Deal With The Devil

We kept going Into the part of the city where the buildings had their own zip codes and the streets didn’t have names, just numbers. 

Ms. Reyes was in the front seat. She hadn’t spoken to me since “Dinner is at 8.” 

My one bag sat on my lap. It had three shirts, two jeans, underwear, and the scissors I used to cut my hair. That was it. Three years of life with David Blackwood and it all fit in a duffel. 

Pathetic. 

The car pulled into an underground garage. The doors were steel. They closed behind us with a sound like a vault. 

“Miss Miller,” Ms. Reyes said finally. “Mr. Blackwood is expecting you.” 

We took a private elevator. No buttons. It just knew where to go. 

Floor 92. 

The doors opened and the air changed. 

It smelled like him. Wood. Cold. Something expensive I couldn’t name. 

The penthouse was bigger than David’s whole apartment. Floor to ceiling windows. The city looked small from up here. Like toys. 

And it was empty. 

No photos. No books. No life. 

Just black furniture and white walls and silence. 

“Mr. Blackwood is in the dining room,” Ms. Reyes said. “Dinner will be served at 8. He prefers punctuality.” 

She left me there. 

Alone. 

I walked in. My sneakers were too loud on the marble floor.

I found him at a long table. Black table. Black chairs. One plate set out. 

Ethan Blackwood was in a black shirt now. Sleeves rolled up. He was looking at papers. A glass of water next to him. Nothing else. 

He didn’t look up when I came in. 

“Sit,” he said. 

I sat. Across from him. 

The silence was heavy. Like a blanket that was too hot. 

A server came in. Put food in front of me. Salmon. Vegetables. Water. Then left. 

I didn’t touch it. 

Ethan finally looked up. 

“You’re not eating.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“You should be.” He pushed a folder across the table. “Contract.” 

My hands were shaking again. I hated that. 

I opened it. 

CONTRACT MARRIAGE AGREEMENT

Between Ethan Blackwood and Sarah Miller

Term: 1 year.  

Purpose: Public engagement and marriage.  

Clause 1: Sarah Miller will reside in Blackwood Penthouse. Separate bedrooms.  

Clause 2: Sarah Miller will attend all public events with Ethan Blackwood.  

Clause 3: Ethan Blackwood will provide protection, housing, and financial support.  

Clause 4: Upon completion of term and public wedding, Sarah Miller will receive 10% shares of Blackwood Group.  

Clause 5: No romantic involvement. No physical contact beyond public necessity.  

Clause 6: Breach results in immediate termination and forfeiture.  

I read it twice. 

“10%,” I whispered. “That’s... that’s billions.” 

“It’s the price of my name,” Ethan said. He took a sip of water. “You wanted protection from David Blackham. This is what it costs.” 

I looked up at him. “Why would you do this? You don’t know me.” 

“I know David,” Ethan said. “And I know what he does to women who don’t have anyone.” 

The words hit me in the chest. 

Because he was right. 

In 2029, I had no one. 

“Can I ask you something?” I said. 

“You can ask.” 

“Why did you send flowers to my funeral?” 

Ethan set his glass down. 

“I didn’t.” 

“You did. White lilies. March 2029.” 

He stared at me. For a long time. 

Then he leaned back. “Sarah, do you believe in second chances?” 

The question threw me. 

“What?” 

“Second chances. Do you believe people get them?” 

I thought about the kitchen floor. About August 14, 2026. About three years. 

“Yes,” I whispered. 

“Good.” Ethan stood. He walked to the window. Hands in pockets again. “Because I don’t. Not usually. But you asked. So I’m giving you one.” 

I didn’t understand. 

“Sign it,” he said without turning around. 

I picked up the pen. 

My name looked wrong on the line. Sarah Miller. 

The woman David Blackham was supposed to marry. 

The woman who died. 

I signed. 

The second the pen left the paper, Ethan turned. 

“Good.” 

That was it. No celebration. No smile. 

“Ms. Reyes will show you to your room. We leave at 9am tomorrow. Gala at the Whitmore. You’ll need a dress.” 

“Wait.” I stood up too fast. The chair scraped. “The wedding. You said two weeks.” 

“November 1st,” Ethan confirmed. “We file the marriage license Monday. Ceremony in two weeks.” 

My heart was pounding. “That’s too fast.” 

“That’s the point.” He looked at me. “David thinks he has three months to ruin you. We’re not giving him three months. We’re giving him two weeks.” 

Fear crawled up my throat. “What if he does something?” 

“That’s why you’re here.” Ethan’s voice was flat and final. “Under my roof. Under my protection. He touches you, he answers to me.” 

The word _protection_ sounded different coming from him. 

Not soft. Not safe. 

Sounded dangerous. 

“Okay,” I said. 

Ethan nodded once. “Ms. Reyes.” 

She appeared like she’d been waiting in the wall. 

“Miss Miller’s room is the east wing. Her things will be delivered tomorrow.” 

“I only have one bag,” I said. 

Ethan’s eyes flicked to my duffel. 

“Then we’ll buy you new things.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Ms. Reyes led me down a hall. The room was huge. White bed. White everything. 

It didn’t feel like mine. 

It felt like a hotel. 

I sat on the bed. It was too soft. 

My phone buzzed. 

47 missed calls. David.

12 voicemails. 

3 texts from Lisa. 

_You’re making a mistake._  

_He’s using you._  

_Come home, Sarah._  

Home. 

I didn’t have a home anymore. 

I deleted them all. 

There was a knock. 

Ethan. 

He didn’t come in. Just stood in the doorway. 

“Are you okay?” 

The question surprised me. 

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. 

He nodded. Like that was an acceptable answer. 

“Dinner in 10. Wear something black.” 

He left. 

