Chapter 3

The Devil’s Plan

TALIA

Two million dollars.

I keep staring at those words on page one like they'll rearrange themselves into something that makes more sense. Like maybe I misread. Like maybe it says two hundred or two thousand or anything that doesn't make my brain short-circuit.

It says two million.

I turn to page four.

Clause 4: The Party of the Second Part agrees to maintain physical proximity to the Party of the First Part at all public and private engagements as defined in Schedule A, and shall not be absent from shared residence for a period exceeding twelve hours without prior written consent.

I read it twice. Then a third time.

Physical proximity. At all times.

I turn to page seven.

Clause 7: In all matters pertaining to public conduct and private decisions affecting the integrity of this agreement, the judgment of the Party of the First Part shall be considered final and binding.

The Party of the First Part is Soren Vane.

His word is final. In public and private. In my home — no, in his home, which I would apparently be required to share, because of Clause 4. I'd be living inside his decisions. Breathing inside them.

I look up at him. He's watching me read with the patience of a man who already knows the outcome.

"Clause seven," I say.

"Yes."

"Your word is final. That's not a marriage contract. That's an ownership deed."

Something shifts at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. "It's a business arrangement. The semantics of ownership are relative to your perspective."

"My perspective is that I still have one." I press my finger to the page. "This clause says otherwise."

"The clause protects the agreement. Not me specifically." He leans forward slightly. "If you make a decision that unravels twelve months of work I'll consider final. If it doesn't affect the arrangement you won't hear a word from me about how you live your life. That's also in there. Page nineteen."

I flip to page nineteen. He's not wrong. There it is — a whole clause about personal autonomy within private hours. Boundaries. Defined space.

Which means he anticipated this exact objection. Which means he's had this conversation before — maybe not with a real person but in his head a hundred times drafting this thing. Every resistance mapped and answered.

He's good.

The thought arrives cold and uninvited. I push it away.

I think about Dex. The way he smiled across that cigarette-smelling booth. I think about my brother's voice on the phone three days ago, the way people talk carefully when they're trying not to let you hear that something is already broken.

I think about my mother's apartment. The way she keeps a small plant on the windowsill because she says it proves someone lives there. Proof of life. Thirty years in that apartment.

My hand is shaking when I reach for the pen.

"This doesn't make me yours," I say.

"I don't want you to be mine." His voice is flat. Even. "I want you to be convincing."

I sign.

—

The ink is barely dry before the door opens.

Three people walk in like they've been standing outside waiting — which they probably have. A woman in all black with a rolling garment rack. A man in a slim grey suit carrying a leather document case. A third person who doesn't introduce themselves and stations himself beside the door with the specific stillness of someone paid to notice things.

Stylist. Lawyer. Bodyguard.

Of course.

"Mira." Soren says it without looking up from his phone. The woman in black is already moving toward me.

"Up," Mira says. Not unkind. Just efficient. Like I'm a problem she's been hired to solve.

I stand.

What follows is the strangest twelve minutes of my life. Mira unzips a dress bag and inside it is something dark green and structured that probably costs more than my last four months of rent combined. She holds it up against me once — one second — nods and says yes to nobody in particular. Then the too-big tuxedo is gone and I'm standing in the middle of Soren Vane's suite in borrowed underwear and my own dignity trying to hold on by its fingernails.

The dress fits.

That bothers me more than it should.

While Mira works on my hair — efficiently and without asking my opinion — the grey-suited lawyer spreads documents across the marble table and speaks to Soren in a low voice about the board meeting. Filing timelines. A photographer already briefed. The hallway kiss already confirmed by two entertainment sites.

I watch Soren in the mirror.

He's reading something on his phone. Jacket still perfect. Not a single thing about him looks like a man who just changed two people's lives in the last twenty minutes.

He feels me watching. Looks up.

Our eyes meet in the mirror and I look away first. I hate that.

Mira steps back. "Done."

I look at my reflection.

The woman looking back at me is wearing a dress that fits like it was made for her body. Her hair is up but not stiff. She looks like she belongs in this room.

She doesn't. But she looks it.

Soren glances over. Something crosses his face — not warmth. Not predatory either. Something more like recalculation. Like he entered a number and got a different result than expected.

He looks away just as fast. "We leave in five minutes."

I reach for my old phone on the table — my real phone — and right then it rings.

Unknown number. But I know.

I know before I answer.

"Talia." Dex's voice. Except something is wrong with the texture of it. Thicker. Pleased in a way that sits badly. "Change of plans."

My stomach drops.

"We have your brother." A pause — just long enough to let that land. "Pay now. Tonight. Or he's a ghost by morning."

The room doesn't change. Mira is packing up. The lawyer is still talking. Soren has his back to me checking something on the desk.

My brother.

I lower the phone slowly and look at Soren Vane — the man who just bought twelve months of my life. The man whose word is apparently final.

The only person in this city right now who can actually stop the clock.