A Deal with the Devil

"Scram..."

Annabelle shivered at the loud bark and bolted out of Richard's suite like a bullet from a gun, silently cursing her traitor of a tongue that had run off without permission.

She marched quickly down the hallway and stopped at the far end of the corridor, her chest heaving with heavy breaths. Her heart was thudding like a jackhammer as she gently patted it, trying to calm her nerves.

Annabelle wanted nothing more than to flee the hotel, disappear into some quiet corner of the city, and never lay eyes on Richard Barton again. But let's be real—that wasn't an option. Not after pissing off that man twice in one damn day. There was no hole deep enough for her to hide in.

She lingered in the hallway because deep down, she knew. Sooner or later, someone would call her back in.

Probably after he threw some clothes on.

"After he dresses up?" she muttered under her breath.

Just thinking about it made the whole mortifying scene flash before her eyes again. That raw, inked-up body of his, all muscle and mayhem, standing bare as the day he was born. Her cheeks flamed crimson.

"Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out..." she whispered, following the calming ritual like it was a lifeline, trying to suppress the urge to bolt.

Even if she did try to escape, Richard Barton had reach. The kind of reach that would sniff her out no matter where she ran. And when he did, the punishment? Probably ten times worse.

So yeah, staying put was the lesser evil.

Annabelle cursed herself again. Her scatterbrained stunt had landed her in the middle of a mess she never asked for. She was fearless, sharp, and calculating—so what the hell happened to all that when she came face to face with him?

Just as Annabelle was trying to gather her scattered wits and suppress the urge to scream into the silence, she heard the sound of polished shoes clicking steadily against the marble floor. She looked up just as Marc strolled toward her, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression unreadable—stone-cold, like always.

"Mr. Barton wants to see you in his study. Better move it," he said coolly, not even breaking his stride as he brushed past her.

Her stomach lurched like she'd just dropped off a cliff.

Without another word, she turned stiffly and started walking toward the door adjacent to the presidential suite. Each step felt like she was walking to her own damn execution. She was halfway there when—

"Excuse me..."

The soft voice made her halt in her tracks. She turned, her brows pinched and face tense, a hundred worst-case scenarios flashing through her mind.

Marc was still standing there, his sharp features now softened just a fraction. Gone was the robotic indifference. For a brief moment, he looked almost... human.

"Admit your mistake, be apologetic, and don't argue. Might save your skin," he said quietly, almost like a whisper he wasn't supposed to let slip.

Annabelle blinked, thrown completely off by the unexpected advice.

Why was he being... helpful?

It wasn't like she and Marc were friends. Hell, they'd barely exchanged more than a handful of words since she started working here. And yet, here he was, offering her a tip like a silent ally in a battlefield she didn't know how to survive.

Her mind drifted to Mr. Crook—he had said something similar earlier, urging her to just apologize and play it safe.

Was this the universe telling her to shut up and submit?

Would it actually work?

Annabelle stood there for a second longer, wrestling with the war between her bruised ego and her basic survival instincts. Finally, with a sharp inhale and a defeated sigh, she gave a small shrug as if to say, "Screw it."

She straightened her back, pushed her shoulders down, and walked toward Richard Barton's study with the grace of someone headed for a storm they had no choice but to face.

This time, she didn't just barge in like before. No sass. No stomping.

She knocked—politely—and waited like a good girl for his permission.

Seconds stretched like hours before his deep voice rang out from the other side.

"Come in."

And with that, she stepped inside, completely unaware that her entire life was about to be flipped on its head.

Inside, Richard stood near a massive bookshelf, flipping through a file like he hadn't just traumatized her for life five minutes ago. The black skin-tight t-shirt clung to his sculpted frame, paired with faded jeans. His hair was slicked back, face as sharp as a blade. The man was maddeningly attractive—and every bit lethal.

Annabelle's thoughts scattered again. Why the hell did he always throw her off balance?

Richard finally turned and spotted her gawking. He sat down casually and tapped the table, snapping her out of her daze.

"You done?" he asked, not even looking up.

"Uh—what?"

