Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The Devil

There are three moments in a woman’s life when she realises she has profoundly fucked up:

Deciding to parallel park during rush hour.
Wearing white pants on your period.
Accidentally summoning a demon into your living room.

The cookie-scented Yankee candle had gone out, a thin thread of smoke curling uselessly from the wick.

Unmatched socks littered the floor. A wine glass rolled across the beige carpet, spilling red like some fucked-up blood ritual. Above it all, perched on the windowsill like the ultimate traitor, my Womanizer lay charging—its blinking light a tiny, judgmental reminder of my unresolved horniness.

And in the middle of my living room stood a man.

No.

Not a man.

A tall figure.

He wasn’t just tall. He loomed.

Broad shoulders. Long, powerful legs. He wore a pitch-black uniform, military in cut, cinched at the waist with a gleaming gold belt. Gold embroidery crawled across his chest and shoulders in patterns that might have been laurels.

Or chains.

His gloves were on. Of course they were.

He looked like the kind of bastard who would wear gloves to a knife fight and a blowjob.

His face was unfair. Sculpted like a Greek statue that had absolutely fucked. His eyes—so dark they looked almost black in the candlelight—burned with an arrogance that could kill houseplants and his thick brows lent him a faintly cruel cast, like he was permanently seconds away from judging your life decisions.

The cape swept behind him like liquid shadow.

Then it shifted.

Not a cape.

Wings.

Massive and black, folded tight against his back like a monstrous velvet curtain.

He turned his head slowly, as if only just noticing me.

“I expected someone taller.”

Not a tease. Not curiosity.

Just mild, immediate disappointment. His voice was low and smooth, with the measured cadence of someone used to being obeyed.

He took a single step closer. The temperature dropped another degree, and my breath puffed white in front of me. His gaze dragged over me—unhurried, clinical.

“You mortals live like this on purpose, or do you simply lack the discipline to notice?”

His eyes flicked around the room.

The socks. The wine. The books on the floor. The unfolded laundry.

He didn’t grimace. He didn’t sneer.

He simply registered it, the way one notes something mildly annoying.

“State your request.“ A beat. “Succinctly.”

I swallowed. Of course he’d clock the mess.

“If this is a mistake,” he added, already bored, “correct it quickly. I will not repeat myself.”

Then his gaze dropped—briefly—to the windowsill.

The Womanizer.

“Ah.”

Just that.

“That explains the ambiance.”

A pause.

“You mortals are tediously consistent.”

“If you’re hoping for company,” he said, flat and unimpressed, “you misunderstand what I am.”

WTF? RUDE.

He stepped closer, invading my space without urgency, wings unmoving behind him.

“I don’t have all day.”

Right. Okay. Cool. Summoned a demon. No pressure.

“You will ask for something foolish,” he said. “They always do.”

“I—” I squeaked.

Fantastic. Really nailing this.

He said nothing. Didn’t prompt. Didn’t reassure. Just waited.

I inhaled, lifted my chin, and finally bullied my voice back into working.

“I want you to do my dishes.”

Silence.

He blinked once. His mask of composure cracking for the first time.

“Your… dishes.”

That was it. No anger. No threat.

Just disbelief, sharp and clean.

“You summoned a prince of Hell,” he said slowly, “for crockery.”

—

Light filtered through the curtains, catching on the piles of unfolded clothes stacked on my dresser like they’d given up pretending they were temporary.

I stirred, stretched, and let myself enjoy the rare, delicious feeling of having slept properly.

Wait.

This rested? Suspicious.

I reached for my phone.

8:37.

Oh.

No.

“Fuck.”

I was out of bed in a second.

Shirt. Skirt. Blazer. Whatever my hands touched first. I bolted for the bathroom like the building was on fire, splashed water on my face, dragged a brush through my hair, and slapped on some makeup—just enough so Janet from HR wouldn’t lean in with that fake-sympathetic voice and ask if I was feeling sick.

I sprinted into the kitchen, nearly tripping over the stack of cardboard boxes I’d promised myself I’d recycle after work.

