The Devil's Proposal
Alira
The city hadn’t changed. Not really. The skyline still cut through the sky like silver blades, the streets still pulsed with honking horns, ambition, and indifference. But Alira Quinns had changed. She was no longer the girl who used to laugh on street corners with her best friend. That version of her had died six years ago _ buried with Lena Blackvale in a coffin too small for someone so full of life.
She stepped out of the cab, eyes rising to the towering structure of Blackvale Industries. The building was all glass, steel, and sharp edges _ just like the man who ruled it. Her breath fogged against the air-conditioned lobby as she entered, the click of her worn flats sounding too loud against the marble. Her palms were damp. She smoothed her dress _ navy blue, modest, slightly faded. It was all she had that looked remotely professional. “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked, eyeing her like a misplaced file. “I… I have a meeting. With Mr. Draven Blackvale.” The woman’s perfectly arched brow twitched upward. She typed something, eyes flicking back to Alira. “Name?” “Alira. Alira Quinn.” A beat of silence. Recognition flared in the receptionist’s gaze, followed quickly by something cooler _ judgment, perhaps. Alira was used to it. That name carried weight in this city, and none of it was good. “Go ahead,” the woman said, her voice clipped. “Top floor. He’s expecting you.
The elevator ride felt endless. She could see her reflection in the silver doors: pale face, wide eyes, soft brown curls that frizzed in the summer humidity. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes. Six years of survival carved quietly into her features. She wasn’t fragile anymore. Just… worn. But nothing could have prepared her for the door she was about to walk through.
Draven’s office was a cathedral of power_ glass walls that overlooked the city, black wood panels, and minimalist furniture so expensive it made her throat tighten. And him. He stood by the window, tall and utterly still. The tailored charcoal suit clung to his broad shoulders like it had been stitched onto him. His black hair was cut shorter than she remembered, swept back neatly, revealing sharp cheekbones and a jaw that looked sculpted from ice. He didn’t turn. For a moment, Alira considered leaving. Just walking out. But then her mother’s face flashed in her mind _ frail, fading, her chest heaving between coughs _ and Alira remembered why she was here.
She took a breath. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.” Still, he didn’t move. The silence wrapped around them like a noose. When he finally spoke, his voice was as cold as the floor beneath her feet.
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
It wasn’t anger in his voice. It was worse.
Detachment.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she said, softly. “My mother’s….” “Sick.
"Yes, I know.” Alira blinked.
“You know?”
“I know everything about you, Alira,” he said, finally turning.
His eyes landed on her like a sniper’s scope. Grey_cold steel, expressionless. The kind of eyes that had seen loss and turned it into armor. And those eyes were looking at her like she was dirt on his shoe.
“You left this city like a coward,” he continued.
“Disappeared. Didn’t face what your brother did. Didn’t even show up for Lena’s inquest.” Alira’s throat tightened.
“I was seventeen.”
“You were old enough to choose silence,” he snapped.
“You let my sister die and walked away.”
“That’s not fair,” she whispered, voice cracking.
Draven stepped closer, slow and deliberate.
“Fair? You think I care about fairness? My little sister died with your brother’s poison in her veins, and you want fair?”
Alira swallowed hard.
“I didn’t come here to justify anything. I came because I need your help.”
A cruel smile ghosted across his mouth.
“Yes. You do.”
He walked behind his desk, sitting like a king on his throne. “You need money. A lot of it. For your mother’s treatment.”
She didn’t reply. The truth was already on the table.
“I’ll give it to you,” he said, his fingers steepled.
“But it’s going to cost you.”
Alira’s stomach twisted. She nodded, barely.
“What… Do you want?”
He stood again, slowly circling the desk like a predator. When he reached her, he stop inches away.
“You,”
he said simply.
She froze.
“Me?”
“I want a marriage.”
The word slammed into her like a blow.
“What?”
“You’ll be my wife. Publicly, of course. Legally. You’ll move into my home. Wear my ring. And in return, I’ll pay for your mother’s care. Every hospital bill. Every specialist. Full coverage.”
She stared at him. “Why… why would you want that?”
“Because I want you under my control, Alira. Where I can watch you suffer.”
Her face was drained of color. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“You left,” he said, voice quieter now, more venomous.
“You didn’t even bury her. You don’t get to pretend you’re the victim now.”
Her eyes burned. “I loved her too. I was her best friend.”
