All Chapters of The Devil I Lied To: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

It is one of those crisp California mornings; the sky is clear, and the sun is filtering through the windows of my mansion like liquid gold. The marble floors are cool underfoot, and the air carries the faint scent of citrus from the lemon trees outside.The kitchen smells like toasted sourdough, fresh espresso, and a faint whiff of my favorite vanilla diffuser burning softly. The day has just started for people like Ethan Brooks, my stepbrother, but I am already ten steps ahead. Like always.I always move like a schedule tattooed in my bones-quick and deliberate. My ivory silk robe is fluttering behind me as I am sitting on a stool of the kitchen island, coffee already brewed, my favorite mug warming in my hand. Boss energy is written on it.My phone is in my other hand; I scroll through messages from clients like I am skimming a menu. I handle branding approvals, receive thank-you notes, and have a nervous intern ask if "bold orange" is too bold. My inbox is buzzing like a hive, but

I am stepping out of the FBI offsite building with my phone clutched in one hand and my nerves barely stitched together. After what feels like hours of grilling from Agents Collin and Reed, no bullshit types with stone faces and folders full of accusations. I am finally free to go. But the word "free" feels like a cruel joke. Nothing about today is freedom."Carl is standing next to my car, and I tell him to drive straight to my office. My heart is pounding, but I am still thinking maybe, just maybe, this is all some weird mix-up. Maybe people will believe me. Or secretly, I am wishing this is all my nightmare, and soon I will wake up.The second I swipe my keycard at the front entrance, it buzzes red. Denied."What the hell?" I mutter under my breath, yanking at the handle. That is when Dylan pops into the lobby, holding a phone in one hand. He looks like he hasn't slept for days. Of course, orchestrating a trap for me was a full-time job."Anaya," he says, scratching the back of his

I have been unable to find Imani since lunch. The cell door clangs open so loud it damn near rattles my bones. I jerk upright on the cold metal cot; my heart is hammering against my ribs.The guard isn't the usual one who steps inside. He is not the one who tossed my lunch tray like I am an animal. This man is bigger, mean-looking, and doesn't say a fucking word. Just nod once like a habit."What is going on?" I ask him when he raises me by my arm. "Leave me."He neither answers nor stops.Instead, two more guards enter. They yank me to my feet and take me out of the cell. I had no intention of resisting; I was simply asking them not to touch me. Although I want to scream, to fight, to demand answers, here in three months, I learn one thing: the more you resist, the more you'll suffer.My instincts are saying this isn't the usual cell transfer or psych eval turnaround. This is different. My gut is screaming it.They cuff my wrists tight, the metal biting into my skin, and shove me dow

I am standing in the doorway of a room; the door is ajar. I take a deep breath and enter. The room seems to swallow every tiny sound like a well-fed beast.I look around at shadows draped over every surface, black curtains, and a low four-poster bed with black sheets. A single lamp casts a faint glow on the black and shiny furniture. When sunlight filters through the curtains, the angled wooden floor makes my silhouette feel like a ghost.A wall clock is hanging right above the bed; it's long dead. My eyes widen and hands freeze when I look at the stopped time; it's 4:15 am. I remember the exact moment when the auctioneer slammed his hammer down, declaring me sold. That final thud still echoes in my ears like a death knell. The memory still feels like a bruise under my skin.My eyes fall on a table in the center of the room. A chessboard. A perfectly and freshly arranged board. Two black chairs are tucked under the table. I nod and tighten my fists because whoever bought me has resear

After stepping out of the bathroom, I walk into a closet bigger than the one I had in Brooks mansion, where I used to live. I pull on a beige knitted sweater, soft and oversized, the sleeves swallowing my wrists. Off-white slacks followed, fitted but cozy. I take a moment to look in the mirror. I completely forgot how I looked in these three months. Now I am looking at myself, but it feels like a prisoner is standing in cashmere.My stomach growls, loud and persistent.I need food. Anything, even burnt toast, will do.I recall the rules Lucien told me. Allowed to roam. Not to speak. This wing of the mansion.Fine. I can work with that.I wander through polished hallways, silent and endless, the sound of my flat shoes lingering faintly in the space. Oil paintings line the walls. Heavy drapes framed the tall windows. The whole place smells like power, money, and danger.Ten minutes have passed. Maybe more. I am starting to think I'll die of hunger before I see another living soul in thi