Chapter Two: A Bargain with the Devil

Amara’s world had shrunk to the four walls of her bedroom.

For two days, she hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t eaten. She hadn’t even changed out of the silk robe she’d worn since waking up in that stranger’s penthouse—its fabric now wrinkled, stained with tears and sweat, smelling faintly of cedar and shame. She sat curled in the corner of her room, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she could hold the pieces of her shattered life together through sheer will.

Outside, the sun rose and set. Birds sang. Life moved on.

But inside, time had stopped.

Her mother, Lena, had tried everything. She’d brought soup, tea, even a tray of Amara’s favorite jollof rice with fried plantains—her childhood comfort food. She’d left it on the nightstand, untouched. She’d sat beside her, stroking her hair, whispering soft prayers under her breath. She’d cried, too, quietly, so Amara wouldn’t hear. But Amara had heard. She heard everything. The silence between them was thick, heavy with grief and helplessness.

The house itself seemed to mourn. The lights stayed dim. The TV remained off. Even the wind outside felt hushed, as though nature itself was holding its breath.

And then there was the dress.

Her wedding dress.

It hung in the corner of the room, draped over a mannequin like a ghost from a life that no longer existed. Ivory lace, delicate embroidery, a cathedral train that had once shimmered like moonlight on water. She had chosen it months ago, standing in a boutique in Paris, tears in her eyes as the seamstress adjusted the bodice. “This is it,” she’d whispered. “This is the day I become someone’s wife.”

Now, it was a monument to betrayal.

A flash of pure, unfiltered rage surged through her veins—sudden, violent, like lightning splitting the sky.

With a guttural cry that tore from the depths of her soul, Amara lurched to her feet. She staggered toward the dress, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her fingers clawed at the delicate fabric, ripping at the lace, tearing at the seams. The sound of ripping silk was deafening in the silence—a symphony of her own brokenness.

She tore and tore, sobbing, screaming, until her hands ached and the beautiful gown lay in a pile of shredded memories on the floor.

Then she collapsed.

On her knees. In the wreckage.

Sobbing.

Her mother rushed in, gasping at the sight.

“Oh, baby,” Lena whispered, dropping beside her, pulling her daughter into her arms. “Oh, my sweet girl…”

Amara clung to her, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder, her body wracked with sobs. “They took everything, Mama,” she choked out. “They took my name. My body. My future. They made me into a joke.”

Lena rocked her gently, stroking her hair. “I know, baby. I know. But we’ll get through this. We’ll fight. We’ll make them pay.”

Just then, the blaring sound of the front gate alarm split the air.

Amara flinched, her breath catching.

Lena wiped her eyes, straightened her back, and stood. “Stay here,” she said, her voice suddenly firm, maternal armor snapping into place. “I’ll handle it.”

Amara wanted to protest, but she was too drained. She watched as her mother left the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

A minute passed.

Then two.

Then the door creaked open.

Lena returned, her face pale, her hands trembling.

“Amara,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “There are men here. They… they said you need to come with them.”

Amara’s heart stopped.

“What? Who are they?”

Before she could react, two men in dark suits stepped into the doorway.

They were large—tall, broad-shouldered, their expressions impassive. Their eyes scanned the room, then settled on her. No warmth. No hesitation. Just cold, calculated purpose.

“Miss Collins,” one of them said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “You’re coming with us.”

Amara shook her head, shrinking back against the wall. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving my house. I’m not—”

“Amara, don’t,” Lena begged, stepping between her and the men. “Please, just tell me who you are. What do you want?”

The second man held up a hand. “We’re not here to harm you, ma’am. But we have our orders. Miss Collins is expected.”

“Expected?” Lena’s voice cracked. “Expected where? By whom?”

The first man didn’t answer. He simply stepped forward.

When Amara tried to stand, he moved with shocking speed—scooping her up as if she weighed nothing. She kicked, screamed, clawed at his arms, but he didn’t flinch. His grip was iron.

“Hey! Get your hands off her!” Lena screamed, rushing forward. “I’m calling the police! I swear to God, I’ll—”

The second man simply blocked her path with a polite coldness that made Lena's blood run cold. “The police will be of no use, ma’am. This is not a kidnapping.”

“I’ll be okay, Mama,” Amara whispered, her voice breaking. “I’ll be okay.”

But she didn’t believe it.

They carried her out of the house, past the shattered glass of the front gate, past the paparazzi who had begun to gather, their cameras flashing like strobe lights. She saw their faces—hungry, predatory. She saw the headlines already forming in their minds.

“Slutty Bride Snatched by Mysterious Men.”

The sleek black car waited at the curb. The door opened. She was placed inside without a word.

The doors clicked shut.

And the vehicle pulled away, leaving her mother screaming impotently on the porch.

The journey was a blur.

She didn’t know how long it lasted. Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? The city passed by in streaks of light and shadow. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, trying to steady her breathing, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Who were these men?

Who had sent them?

And why her?

When the car finally stopped, she looked up.

She knew this building.

Blackwell Tower.

The tallest, most exclusive skyscraper in Manhattan.

She was led through a private elevator, up to the top floor. The doors opened into a vast, opulent living space—marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, a fireplace carved from black stone. The same penthouse from her fragmented memories.

They guided her to the center of the room.

Then left.

Silence.

Then—movement.

He was there.

Standing by the window, his back to her, silhouetted against the dying light of the sunset. Tall. Imposing. Dressed in a tailored black suit, his tie loose, his dark hair slightly disheveled.

She had no idea who he was.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice raspy, raw from days of silence.

He turned.

And her breath hitched.

His face was a chiseled mask—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, lips set in a firm line. But it was his eyes that froze her. Pale gray, almost silver, like storm clouds before a tempest. They didn’t blink. They didn’t waver. They looked right through her.

