4. The Devil's Contract

The woman finishes her work without fuss, returning each brush and compact to its sleek little case like she’s tidying away scalpels after surgery. Her movements are automatic, detached, yet so well-rehearsed they hum with disinterest. She smooths the silk across my shoulders with a final tug that feels like sealing a coffin.

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror only once, a fleeting glance void of empathy, and then she turns and disappears through the door without another word.

I’m left alone with my reflection. Or maybe just what’s left of it.

The girl staring back at me isn’t mine anymore.

She’s a lie stitched together with war paint and silk. A silhouette of control. Immaculate. Composed. No one will notice her pain.

And tonight, she’s expected to smile with a loaded barrel pressed to the back of her pride.

The handle turns behind me. I don’t flinch, but every muscle locks up. I know it’s him before he even steps inside.

Hale moves like a nightmare slipping through daylight—silent, sure, a wolf in a world that forgot how to fear them. He stalks behind me, his gaze dragging down my spine, and something flickers in his expression—approval, maybe, or confirmation.

“You clean up well,” he says, voice low and casual, as if we’re getting ready for brunch and not a forced union.

I don’t respond.

I keep my gaze locked on my reflection, because if I meet his eyes, I might do something reckless. Like carve that smugness right off his face.

“You’re going to behave tonight,” he presses on, his voice a quiet murmur near my ear. “You’re going to stand beside me and keep your chin high and your mouth closed.”

I tilt my head, just enough to catch his eyes in the mirror. My voice drips acid. “And if I don’t? You gonna spank me in front of your friends?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe differently. “A little bird told me something recently,” he says, tone deceptively mild. “Said you’ve got a sister. Younger. Still in the nest.”

My blood turns to ice.

“Belle, isn’t it?”

I don’t say a word, but the crack inside me splits wide open. He watches the blood drain from my face like he’s savoring it.

He leans in, not touching me, just hovering close enough that his breath ghosts against the back of my neck. “You fuck anything up tonight and I’ll send someone to collect her.”

The floor tilts under me for half a second. The room feels smaller, the walls inching closer, trapping the oxygen in my lungs until it feels like I’m swallowing glass.

I turn slowly, fists clenched at my sides, voice trembling despite the steel I force into it. “If you touch her—”

He cuts me off. “I won’t need to. Because you’ll stick to what is expected of you, won’t you? You’ll smile and speak when spoken to. You’ll act like the perfect bride-to-be. Because if you don’t, I won’t just hurt her.” His eyes sharpen with intent. “I’ll make you watch, Calistra.”

The rage that detonates inside me is volcanic. I sway slightly, not from weakness, but from the impact of fury snapping through every nerve. My hands ache with the need to hit him. To tear the calm off his face and replace it with pain.

I want to break him. Right here. Right now.

I want to shatter every bone in his body and scatter them across state lines like breadcrumbs back to hell where he belongs.

That’s what I normally do to anyone who threatens someone I love. However, Hale-all-be-damned Holt isn’t just anyone, now is he?

I don’t move. I can’t.

Not with Belle’s safety hanging from the thin thread of my performance.

My heart pounds in my ears, steady and brutal, a savage war trapped inside my ribs. Every fiber of my being screams for violence. Instead, I grind my teeth so hard it feels like my molars will crack.

Survival demands sacrifice.

His gaze lingers on my face for a breath longer. Then, he steps back and offers his arm like he’s a goddamn gentleman escorting his wife to the opera. “Time to smile, Mrs. Holt.”

I. Hate. Him. I want to rip that arm off and beat him with it.

But I slide my hand through his anyway, because Belle is worth far more than my feelings.

We walk together down the hall of marble and glass, our steps echoing off high ceilings and hollow walls. My heels click in time with his boots, and the world seems to hold its breath as we pass through doors and down corridors I haven’t yet mapped. Guards stand like statues. Staff avert their eyes. No one dares speak.

The further we go, the heavier the silence grows. Hale’s grip tightens slightly when a pair of men in dark suits step out of a side corridor, their murmured conversation faltering the moment they see us. One of them flinches as if he’s about to bow, then thinks better of it.

My stomach knots tighter with every step, and a cruel voice inside my head whispers that this is it—this is the moment I become a footnote in someone else’s empire.

Eventually, we reach a towering set of double doors. They open inwards, revealing a long hall lined with men in tailored suits, women bedecked in lavish jewels, and enough power to turn a city to dust.

The room falls silent as we step in.

Dozens of eyes land on us—some calculating, some curious, some laced with pure disdain. They see Hale. They see me. They see the ring he’s about to place on my finger and I wonder how many of them can see the invisible noose tightening around my throat.

He announces me by placing a palm to the small of my back and guiding me forward like I belong beside him. Like I’ve always belonged beside him.

I play the part. I keep my face unreadable. My posture perfect. I walk like the floor is fire and I don’t mind burning.

A man steps forward—a Holt advisor I think, sharp and lean, with a mouth made for lies and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Is this the girl?” he asks, curiosity lacing his tone.

“She’s not a girl,” Hale answers coolly. “She’s the next Holt.”

The murmur that follows is a low, restrained ripple. Confusion. Disbelief. Thinly veiled resentment.

Someone scoffs. Someone else speaks up, “But she’s a Ford.”

Hale doesn’t look away from me as he replies, “Not anymore.”

I just stand there as he takes my left hand in his and slides the ring onto my finger for everyone to see. His way of announcing our unity.

The ring is cold. Heavy. A chain disguised in platinum and diamonds.

Gasps follow. I can only imagine what’s running through their minds, considering it’s common knowledge that the Fords and Holts have never been anything but enemies.

The advisor steps closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he’s already scheming how to leverage this marriage to his advantage. I don’t miss the way another man near the wall checks a small device tucked inside his jacket.

Information here travels faster than blood on marble.

Eyes sharpen. Smiles turn brittle. Already, I can feel the plotting beginning, the alliances shifting under the surface like snakes in a dry riverbed.

I force the biggest smile I can muster, as I secretly contemplate all the ways I can murder Hale in his sleep.

It’s the only way I’ll be able to pull this off.

I won’t waste energy questioning Hale’s reasons, or picking apart whatever twisted plan he’s spinning into motion.

There’s a motive behind this. In this world of crime, there always is.

And I can bet everything I have left that when the time comes, it won’t be in my favor.

I stand tall, pretending the silk and diamonds don’t weigh more than armor, pretending my heart isn’t splintering in a thousand directions.