This time.

For real.

The fridge greeted me with a sad carrot, an even sadder yogurt, and one lonely boiled egg.

I stared at the egg like it had personally wronged me.

No meal prep miracle happening overnight. Classic.

Fine.

Takeout again.

I shoved my feet into heels, grabbed my bag, then paused long enough to take in the apartment.

Dust long past overdue. Laundry everywhere. Dishes stacked in the sink. Pots still on the stove. A kitchen counter that had forgotten what wiping felt like.

After work, I told myself.

You’ll fix this after work.

I closed the door and ordered a cab.

So much for saving money.

I slid into the conference room at 8:59 and collapsed into the nearest chair.

The partner walked in, and the room snapped to attention.

Another meeting that could’ve been an email. Another hour of nodding, note-taking, and pretending this was the part of my life I enjoyed.

By noon, my inbox looked like a hostage situation.

I wrote back.

On it. No problem. You can count on me.

All lies.

Every single one.

—

“You look like shit.”

Nicole stabbed her salad with unnecessary violence.

I froze with my fork halfway to my mouth. The cafeteria hummed around us—chairs scraping, voices overlapping—but her words landed clean.

“Excuse me?”

“Like,” she chewed calmly, “literal shit.”

I glanced at my reflection in the window beside us.

Bags under my eyes. Shirt crumpled. Green eyes tired. A wrinkle between my eyebrows that had apparently moved in permanently.

Then I looked at Nicole.

Infuriatingly put together. Auburn hair falling in perfect waves. Glowing skin, freckles, warm brown eyes. Some people were just born lucky like that.

I sighed. “You know there’s a line between honesty and being a bitch.”

“Sue me.” She shrugged, then softened. “But really, Lily. You need to stop working so much.”

“I don’t remember asking for your expert opinion.” I shot her a look.

She put her fork down. “You can’t keep living like this.”

“You know how it works,” I shot back. “If you want to get ahead, you grind.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re supposed to burn out before thirty.”

“And what would you have me do?” I snapped. “Just give up?”

She hesitated.

“I just…” She lowered her voice. “After Dan—”

My face shut down.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Lily—”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

Something flickered across her face—hurt, maybe—before she hardened.

“Fine,” she said. “Keep going like this. See how that works out.”

She grabbed her tray and shot me one last look.

“Maybe in a few years it’ll just be you and ten cats.”

She walked away without looking back.

I sank back into my chair.

“Joke’s on you,” I muttered after her. “The cats don’t even like me.”

—

By the time I got home, I had a headache behind my eyes and the kind of soul-deep exhaustion that made the stairs feel personal.

The mail waited for me in the lobby, along with the box of books I’d picked up earlier. I juggled everything upstairs, unlocked my door, and stepped inside.

The apartment greeted me exactly as I’d left it.

Quiet.

Empty.

Messy.

“No welcome committee,” I muttered, kicking off my heels.

I dumped everything on the kitchen table, poured myself a glass of wine, and started going through the mail.

Bills. More bills.

Then the cream-colored envelope.

Elegant. Expensive.

I didn’t need to open it to know it was a bad idea.

I opened it anyway.

Because I was nothing if not committed to making my own life worse.

The paper inside was thick. Embossed. Tasteful.

I saw Dan’s name before I saw anything else.

Then I saw hers.

Beside his.

Gold letters. Perfect spacing. A date circled by flowers.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe.

Then I was out the door.

I don’t remember grabbing my keys. I don’t remember leaving the invitation behind. I just remember cold air, wet pavement, and rage pounding in my ears as I walked too fast through streets that blurred around me.

Rain started halfway down the block.

Of course it did.

By the time I turned back and reached my building again, I was soaked, shaking, and my chest ached with something I refused to name.

I unlocked my door, stepped inside, and took one look at the apartment.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

The mess wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was my mood. So I chose the fastest escape I had.

A shower. Too hot. Too short.

