DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

The notice came written in white, cruel, clean, and final.

“Eviction Notice.”

The words screamed louder than any slap could. My rent was two months late, and Mrs. Jenkins, my landlady, had finally run out of sympathy. The paper trembled in my hand as if mocking my last thread of stability.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the cracked wall. I’d already sold jewelry, skipped meals, and begged every contact I had for a job. Nothing.

Now, I couldn’t even afford a roof.

Clara’s laughter echoed faintly from the other room, soft and innocent. She was on a call with her friend, probably talking about school. She didn’t know that the power bill on the table would cut our lights tomorrow. I’d hidden it under a magazine like guilt.

I pressed the eviction notice to my chest, trying to breathe. My reflection in the mirror caught my—again, the same tired face, the same hollow eyes.

How much longer could I pretend?

My phone buzzed, snapping me back. A message from an unknown number flashed across the screen:

> Elena Torres. Damien Voss requests to meet you. 7 PM. The Voss Tower, 28th floor.

For a moment, I just stared. My pulse stuttered. Damien Voss?

The man from the café. The one whose eyes felt like a silent threat.

It had to be a mistrategy. Would someone like him, a billionaire known for tearing down companies like matchsticks, want to meet me? Still, I couldn’t ignore it. Not when I was one unpaid bill away from losing everything.

By 6:45, I stood in front of Voss Tower, a monolith of black glass slicing through the city sky. Its reflection devoured the fading sun. People company, andsive suits swept past me, expensive and untouchable. I clutched my worn purse tighter, suddenly aware of every frayed thread on my clothes.

Inside, the lobby gleamed like something out of a dream. Marble floors. Gold elevators. A receptionist who looked like she belonged on magazine covers. She glanced up as I approached.

“Elena Torres,” I murmured.

She checked a list, then smiled politely. “Mr. Voss is expecting you. Twenty-eighth floor.”

My throat went dry. Expecting me.

The elevator ride felt endless. Each ding pulled me deeper into a world I didn’t belong in. By the time the doors slid open, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.

His office was massive, with floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights spilling in like liquid fire. Behind a sleek desk sat Damien Voss.

He didn’t rise to greet me. He didn’t need to. Power clung to him—cold, perfume-like, intoxicating, and dangerous.

“Miss Torres,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “You’re Mr. Punctual.”

“Mr. Voss,” I managed. I… I’m not sure why I’m here. He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit.”

I obeyed, trying not to fidget under his gaze. His eyes were sharp, the kind that didn’t invite questioning, and “I’ve seen your file,” he began. Former analyst at Lawson & Co., fired last week.

My stomach dropped. How I make it a habit to know the people I invest in. “Invest in?” I echoed, confused.

He leaned back, fingers steepled. Your former boss, Mr. Lawson, is under investigation. I recently acquired his firm. Which means, technically, you’re my concern now.

I said, stunned. “I—I don’t understand.”

“You will,” he said, your reports. You’re sharp. Detail-oriented. But you made enemies where you should’ve made allies. His gaze flicked over me, unread. “I admire that.” Admire? No one had ever used that word for me.

He continued, “I need a personal representative, someone discreet. Loyal. You’ll handle sensitive accounts, travel when necessary, and answer directly to me.” I blinked. “You’re offering me a job?”

I’m offering you a lifeline.

Something in his face made my pulse race, not in comfort, but in warning. “Why me?”

A slow smile curved his lips. “Because you don’t belong anywhere else.” The words sliced through me, half-truth, half-insult.

“I’ll pay you five times what Lawson did, and expenses are. Housing and expenses are all covered. In return, you’ll be mine professionally and entirely. That last word lingered in the air. Entirely.

I swallowed. “What exactly does that mean?”

He stood, moving closer. His cologne, dark cedar, and rain filled the space between us. It means when I call, you answer. When I ask, you deliver. No hesitation. My breath caught. “That sounds… controlling.”

“Good.” Hi Apartment, and dropped an octave. Then you understand me.

Every instinct screamed to run. But behind those instincts was hunger—the kind born of survival, not rooted in. Clara. Food. A life that wasn’t falling apart. Damien Voss was in danger. But he also escaped.

He watched me wrestle with myself, his eyes unreadable. “You have until tomorrow to decide. Refuse, and I’ll make sure every firm in the city forgets your name.”

My lips parted, and a shaky breath was accepted. ” “And if I accept?” His gaze locked with mine, intense and unwavering. “Then you’ll never have to beg again.”

The elevator doors closed behind me, and only then did I realize I was shaking. My reflection in the mirrored walls looked like someone else, a ghost wearing my skin. Damien’s words replayed in my head over and over. You’ll never have to beg again.

When I reached home, Clara was asleep on the couch, her schoolbooks scattered like fallen petals. I brushed a strand of hair from her face and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Because deep down, I already knew what I would choose.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. His voice haunted every thought, every heartbeat. Somewhere between fear and fascination, something dangerous took root. And as the clock struck midnight, I whispered into the dark, “Damien Voss… what are you going to do to me?”