Chapter Two — “The Devil’s Office”

The elevator opened to silence.

Not quite, silence. Like the air itself had learned to obey.

Kingsley Headquarters looked nothing like anywhere I’d ever been. It was glass and stone and steel, polished to the point of aggression. The floors were marble, the walls were slate, and the air smelled faintly of something expensive and unwelcoming.

I followed Mark past glass-walled offices, each one filled with people who looked like they’d stepped out of magazines and MBA brochures. No one looked up. Or maybe they’d just been trained not to.

We stopped at the end of a long corridor. The door was matte black. No nameplate. Just power humming behind it.

“He’s waiting,” Mark said.

I swallowed hard, adjusted my jacket, and stepped inside.

Damian Kingsley stood by the window with his back to me. The city glittered behind him, New York in full arrogant glory. His posture was rigid, hands in the pockets of a perfectly tailored suit.

“Miss Reynolds,” he said without turning. “Take a seat.”

I glanced at the chair. Leather. Sleek. A little too comfortable, like it wanted you to forget where you were.

I sat anyway. My hands clenched in my lap, fingers raw from work, from winter, from trying too hard to hold everything together.

He finally turned.

And God help me; he was even colder in person.

His face was sharp. Not in a pretty way. In a way that could cut you if you stared too long. His eyes were gray and unreadable, and he wore the same expression people used when they stepped into something unpleasant.

“I assume Mark gave you no information.”

“He said you had a… proposal.”

He raised a brow. “Do you always accept rides from strangers with vague promises of salvation?”

I bristled. “Do you always dangle hope in front of desperate women like a prize?”

A flicker. The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like acknowledgment.

“Fair,” he said. Then he moved behind his desk: black wood, no clutter and pulled out a folder.

“This,” he said, placing it in front of me, “is a contract.”

My fingers didn’t move. “What kind of contract?”

“A marriage contract.”

I laughed. I didn’t mean to. It just burst out of me: sharp and broken. “Excuse me?”

“One year,” he said calmly. “Legal. Binding. You play the doting wife, attend events, wear the ring, and say the right things. In return, I’ll pay you five million dollars.”

I stared at him. Waiting for the punchline. Waiting for something.

“Why?” I asked.

“My board requires marital stability in order to finalize a merger. They don’t trust… bachelor volatility.”

“You mean they don’t trust you.”

He didn’t flinch. “They trust images. I intend to give them one.”

“And I’m what set dressing?”

His eyes held mine. “You’re a solution.”

I looked down at the folder like it might bite. My name was already typed on the first page.

“You want me to fake a marriage with you for money.”

“No,” he said. “I want you to enter a real marriage. But with an expiration date.”

I opened the folder. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve. Legal language blurred in front of me. Clause after clause. Appearances. Public affection. Privacy waivers. A non-disclosure agreement the size of a phone book.

And then my eyes caught it.

Section 14B: Breach of Contract

If party A (Ava Reynolds) chooses to exit the marriage before the agreed-upon twelve months, party B (Damian Kingsley) reserves the right to sue for damages not exceeding ten million dollars.

My vision blurred.

“You’d sue me? If I leave early?”

He didn’t blink. “This isn’t a charity, Miss Reynolds.”

I closed the folder. My hands were shaking. “You think I can just play happy wife for a year? Live in your world? Smile for cameras? Pretend I don’t hate every second?”

“Yes,” he said, simply. “Because I think you’re smart enough to know this is the only option you haven’t already exhausted.”

And there it was.

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

Rent. Bills. Hospital fees. Lily. Always Lily.

No job was going to fix this. No amount of night shifts or prayers. I had reached the end. And somehow, the devil was the only one offering a door.

“I’ll be trapped.”

“You’ll be paid.”

I stood up. My heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear over it.

“I need to think.”

“You need to decide,” he said. “Now.”

I turned away. I could still feel his eyes on me. Burning, assessing.

I thought of Lily, her fragile smile, the way she tried to hide her pain, and the quiet terror in her eyes every time a new doctor walked in.

I turned back.

My fingers closed around the pen on the desk. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t ask for anything else.

I just signed.

Each letter of my name felt like a death sentence. Or a resurrection. I wasn’t sure.

When it was done, I dropped the pen.

Then I whispered, almost too quiet to hear—

“For Lily.”