“And I was her brother. The one who had to pick out her casket.” Silence fell.
He watched her closely.
“One year. That’s the contract. You play the part. You keep your mouth shut. And when the time’s up, you get your freedom back.”
Alira took a step back, breath shaking.
“This is cruel.”
“I know,” Draven said, smoothly.
“That’s the point.”
She turned toward the door, but his voice stopped her.
“You can walk out. But your mother dies.” Her hand trembled on the handle.Her throat burned with tears she wouldn’t let fall. Draven added, “You owe me, Alira. You owe Lena.”
And just like that, she knew she was trapped. She nodded once_quiet, broken.
“I’ll do it.”
He stepped forward, expression unreadable. “Then we’re engaged.”
Draven
The city below shimmered with false light. People moved like ants, busy, blind, hungry. Just like they were six years ago, on the day he lost the only person who ever made this life feel less like a cage. Lena. Her laughter still echoed in his head sometimes_sharp and beautiful. Loud in his penthouse, louder in his nightmares. And then, just like that, it would be gone. Snatched away the same night she took the pills. The ones given to her by that bastard. Alira Quinn’s brother.
He hadn’t spoken her name in years, not aloud. But he remembered the girl_quiet, always clinging to Lena’s side like a shadow, like a secret. Wide brown eyes, soft curls, and a mouth full of apologies for things no one asked her to explain. He hadn’t expected her to come back. And certainly not to him. The receptionist had called minutes earlier: “Alira Quinn is here for her appointment.” And Draven had laughed_ a hollow, humorless sound. She had some nerve, walking into his building with that name. But then again, desperation always brings people to their knees. Good. He didn’t turn when she entered. He didn’t need to. He could hear the hesitation in her steps, feel her discomfort radiating through the air like heat. Still soft. Still unsure. Just like he remembered.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said, voice quiet, like a bruise being touched. Draven stared out at the skyline, hands in his pockets. “You shouldn’t have come back.” It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement of fact. Because now that she had, she wasn’t walking away the same. When she tried to speak again, he cut her off. Cold, efficient. “You need money. For your mother.” He had the file. Her mother was dying. Stage four. No insurance. No assets. No chance. And here came the good daughter, the shame-ridden ghost, crawling back into the lion’s den with nothing but hope.
Hope was useless. I’ll give it to you,” he said, turning slowly, finally facing her. The years hadn’t been kind to her. Or maybe they had_ she was thinner, paler, but something about her was stronger too. A deeper sadness behind her eyes. A spine forged from guilt. But that didn’t matter. Not anymore. “There’s a price,” he said, stepping toward her. Her lips parted. “What… do you want?” You. The word came easily, but it meant something she didn’t understand. “I want your time, your body, your silence,” he said, slow and sharp. “You’ll be my wife. In name, in press, in papers.” She recoiled slightly, but to her credit, she didn’t fall apart. Not yet. “I don’t understand. Why would you want_” He let her trail off. Let her wonder. Let the silence curl around her like smoke. “Because I want you trapped,” he said. “Because I want you to feel what I felt the night they called me to identify my sister’s body.” She flinched.
Good. Draven walked around the desk, every step calculated. She looked up at him with those soft, wounded eyes, and for a moment_just a split second_he remembered her the way Lena used to defend her. “She’s not weak,” Lena would say. “She just carries more than she should.” Now she’d carry him too. “You left,” he said, voice low, but the rage underneath it burned hot. “You didn’t even bury her.” “I was seventeen,” she whispered. He clenched his jaw. “You were old enough to speak. But you said nothing. Not even a single goddamn word.” Her face twisted with something like shame_or pain. He didn’t care. Or at least, he told himself he didn’t. “One year,” he continued. “You’ll stay in my home, play the devoted wife in front of cameras, smile when I say smile. And when it’s over, you can leave with your mother_alive.” She said nothing. Just stared at the floor like she was drowning in it. “I could’ve left you out there to rot,” he added, just to be sure she understood. “But I’d rather keep you close. Where I can remind you every single day of what your silence cost me.” Her voice cracked. “This is cruel.” He stepped close enough to smell the subtle scent of her perfume_lavender and something sweeter beneath it. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s the point.” She looked like she might cry, but held herself together. That surprised him more than it should have. She turned to leave. And that’s when he said it. The final chain. “You can walk out. But your mother dies.”
