my feet, but it’s nothing compared to the wreckage happening inside my chest.

Marriage.  

To Alexander Voss.  

For one year.

The words echo in my skull like a death sentence.

I can’t breathe. The Grand Ballroom suddenly feels too bright, too loud, too full of vultures circling fresh blood. Lila is still talking, something about emergency meetings and lawyers on standby. But all I hear is the roaring in my ears.

Xander hasn’t moved. That smug, predatory smile is still carved on his face, but his eyes… God, his eyes are burning. Gray storm clouds laced with triumph and something far more dangerous.

“Mrs. Alexander Voss,” he repeats, tasting my future title like fine wine. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

I want to slap him. I want to scream. Instead, I lift my chin and let every ounce of fifteen years of hatred pour into my voice.

“I would rather sell Laurent Luxe to the devil himself than marry you.”

“You’re already doing both,” he replies smoothly. “The devil just happens to come with a very expensive ring and a penthouse on Fifth Avenue.”

His date in the red gown is staring between us, confused and increasingly irritated. Xander doesn’t spare her a glance. He steps closer, invading my space the way he always does, like he has every right to consume everything around him.

“Think about it, Sophia. Phoenix Holdings doesn’t bluff. They’ll carve up both companies and sell the pieces for scrap. Your precious sustainable collections? Gone. My developments? Absorbed. Thousands of jobs. Your legacy. My empire.” His voice drops, intimate and lethal. “Or… we give them the fairy tale they want. One year. Then we walk away richer and free.”

Free.

As if freedom exists after tying myself to the man whose family destroyed mine.

The second memory crashes over me before I can stop it.

Ten years ago. The fabric scandal. Headlines screaming “Laurent Luxe Poisoned Collection” across every fashion site. Orders canceled overnight. Investors fleeing. My father, already a ghost of the man who once designed Laurent Tower, locking himself in his study and…

I swallow hard. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek.

“You knew,” I whisper. It’s not a question. “You knew this was coming.”

Xander’s expression doesn’t flicker. “I knew Phoenix was sniffing around. I didn’t know they’d demand a circus wedding. But I’m not opposed to the solution.”

Of course he isn’t. He gets everything he wants. Again.

Lila tugs my arm. “Sophia, the lawyers are waiting in the private lounge upstairs. Both legal teams. They want this signed tonight.”

Tonight.

I look at Xander one last time; tall, devastating, untouchable and feel the familiar heat of rage twist low in my belly. Hate has never felt this close to something I refuse to name.

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “But if I have to marry you, I’m going to make your life hell, Alexander.”

His smile turns sharp, almost feral. “I’m counting on it, wife.”

Thirty minutes later

The private lounge on the top floor of the hotel reeks of money and desperation. Mahogany table. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a glittering Manhattan that suddenly feels like a cage. Two teams of lawyers sit on opposite sides like opposing armies.

Xander lounges in the leather chair across from me like he’s at a casual brunch, sleeves rolled up, exposing strong forearms. His jacket is discarded. He looks far too comfortable for a man about to sign away a year of his life.

I want to stab him with the Montblanc pen they slid in front of me.

The head lawyer, a sharp woman named Margaret Kline, clears her throat.

“The contract is straightforward but iron-clad. One year of marriage. You must reside together in Mr. Voss’s primary residence. Public appearances as a loving couple minimum three times per week. No romantic or sexual relationships outside the marriage. Penalty for breach is two hundred million dollars or controlling shares in your respective companies, whichever is greater.”

My stomach knots.

Xander’s lawyer adds, “Additionally, you will share the master bedroom. Separate beds will not suffice. The board of Phoenix Holdings will conduct random verification visits.”

Share a bedroom.

With him.

I feel my cheeks burn. Not from embarrassment; from pure, volcanic fury.

I glare at Xander. “You planned this.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low enough that only I can hear. “If I’d planned it, I would have made sure you were already in my bed years ago.”

Heat flares between my thighs before I can kill it. I hate my body for betraying me.

I snatch the pen.

Page after page. Signature after signature. Each one feels like selling my soul.

When I reach the final page, Xander’s hand suddenly covers mine, stopping the pen. His skin is warm. Calloused. Possessive.

His gray eyes lock onto mine; stormy, intense, unreadable.

“Last chance to back out, Sophia. But we both know you won’t. You’re too proud. Too stubborn. Too desperate to save Daddy’s company.”

The words hit like knives.

"Daddy." 

The courthouse steps. The heart attack. The blood on the marble.

I yank my hand free and slash my signature across the final line so hard the pen nearly tears the paper.

Xander signs immediately after, smooth and confident, like he’s signing another billion-dollar deal.

The lawyers stand. Champagne is poured to “celebrate.”

I don’t touch mine.

Xander rises and rounds the table. He stops directly in front of me, towering, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.

My heart stops.

Inside sits a monstrous diamond ring, flawless, cold, enormous. The kind of ring that screams ownership.

He takes my left hand. His fingers are firm, unyielding. He slides the ring onto my finger slowly, deliberately, like he’s marking territory.

It fits perfectly.

Of course it does.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Voss,” he murmurs, voice dark velvet. “The show starts now.”

Before I can pull away, his other hand cups the back of my neck and his mouth crashes down on mine.

The kiss is not gentle.

It’s punishment. Possession. Fifteen years of war condensed into fire and teeth and raw, angry hunger.

I should push him away.

Instead, my fingers fist in his shirt and I kiss him back just as viciously.

When he finally pulls back, both of us are breathing hard. His eyes are almost black.

“Welcome to hell, Sophia,” he whispers against my swollen lips. “Try not to enjoy it too much.”