"Checking me out."

Her jaw nearly hit the floor. Heat crawled up her neck as she bit her lower lip and mentally slapped herself again.

What the hell is wrong with me? Get a grip, Annabelle!

Then she noticed a guard in a sharp black suit standing beside Richard's chair, hands clasped behind his back like a statue. Silent. Intimidating.

Richard casually dropped the file onto the table and gave the man a subtle glance.

Here's the revised version with the added conversation and realization about the CCTV footage and Julia's interference:

Then she noticed a guard in a black suit standing beside his chair. Richard dropped the file on the table and gave the man a look.

The guard cleared his throat and spoke up, "Miss Hamilton, initially Mr. Barton was willing to let you explain. But since you accused Miss Julia, now you'll need to prove it."

Richard, meanwhile, acted like he wasn't even there. He just kept scanning the file.

Annabelle's palms grew sweaty as she clutched her skirt. Proof? Where the hell was she supposed to pull that from?

She drew in a breath and said, "Check the CCTV footage. I'm sure it'll show who really did it."

The guard shook his head. "Already checked. We found nothing unusual."

Her brows furrowed. "Nothing? That's not possible."

Then it hit her like a punch to the gut.

Julia.

Of course. Richard Barton's precious secretary must've pulled some strings. Accessed the system, wiped the evidence. Annabelle wasn't just fighting bad luck—she was up against someone who knew how to play dirty.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barton," she began, her voice a mix of nerves and honesty. "I don't have proof. But I swear, I didn't mess up the first time. The second incident—that was on me, and I truly apologize for it."

She dipped her head, cheeks flushing. But Richard didn't even flinch.

He picked up a pen, signed a few papers, and shut the file. Then he finally looked at her.

"Look at me."

The command made her spine go stiff.

She slowly raised her eyes to meet his—and Richard damn near forgot to breathe.

Innocence. Fire. Pride. All wrapped up in one pair of eyes. It knocked him off his axis for a second, and he clenched his fists to keep his emotions in check.

He gave the guard another glance.

"Being a senior server in a seven-star hotel," the guard said, "you made two mistakes in fifteen minutes and argued with the boss. You're not fit for this position."

What the—

Who the hell does he think he is?

Her ego flared, screaming at the insult.

No, Anna. Don't lose it again. Swallow it. Think smart, she told herself.

"Everyone makes mistakes, sir," she said steadily. "And I've learned from mine. I may not be perfect, but I take my job seriously. Test me if you want, Mr. Barton."

Her voice was firm.

Richard's eyes glinted. That sounded like a challenge.

"Is that so? Then I'll test you," he said, a devilish smirk playing on his lips.

Annabelle exhaled, slightly relieved he was finally talking directly. But her gut told her something shady was coming.

"Let's see how perfect you really are. From now on, you'll work for me. Personally. As my maid."

Her mouth dropped.

"What?! You've gotta be kidding me!"

She had a hotel management degree. Dreams of becoming a head chef. She wasn't about to throw that away to become some rich jerk's personal maid.

"No way. I can't do that."

The flat-out rejection made Richard's jaw tick. His gaze hardened.

"You don't have a choice. Say no, and you'll be blacklisted in this industry."

He picked up his phone, scrolling through contacts without a care.

Annabelle crossed her arms. "Fine. Then I choose the second option and—"

Oh, she was pushing his buttons now.

Marc blinked in shock. No one ever dared to talk back to Richard Barton like this. And the crazy part? He wasn't even mad. He looked... entertained.

With an amused smirk, Richard cut her off. "Sure. Then pack your bags and run back to Vegas. Hide behind that rich daddy of yours."

Her heart skipped a beat.

Samuel Hamilton.

The name alone ignited her fury.

She'd rather mop floors for eternity than crawl back to that miserable excuse of a family. She'd sleep on the streets if it meant never facing them again.

Richard saw the flicker of pain and rage in her eyes—and he knew he'd struck gold.

She lifted her chin.

"I don't need a damn backup when I'm capable enough on my own. Fine. I accept your offer," she said, like she was doing him a favor.