Chapter 4 – The Devil's Bargain

Aria pov

His office is a monument to power. Glass walls on two sides frame the city below like a possession. The desk is massive, black and minimalist. Everything here is designed to intimidate and It's working.

"Please, sit." Damien gestures to a chair across from his desk.

I sit, keeping my spine straight, my hands folded in my lap. He doesn't sit immediately. Instead, he walks to the windows, hands in his pockets, studying the view.

Studying me through the reflection.

"Your resume is impressive." He turns, leaning against the window frame. Light haloes him from behind, making it hard to read his expression. "Top of your class at UCLA. Dual degree in business and marketing. Wonderful recommendations from professors."

"Thank you." I keep my voice neutral.

"But you've been working at a mid-tier marketing firm for two years." He tilts his head, watching me like I'm a puzzle to solve. "Below your qualifications. Why?"

Because no one else would hire me. Because your name closes doors before I can open them.

"I valued the experience." I meet his eyes, refusing to look away. "Building from the ground up teaches you things success can't."

"Building from the ground up." His smile is razor-thin, cutting. "Is that what you call it?"

The temperature in the room drops. He moves to his desk, sitting with scary grace, and pulls out a folder. My folder.

"Aria Holt. Twenty-six. Daughter of David Holt." He opens the file, though we both know he has it memorized. Every detail catalogued. "Former tech entrepreneur. Currently working as a warehouse supervisor. Former resident of Los Angeles County Correctional Facility."

My nails dig into my palms. "Yes."

"Your father's negligence killed my sixteen-year-old sister." He says it casually, like discussing the weather, but his knuckles whiten against the folder. "Does that make you uncomfortable discussing it?"

The room tilts. I force myself to breathe, to hold his gaze, to not look away from the accusation burning in those gray eyes.

"Every single day." My voice comes out steady despite the tremor in my chest. "I carry that guilt every single day."

"You were sixteen yourself when it happened." He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Not responsible for your father's decisions."

"Children inherit their parents' sins." I've lived this reality for eight years. Worn it like chains. "Fair or not, that's how the world works."

Something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or satisfaction at hearing me admit what he already believes.

"Tell me about the accident." He folds his hands, leaning forward. "In your own words."

This is the test. This is where I'm supposed to break, to cry, to beg forgiveness for something I didn't do but can never escape.

I won't.

"My father owned a tech manufacturing company. He cut corners on electrical wiring in one of the facilities to save money." The words taste feel sore in my throat. "The building caught fire. Emily Cross was visiting that day, touring the factory with her class." I don't let my voice waver. "She died in that fire. Your father had a heart attack six months later from the stress. Your family business collapsed under lawsuits and debt."

"And your family?" His voice is dangerously soft.

"Lost everything." I force myself to hold his gaze. "My father served three years in prison. We lost our home, our savings, our reputation. I put myself through college on scholarships and night shifts because our name is a curse in the corporate world."

"Yet here you are." He stands, moving around the desk with unsettling grace. Each step deliberate. "In my office. Asking me for a job."

"I'm qualified"

"You're desperate." He stops in front of me, too close, looking down with those cold eyes that see too much. "You need this job because no one else will hire you. Because your father's mistakes follow you everywhere. Because you're drowning."

I stand, forcing him back a step, meeting his intimidation with every ounce of dignity I have left. My heart pounds but I keep my chin up.

"You're right." My voice doesn't shake. "I am desperate. I am drowning. And yes, I need this job. But I'm also talented, educated, and willing to work harder than anyone else in this building." I step closer, closing the distance he created. "You can hate me, Mr. Cross. You can make my life here hell. But I will prove that I deserve this position."

Silence stretches between us. His eyes search my face, looking for something. Weakness. Fear. Submission.

I give him nothing but steady defiance.

"You'll report directly to Victoria Cross, my cousin and CFO." He returns to his desk, pulling out employment paperwork with crisp, precise movements. "Junior marketing coordinator. Salary is sixty thousand. Benefits start after ninety days."

Wait. What?

"You're... offering me the position?" My voice cracks on the last word.

"Did I stutter, Ms. Holt?" He slides the papers across the desk, producing a pen from his jacket. His movements are controlled, calculated. "Sign here. And here. Initial here."

My hands shake as I pick up the pen. This is wrong. This is a trap. But sixty thousand dollars. Benefits. My father's medication. Rent. Food. A chance to breathe.

I sign my name on every line, watching ink mark my fate.

Damien takes the papers, his fingers brushing mine the contact burns through me.

"Welcome to Cross Technologies, Ms. Holt." He stands, extending his hand finally. "I'm sure your time here will be... educational."

I shake his hand. His grip is firm, controlled, and holds a second too long. Long enough for me to feel the heat of his palm, the strength in his fingers.

His smile doesn't reach his cold eyes.

"Elena will show you to your desk. You start Monday." He releases my hand and returns to his seat, dismissing me with a glance at his computer screen. "Oh, and Ms. Holt?"

I pause at the door, hand on the handle.

"I built this company from nothing after your father destroyed my family." His voice is cool, each word precisely placed. "Everything here, every success, every dollar, every window in this tower I  earned through blood and grief. Remember that when you walk these halls."