THE DEVIL'S WIFE

Hautea's POV

An envelope arrived on a Tuesday. Later, I’d realize it was the universe trying to warn me. Tuesdays were supposed to be ordinary, safe days. Nothing life-changing ever happened on a Tuesday or so I thought.

The envelope was cream-colored and felt expensive — the kind of fine paper people like me could never afford. My full name was printed across the front in sharp black ink: Hautea Elaine Sinclair. Not Tea. Not the “H.E. Sinclair” I used online. It was my full legal name, plain and clear.

Rain dripped off my coat as I stood in the doorway of my tiny Brooklyn apartment, staring down at it.

I’d just finished a twelve-hour shift at Calloway’s. Every inch of my body ached, my feet throbbed, my back burned but the moment I saw that envelope, every bit of pain vanished.

I flipped it over. A deep red wax seal held it closed, stamped with a letter D inside a snake swallowing its own tail. I should’ve tossed it straight into the trash — but I didn’t. Instead, I broke the seal and opened it.

Inside of it were two things: a small card, and a check.

I stared at the amount, stunned. One hundred thousand dollars. My hands started to shake.

My name was printed clearly with no errors, no typos. It was just a number large enough to change my entire life resting in my hands like it was meant to be there.

The message was brief: “Ms. Sinclair, your work has come to my attention. I have a proposition that will benefit you greatly. Dinner. Friday. 8 PM. Dalton Tower, 54th Floor. Come alone. — D. Javier.”

Drake Javier.

The name hit me instantly. Everyone in New York knew who he was a billionaire: ruthless, untouchable, the kind of man financial magazines glorified and people whispered about like he was something less than human.

He built an empire from nothing and guarded his privacy like it was his greatest weapon. So why reach out to me? I was a photographer barely scraping by. My work had appeared in a few small publications, sure, but I was hardly well-known. I had no connections, no status. I lived in a tiny apartment where the radiator clattered louder than my neighbors ever talked.

I stared at the check, then back at the envelope. No contract, no fine print, no explanation, just an invitation to dinner.

My sensible side said this had to be a scam, or something far worse. But another part — the tired, frustrated part, sick of struggling day after day — kept whispering the same thought: What if it’s real? What if it’s the answer to every hardship I’ve been fighting through?

**

By Thursday morning, I’d searched Drake Javier’s name more times than I cared to admit. Every article described him the same way: brilliant, cold, intensely private. Every photograph was polished, distant — like he existed on a level far above ordinary people.

But one photo caught my eye — taken outside a courthouse years before. Everyone around him was smiling, looking like they’d just won something huge. But Drake wasn’t smiling. He stared straight at the camera with an expression that made my stomach twist. He looked hungry. That was the only word for it.

Friday arrived far too quickly. I put on the only nice dress I owned — a dark green wrap dress I’d bought secondhand months earlier for a client meeting. I did my makeup carefully, redid my hair twice, and took the subway. I wasn’t wasting cab fare on a man who might very well be completely unhinged.

Dalton Tower looked unreal, it' made with glass, and steel, it's the kind of building that made the rest of Manhattan look cheap.

The security guard already spoke before I even opened my mouth: “Ms. Sinclair. Mr. Javier is expecting you.” That alone should’ve terrified me.

The elevator carried me straight to the fifty-fourth floor. When the doors opened, I froze.

The entire wall was glass, Manhattan glowing beneath it like the city belonged to him. A table for two sat near the windows, candles flickering softly against white linen and crystal glasses.

Drake stood by the window, his back to me. He turned the moment the elevator dinged. No photo I’d seen had prepared me for him in person. He was tall, broad, and looked undeniably dangerous.

His pale eyes landed on me instantly, and that same hunger from the courthouse photo was there again but it is stronger this time and focused entirely on me.

“Ms. Sinclair,” he said smoothly. “You came.”

“I almost didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth shifted slightly. Not quite a smile.

“But you did.”

I crossed my arms. “What do you want from me, Mr. Javier?”

He stared at me like he was observing,

“Dinner first,” he said calmly. “Then we will discuss business.”

I walked toward the table and pulled out my own chair before he could do it for me and something about that seemed to amuse him.

“The check,” I said once I was seated. “Was that meant to impress me?”

"No,” he replied smoothly, taking the seat across from me.

“It was meant to prove I’m serious."

“Serious about what?”

Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his jacket pocket and set another cream-colored envelope on the table between us.

“I need a wife,” he said simply.