Pajamas with ridiculous octopuses on them because Lucy had bought them for me and insisted they were “cute and very you,” which I had chosen not to examine too deeply.

Then bed.

Blessed, blessed bed.

I crawled under the covers and reached for my most loyal companion.

The one constant.

The one who never judged me for the state of my life.

The Womanizer—and my wildly inappropriate imagination.

Him.

Tall.

Dark.

Handsome, obviously.

Tattooed, because why not.

His voice in my head was low and patient, like this—this—was his sole purpose in life. Talking me through it, slow and steady, until I was right there, right on the edge—

“Good girl,” he said, voice deep enough to curl my toes—

—and then the Womanizer died.

Just like that.

“What?” I croaked, staring down between my legs like I’d been personally betrayed.

Nothing.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no—”

I pressed the button again.

Dead.

I groaned and flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Fuck.”

The universe had taken many things from me.

My sleep schedule. My trust in men named Dan. My dignity.

But this?

This was starting to feel personal.

I rolled out of bed and stormed into the living room, yanked open a drawer, and plugged the traitor into its charger with more force than strictly necessary.

“You better finish your job when you recharge,” I warned it darkly.

The blinking light offered no remorse.

Still irritated—and now violently awake—I poured myself another glass of wine and dropped onto the carpet beside the pile of unmatched socks. I lit the cookie-scented Yankee candle Lucy had given me and turned on the speaker.

Billie Eilish filled the room, crooning about bad guys.

Fitting.

I dragged the box of books closer and sliced it open.

Shopping therapy was not a solution, but it was cheaper than aggravated assault and jail.

Mostly.

One by one, I pulled out my latest treasures.

Vampires Suck (Not Only Blood).

My Mafia Mob Boss Prison Mate Stalker and Our First Smutmas Together.

The Tentaclion of Space Cowboy and How Much of It Can Fit Inside Before Going To ER.

Classics.

Then my hand stilled.

There was a fourth book, even though I vividly remembered ordering only three. Then again, I’d been three glasses of wine in when I placed the order, so.

This book wasn’t like the others. No glossy cover. No dumb title. And definitely no cowboys, aliens, or mafia mates on the cover. Just old leather, worn smooth at the edges, smelling faintly of dust and something… unfamiliar.

Not bad.

Just wrong.

I ran my fingers along the spine.

Maybe a freebie? A weird bookstore promo? One of those marketing stunts where they sent you a mysterious book and hoped you’d post about it online?

Whatever.

Free book.

I shrugged and opened it.

The wind blew.

I froze and looked up.

Nothing.

The windows were closed. The apartment was still.

“Huh.” I narrowed my eyes at the closed windows, then looked back down.

The pages were yellowed. The text wasn’t English. I squinted, took another sip of wine, and frowned harder.

Latin.

Definitely Latin—at least from what I remembered from law school, which was mostly enough to understand pretentious law sayings that made you sound smart.

I flipped through slowly.

Sketches stared back at me from the margins. Winged figures. Horned ones. Circles. Symbols. A few diagrams that looked way too authentic for a book that had arrived uninvited in my smut delivery.

“Okay,” I muttered. “That’s not ominous at all.”

My finger stopped on a heading.

VOCARE FAMULUS.

I blinked.

Famulus.

Servant, wasn’t it?

I read further.

Obedire. Pretium. Servus inferni.

Obey. Price. Servant of Hell.

“Cool,” I murmured. “Love that for me.”

At the bottom of the page, a line stood apart from the rest—smaller, denser. Like the kind of warning you were supposed to obey and immediately wanted to ignore.

I traced the words with my finger as I whispered them aloud.

“Ex inferis te voco; servus meus esto; vota mea imple.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

Silence.

Then—

SNAP.

I yelped and spun toward the sound, heart pounding, only to realise the candle wick had popped.

“Fuck,” I breathed, laughing shakily. “Enough cult shit for today.”

I closed the book and set it on the coffee table.

For a moment, I just sat there.

On the floor.

In my ridiculous octopus pajamas.