“I want to touch you,” he said, his voice low, smooth, like a promise whispered in the dark.

Amara stared at him, her mind blank with shock. “What?”

“I want your permission to touch you,” he repeated, stepping closer.

She didn’t answer. She just stared, her eyes wide with disbelief. Was this a joke? Was this a power play? Was he mocking her?

A hot surge of anger flared in her chest. “Are you out of your mind? My life is ruined, and you—you—want to touch me? Who are you?”

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, he took another step forward, his gaze steady. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Before she could react, he reached out—slowly, deliberately—and laid his hand on her arm.

Amara flinched, bracing herself for the revulsion, the violation, the shame.

But it never came.

His touch was firm. Warm. Normal.

She stared at his hand on her skin, her heart pounding.

He didn't burn her.

He didn't repulse her.

He just... touched her.

And then, without warning, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight, secure hug.

Amara’s body went rigid with alarm. She shoved him away, stumbling back, her chest heaving. “Get off me! What’s wrong with you? My reputation is in tatters, but I am not that girl! I don’t… I don’t do this! I don’t just let men touch me!”

He didn’t react. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t even seem affected.

Instead, he walked over to a leather chair and gestured for her to sit.

She remained standing, clutching her arms around herself like a shield.

“I can get all your brand deals back,” he said, his words slicing through the silence like a blade.

Amara froze.

“Glamour Luxe. LuxSkin. Elegance Watches. Every single one. I can get you signed with a better company than your last one. I can get you any role you want. A lead in a blockbuster. An Oscar campaign. Whatever you desire.”

Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst.

This was impossible.

It had to be a trick.

“Why?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Why would you do that?”

He ignored her question.

“On one condition,” he said. “You marry me. For one year.”

Amara stared at him.

Then, a hysterical laugh bubbled up from her throat.

She laughed until tears streamed down her face, until her ribs ached, until she could barely breathe.

“You’re joking,” she gasped. “You’ve got to be joking. You don’t even know me. You don’t care about me. You just want to use me, like everyone else!”

“I do know you,” he said, his voice calm, steady. “I know you turned down a seven-figure deal for a lingerie campaign because you refused to wear anything revealing. I know you donated your entire paycheck from your first film to a women’s shelter. I know you’ve never had a scandal. Never been late. Never compromised your values.”

He stepped closer.

“And I know you didn’t do any of it willingly. That night. You were drugged. You were betrayed. And I… I was there.”

Amara’s eyes widened in confusion.

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

He took a deep breath. “My name is Damian Blackwell. For my entire life, I have suffered from a rare and severe medical condition. My body reacts with a violent, life-threatening allergic response to any human touch. My skin swells, my throat closes, I go into anaphylactic shock. I have spent ten years living in isolation, unable to shake a single hand, unable to feel a single embrace.”

He gestured to the room around them. “I live in a sterile bubble. The staff that works for me has to wear full-body suits. My entire existence is one of untouchable isolation.”

He took another step closer, his eyes fixed on hers. “That night, when you were in that hotel, I was there. I was drunk, more than I’ve been in years. I don’t remember how, but somehow, you ended up in my room. And for some reason—a reason my doctors are desperate to understand—when I touched you, nothing happened. My body didn’t reject you. It didn’t attack me. It just… felt.”

Amara’s heart pounded. This was insane. It sounded like something out of a science fiction movie. But his face was so serious, so raw with a decade of loneliness, that she almost believed him.

“And you… you took my virginity,” she whispered, the shame returning in a fresh wave.

He didn't shy away from her words. “I would never have done that had I known. I was reckless, drunk, and for the first time, I felt a connection. It was a moment of weakness, and I will not pretend it wasn't. I will take full responsibility for my actions.”

He reached for her hand, and she flinched, but he held firm.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to touch. For some reason, your specific biological makeup doesn’t trigger my body’s defenses. And if you are willing, I will find out why. In exchange, I will restore your career. Your reputation. Everything you’ve lost.”

He paused, and a flicker of something she couldn't name—was it a challenge? a plea?—crossed his face.

"You will marry me for one year. We will live as husband and wife publicly, and my doctor will conduct non-invasive tests to study your biology. At the end of the year, we'll divorce, and you will walk away with a restored career and a fortune you could never have imagined."

Amara’s mind reeled. Revenge. Justice. A chance to reclaim her life. It was a tempting, dangerous offer.

"What if I say no?" she asked, her voice trembling.

A cold, hard look entered his eyes. "Then you walk out that door. And I'll never contact you again. You'll remain ruined. Forgotten. Powerless. It's not like you have anything to lose."

She swallowed hard, the words a hammer blow to her already fragile state.

"And if I say yes?"

"You get everything," he said. "And I get the only thing I've ever wanted—touch."

She looked at him, really looked. Not at the billionaire. Not at the cold, emotionless mask. But at the man beneath. The man who hadn’t been touched in ten years. The man who saw her not as a slut, not as a joke, but as his only hope.

“We’ll have rules,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute. “No intimacy. No sex. This is a business arrangement.”

“Agreed,” he said without hesitation.

“So… when do we sign the contract?”

He didn’t smile.

But something in his eyes shifted.

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to a table with two stacks of documents. “I had it all prepared. A non-disclosure agreement, to protect my condition and your role in my life. And the marriage certificate. All you have to do is sign.”

Amara stared at the papers.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the pen.

She glanced at the shredded remnants of her wedding dress in her mind.

The future she had planned was dead.

But a new one—terrifying, uncertain, possibly glorious—was just beginning.

And as she signed her name, she whispered a promise to herself.

This time, I won’t be the victim.

This time, I’ll be the storm.