CHAPTER 2: The Devil’s Penthouse

The first thing I registered was the smell.

It didn't smell like the hospital. It smelled of rain, expensive leather, and something sharp, like whiskey.

I groaned, trying to lift my head, but a wave of nausea pinned me back against the pillows. My hand flew to my temple. There was a bandage there, neat and professional.

"I wouldn't move so quickly if I were you."

The voice came from the shadows—deep, velvet, and laced with a cold authority that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.

I froze. My eyes adjusted to the dim light. I wasn't in a hospital room. I was in a bedroom that was larger than my entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city skyline, bathed in rain and neon lights.

And sitting in a wingback chair in the corner, watching me with the stillness of a predator, was a man.

He was terrifyingly handsome. That was my first thought, unbidden and unwanted. He wore a charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone to reveal a hint of tan skin. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes...

His eyes were the color of storm clouds. Dark gray. Soulless.

"Where am I?" I croaked, my throat dry. I looked down. I was still in my wedding dress, though the skirts were torn and stained with dirt.

"You are in the penthouse of the Thorne Tower," he said, standing up.

He moved with a fluid grace, silent and imposing. As he stepped into the light, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Thorne?" I whispered, the memory crashing back into me. Caleb’s phone call. The trade. The Devil of the East Side.

I scrambled backward on the massive bed, clutching the duvet to my chest. "You. You are Julian Thorne."

"I am," he replied. He stopped at the foot of the bed, his hands in his pockets. He looked at me not with lust, but with clinical appraisal. Like he was inspecting a racehorse he had just bought.

"I want to leave," I said, trying to summon the courage I didn't feel. "My fiancé... Caleb... he made a mistake. He was drunk. He didn't mean it."

Julian tilted his head slightly. A cruel smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"He meant every word, Vivian. He signed the deed over electronically ten minutes after you lost consciousness."

Julian reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He tossed it onto the bed. It landed near my hand.

I picked it up, my fingers trembling. It was a debt transfer agreement. And there, at the bottom, was Caleb’s signature. And next to it, the collateral listed: Vivian Hayes.

"This is illegal," I hissed, crumpling the paper. "You can't sell a person. This isn't the medieval era. I am calling the police."

I looked around for a phone.

"Go ahead," Julian said calmly. He gestured to a sleek black phone on the nightstand. "Call them. Tell them your fiancé assaulted you. Tell them he sold you to cover a gambling debt."

I reached for the phone, but his next words stopped me dead.

"And when they ask about the twenty million dollars missing from your grandfather's trust fund—money Caleb transferred using your passcodes while you were unconscious—what will you tell them?"

I dropped the phone receiver. "What?"

"He framed you, Vivian," Julian said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. He walked around the side of the bed, coming closer. "He emptied the account. He planted the evidence on your laptop. If you walk out that door, you aren't going to freedom. You are going to prison for embezzlement."

Tears pricked my eyes. Hot, angry tears. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I own you now," Julian said. He stopped inches from me. I could smell his scent—sandalwood and danger. "And I don't like my investments to be uninformed."

"I am not an investment!" I shouted. I swung my legs out of bed to stand up, adrenaline overriding the pain in my head. "I am leaving!"

I tried to push past him. It was like running into a wall of granite.

He caught my arm. His grip was firm, possessive, but not painful. He pulled me close, so close my chest brushed against his suit jacket. I looked up, gasping. He was towering over me.

"You have nowhere to go," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips, then back to my eyes. "Your family has disowned you. Your fiancé sold you. The police are looking for you."

"I would rather rot in jail than be a slave to a monster like you," I spat.

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Respect?

"I don't want a slave, Vivian," he said softly. His thumb brushed the pulse point on my wrist, sending a jolt of electricity through my veins. "Slaves are boring. I want a wife."

"A... wife?"

"A contract marriage," he clarified. "Stay with me for one year. Wear my ring. Bear my name. Pretend to be happily married to clean up my public image. In exchange, I protect you from the police. And..."

He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. I shivered.

"...I will give you the resources to destroy Caleb and your sister. I will hand you their heads on a silver platter."

The offer hung in the air. Revenge. Safety. But the cost was binding myself to the devil.

"And if I say no?" I whispered.

Julian released my arm and stepped back. His expression turned cold again.

"Then you walk out that door. But I suggest you think carefully."

He turned to leave the room. At the doorway, he paused, his hand on the frame. He didn't look back.

"Oh, and Vivian?"

"What?" I breathed.

"The doctor who treated your head wound... he ran some standard blood work."

My heart stopped. My hand went to my stomach.

Julian turned his head slightly, his gray eyes glinting in the shadows.

"You should eat something. You are eating for two now."

He walked out and closed the door.