I changed into the only black thing I had. The sweater from earlier. 

Dinner was just us again. 

This time Ethan ate. Slow, Precise. 

I picked at my food. 

“You’re quiet,” he said. 

“I’m thinking.” 

“About?” 

“About whether I just made a deal with the devil.” 

Ethan almost smiled. Almost. 

“Probably,” he said. “But I’m your devil now.” 

The words should have scared me. 

They didn’t. 

After dinner he walked me to the door of my room. 

“9am. Don’t be late.” 

“Okay.” 

He paused. “Sarah.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Lock your door.” 

Then he was gone. 

I did. 

I lay in that too-soft bed and stared at the ceiling. 

Three years ago I was dying. 

Tonight I signed a contract with Ethan Blackwood. 

10% of his company. 

A wedding in two weeks. 

Protection. 

It should have felt like winning. 

It felt like jumping off a cliff and hoping someone would catch me. 

I didn’t sleep. 

At 6am I gave up and showered. 

At 8:30 Ms. Reyes knocked. “Car is downstairs.” 

The dress was waiting in the car. Black. Simple. Expensive. It fit like it was made for me. 

We pulled up to the Whitmore Hotel. 

People. Cameras. 

Ethan got out first. 

Then he opened my door. 

And offered me his arm. 

I took it. 

The second we stepped onto the carpet, the cameras went off. 

_Ethan Blackwood has a date._  

_Who is she?_  

_Is that Sarah Miller? David Blackham’s fiancée?_  

I kept my head up. 

Ethan’s hand was light on my back. Not holding me. Just there. 

Inside, it was worse. 

Champagne. Suits. Whispers. 

And then I saw him. 

David Blackham. 

He was across the room. With Lisa. 

Lisa in red. Clinging to his arm. Smiling like she owned him. 

David saw me. 

His face went white. 

Then red. 

He started walking toward us. 

Lisa grabbed his arm. Said something. He shook her off. 

Ethan felt it too. He shifted. Just slightly. Putting himself between me and David. 

“Don’t,” Ethan murmured. Only I could hear. “Let him come.” 

David stopped in front of us. 

“Sarah,” he said. His voice was shaking. “What are you doing?” 

I opened my mouth. 

But Lisa spoke first. 

“Oh my god. Sarah? Is this your new boyfriend?” She laughed. Too loud. “Already? The wedding isn’t even—” 

“Lisa,” Ethan cut her off. One word. 

And she shut up. 

David looked at Ethan. Then at me. 

Then at my hand. On Ethan’s arm. 

“You’re really doing this,” David said. “With him.” 

“I am,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. “I’m done, David.” 

“You don’t even know him,” David spat. “He’s going to chew you up and—” 

“Mr. Blackham,” Ethan said. Quiet. In a Deadly tone.

David stopped. 

“You’re causing a scene,” Ethan continued. “At my event. With my date.” 

“She’s not your date,” David said. “She’s mine.” 

Ethan’s eyes went cold. 

“She was,” Ethan said. “Now she’s not.” 

The whole room was watching now. 

Lisa tried to smile. “David, baby, let’s go—” 

“Shut up,” David snapped at her. 

Lisa’s smile dropped. 

Good. 

“David,” I said. “Go home.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” he said. “You think he cares about you? He cares about my shares. About my company. You’re just a pawn to him.” 

Ethan’s jaw ticked. 

“David Blackham,” Ethan said. “You have 10 seconds to leave before my security removes you.” 

David looked at me. Begging. 

“Please, Sarah. Come home. We can fix this.” 

I thought about the knife. About the blood. 

About March 2029. 

“No,” I said. 

David’s face broke. 

He turned and walked out. Lisa scurried after him. 

Ethan didn’t look at me. 

“Drink?” he asked. 

“Sure.” 

He got me champagne. 

We stayed for an hour. Smiling. Talking. Playing the part. 

When we got back to the car, I was shaking again. 

Adrenaline crash. 

Ethan noticed. 

“Did he hurt you?” 

“No.” 

“Are you sure?” 

I nodded. 

“Good.” 

Back at the penthouse, Ms. Reyes handed me another folder. 

“Marriage license paperwork. Mr. Blackwood needs your signature by Monday.” 

I took it upstairs. I sat on my bed with the folder in my lap. 

Monday. 

That was three days away. 

I was really doing this. 

My phone buzzed. 

Unknown number. 

“You think you’re safe with him? Wait until you meet his mother. She’s worse than David.” 

I deleted it. 

Another buzz. 

Unknown number. 

“A contract isn’t love, Sarah. He’ll throw you away the second he’s done.”

Deleted. 

Another. 

“Check the news tomorrow morning.”

I threw my phone across the room. 

It hit the wall and cracked. 

I didn’t care. 

I lay down and closed my eyes. 

Tomorrow. 

Marriage license. 

10% shares. 

A year of pretending. 

And somewhere out there, David Blackham was losing his mind. 

Somewhere else, Lisa was planning something. 

And somewhere in this building, Ethan Blackwood was probably awake too. 

Plotting. 

Because devils don’t sleep. 

I rolled over. 

The contract was on my nightstand. 

I touched the signature. 

Sarah Miller. 

Mine. 

The last thing I thought before I finally fell asleep was: 

I hope I didn’t just sell my soul to save my life. 

Because at 5am, my phone lit up on its own. 

A news alert. 

*BREAKING: BLACKWOOD GROUP CEO ETHAN BLACKWOOD ENGAGED. FIANCÉE IDENTIFIED AS SARAH MILLER, FORMER FIANCÉE OF DAVID BLACKHAM.* 

And below it, a photo. 

Me and Ethan. From tonight. 

And a caption I didn’t write: 

Sources say the wedding is in two weeks. And Sarah Miller is pregnant.