Meeting The Devil

Sienna

Breaking through the loud music buzzing in my headphones and the vivid scenery I was halfway through painting, Mom's voice cut sharply into my bubble.

"Sienna, Jacob forgot this file! Why don't you take it to him?"

It never fails—Mom's voice, I mean. No matter how loud my music is or how absorbed I am in my work, her voice always finds its way through. Honestly, I've started to suspect she isn't human.

Or maybe she's just perfected the art of shouting at the exact pitch that penetrates even the most deafening musical choices.

Reluctantly, I pulled off my headphones, my paint-streaked hands leaving smudges on the cord. My dress was an abstract masterpiece of colors, and my hair, tied up in a messy bun, looked like it had been styled by chaos itself.

"Seriously, Mom? I'm working here," I said, exasperated.

Mom lay sprawled on her stomach on my bed, book in hand, looking entirely too comfortable.

She flashed me a sheepish grin. "The exhibition is two months away, and you've almost finished most of your paintings. Meanwhile, I'm only halfway through this book. Please, baby?" She added the infamous puppy eyes, and I sighed again.

She always knew how to get her way. I couldn't blame her, though—it was Dad's fault. He'd spoiled her, indulging even her silliest whims. After all, this was the same man who still chased her around the house, flinging flour, cake batter, or coffee beans like a teenager in love.

"And what's in it for me?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"A new easel and brush set?"

"I already have them."

"A vacation to America?"

"To watch Grandma and Grandpa's lovey-dovey antics? Hard pass."

Her eyes lit up as though she'd struck gold. "Then, a family movie night!"

I couldn't help but laugh at her childlike excitement. "Fine, but you and Dad are cooking." Smiling despite myself, I set my palette aside and wiped my hands on the already-ruined white dress.

"Deal!" she declared, clapping her hands like she'd just won the lottery.

***

I stepped out of the car in front of Dad's office building. The massive Adriano Estates sign loomed above. Typical Dad—everything about him screamed opulence.

Walking through the front doors, I was greeted with smiles and nods from familiar faces. Dad's office had always been a second home for Mom and me. On slow days, we'd come here just to pester him, our antics turning his workday into our entertainment. Twenty-four years later, nothing had changed.

"Hello, handsome," I greeted Harry, Dad's ever-loyal secretary, with a playful smile.

"Hello, beautiful," Harry replied, standing to greet me with cheek kisses. "It's been too long! So, when's the next exhibition? I can't wait!"

I chuckled. "The exact date's still up in the air, but it'll be in about two months. Maybe sooner if you're lucky." I pinched his cheek, making him laugh. "Speaking of luck, how's your boyfriend? Lots of fun? Lots of sex?"

Harry's cheeks flushed crimson, and he gasped. "Sienna!"

"What? Don't tell me you haven't—"

"Jesus Christ, Sienna!" he interrupted, the blush deepening. "I am not talking about this. Go see your dad."

I laughed, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. You're off the hook—for now."

With that, I headed to Dad's study, pushing open the heavy door. "Dad, apparently you forgot your—"

The words froze on my tongue as my gaze locked onto a pair of piercing blue eyes.

What the—

Standing in front of Dad's bookshelf wasn't him but someone I never expected to see here: Alexander fucking Grayson.

Alexander Grayson. CEO of Grayson Industries and the most notorious spoiled heir of Italy. The man whose mornings began with one woman in his bed and nights ended with another. A shrewd businessman gracing the covers of financial magazines for his success—and the tabloids for his infamous escapades. He wasn't just known for his corporate brilliance but for bedding celebrities and making headlines with scandals.

And beneath that polished exterior? A ruthless, twisted monster. A man who wore his wealth like armor, using it to dodge the consequences of the countless charges against him. The asshole who always managed to walk away unscathed.

A man I'd hated since high school. Loathed from the moment I first knew him.

And now, the man I never imagined I'd see in my dad's office, studying my face with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

What the fuck was going on?

My expression was a mask of pure disgust as I asked, "What are you doing here?"

Amusement flickered across his face, and he stepped closer. Instinctively, I stepped back.

"Long time no see, Sienna," he drawled, tucking his hands into his pockets. "It's nice to see you again."

"Can't say the feeling's mutual, Grayson,” I shot back, my tone cold. "Now answer the question: what are you doing here?"

He chuckled, a sound that grated on my nerves, then gestured toward the file in my hands. "Still as unobservant as ever, I see."

I glanced down, realizing I'd been holding the file the entire time. The logo at the top—Grayson Industries—made my stomach twist.

Of course. He was the new partner Dad had been talking about all week.

"Fucking hell," I muttered under my breath.

Couldn't Dad have found anyone else for this?

"Not happy about Mr. Adriano's new partner, are we?" he teased, one brow arched and his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.

Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. Even with a solid foot of space between us, I could still smell his cologne—a rich, intoxicating scent that made my stomach churn. It wasn't the smell itself, but what it did to me. A mix of repulsion and something I didn't want to name.

"Can't think of a single reason to be happy," I finally replied, my voice steady.

"Not even the fact that your dad's company is about to win this year's Best Estates Award?"

"What?"

He smiled, the kind of smile that made me want to punch him. "He's with me now, Sienna. The new project. He's going to win."

"I don't doubt my dad for a second, Grayson," I said sharply. "But what I do doubt is you. It's been years, and you still haven't learned how to swallow your overconfidence."

He laughed softly, stepping closer. This time, I forgot to step back. The distance between us closed, and his cologne invaded my senses again. It made breathing harder, my pulse quicker.

"And it's been years," he murmured, his voice lower, "and I still haven't figured out why you hate me," I stiffened as he leaned in slightly, his eyes searching mine, "Flower," When he said it—flower—the nickname he used to taunt me with in high school and later in college, I didn't know how to feel.

Alexander Grayson was the devil. That much was certain.

I hated him. I just hated him. That was all.

"Don't call me that," I said through gritted teeth, but my tone only deepened the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"And you still hate your nickname," he murmured, his gaze locked on mine, unwavering and insufferable.

"And I still hate you just as much as before, if not more," I shot back. His chuckle, low and rich, was maddening.

"Good to know," he said softly. "Exactly what I was expecting."

"And guess what? I don't give a damn about your expectations."

"You haven't changed a bit," he mused, tilting his head slightly, as if he were genuinely fascinated by me.

"And you're still the same asshole I hoped would stay in London forever," I retorted.

"So you knew I'd been in Italy for the past year," he concluded, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his face. "Keeping tabs on me, flower?"

"Oh, please." I scoffed. "The entire country knew you were back. The media wouldn't shut up about it."

"So you're saying..." He leaned closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face. The casual intimacy of the gesture made my breath catch, and I hated how easily he could unsettle me. "You didn't miss me? Not even a little?"

"Miss you?" I barked out a laugh, hoping it sounded as scornful as I intended. "I threw a fucking party when you left college."

"And promptly vomited all over your best friend after drinking too much," he deadpanned, his tone as smooth as silk.

My throat tightened. "How...how do you know about that?"

His smirk widened, cutting through my composure like a blade. "I've always had my connections."

"So you were the one keeping tabs on me," I accused, my voice sharp, though it did little to mask the flutter of unease creeping up my spine.

"Yeah," he said shamelessly, his nonchalance more infuriating than any denial could have been. "So?"

"You fucking—" I started, my voice rising with frustration, but the sound of the door opening cut me off.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, Alex," Dad's voice broke the tension, casual and oblivious. "I left the file—" He paused mid-sentence, his gaze landing on me.