THE DEVIL IN DISGUISE
The elevator sliced open with a too-chipper ding, and Ava Sinclair stepped into the crystal palace of Blackwell Industries. Her heels were a drumline on marble, her heart doing some Olympic gymnastics, and that resume? She was clutching it like a lifeline in a storm.
Seriously, she had no idea how she’d even landed this interview. Some cryptic email from the void—no job title, just an address, a time, and the kind of mystery that screams “bad idea” but still gets you out of bed. Rent was late. Hope was dead. At that point, curiosity was the only thing not overdrawn.
The receptionist? Human wallpaper. Didn’t flinch, didn’t care. “Top floor. He’s waiting.”
He? That earned a raised eyebrow, but Ava didn’t argue. She pressed into the private elevator and caught a flash of herself in the mirrored doors—flushed cheeks, nerves jangling, that “don’t screw this up” stare. She tugged her neckline, faked a little confidence, prayed her hands weren’t shaking as much as they felt.
Doors opened. And—bam—there he was.
Leon Blackwell. The legend. The guy whose name made Wall Street execs break out in hives and trust-fund girls lose their panties. Leaning against his desk in a suit that probably cost more than her student loans, eyes black as midnight and twice as dangerous. He looked at her like she was already his.
“Miss Sinclair,” he purred, voice smoother than a glass of scotch. “You're exactly what I need.”
Ava’s brain short-circuited. “I… I didn’t realize this was just me and you.”
That smirk could melt steel. “Oh, sweetheart, this isn’t an interview. It’s an offer.”
She straightened, tried to channel her inner boss. “An offer for what, exactly?”
He circled her, slow as a storm cloud. “Personal assistant. To me. Only me. High demands, higher pay.”
He stopped so close behind her she could feel the heat of him—his cologne was all dark whiskey and expensive wood, and something more dangerous mixed in.
“I don’t like giving second chances,” he murmured, voice echoing in her ear. “But you look desperate enough to be interesting.”
She spun, chin up. “Why do you think that?”
His eyes dipped to her lips, lingered, then locked with hers. “You showed up.”
Air snapped tight between them, heavy, electric, like a thunderstorm about to break.
“You’ll live in my penthouse,” Leon said, voice soft and deadly. “My rules. No questions, no excuses. You get protection. Payment— a good one. Ownership.”
She choked. “Ownership? I'd be… Owned?”
“Professionally.” His mouth curled, amused. “Unless you want it to mean more.”
Every instinct screamed run, but her feet wouldn’t move. Gravity, or just his pull.
She crossed her arms, her last defense. “And if I say no?”
His smile vanished. The temperature in the room dropped.
“Then you walk right out of here—and whatever you’re running from finds you. Fast.”
Silence. Thick as honey.
Ava’s voice was barely a whisper. “And if I say yes?”
He stepped in, brushed a knuckle down her cheek—possessive, gentle, searing. She actually shivered.
“Then you’re mine, Miss Sinclair. All in.”
She stepped back, needing space to breathe. “Why me?”
Leon arched an eyebrow. “Should’ve wondered that before you hit the top floor.”
Touché. It stung, because she had wondered—mirror pep talks, all those nights she replayed every wrong turn.
She turned away, staring out at the city slicing up the sky. Cold, glittering, untouchable. Just like everything she’d lost.
One year ago…
She’d had it all: up-and-coming PR queen, a fiancé with a senator’s smile, her name on every guest list. Then—bang—scandal.
A video hits the web. All lies, but who cares about truth when there’s blood in the water? Public breakup, orchestrated by a man whose family name opened more doors than hers ever could. Her own father ditched her—business before blood.
She watched her life go up in flames.
Career? Gone.
Reputation? Vaporized.
Bank account? Frozen solid.
Mom’s hospital bills stacked to the ceiling.
Friends? Ghosted. Poof.
Now, here she was. In a stranger’s lair. Facing a man who looked at her and saw straight through the bullshit.
“I need this job,” she finally said, voice wobbling just a hair. “But I’m not for sale.”
Leon’s gaze was pure midnight. “Everybody sells something, Ava. Their time. Their loyalty. Their body. Only difference is the price.”
She squared up, defiant. “So what are you buying?”
He grinned, slow and lethal.
“Everything you never wanted to give away.”
He moved closer, unhurried, sure, like he already owned her shadow. Ava’s breath hitched as he tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his touch featherlight and burning.
“If you sign, Ava,” he said, voice thick as honey, “you’re mine. All the way. Professionally. Physically. No escape.”
His fingers skimmed the edge of her collarbone, not quite dipping lower—but not far from it either. Her skin tingled. Her knees weakened.
“You’ll answer to me. You’ll wear what I choose. Sleep where I tell you. Submit when I demand it.”
Ava’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
He leaned closer, his mouth brushing her ear.
“And when I touch you…” His breath was warm, wicked. “You won’t be allowed to pretend you don’t want it.”
Ava’s heart was hammering now, a chaotic drumbeat of panic and arousal.
Leon pulled back slowly, his gaze searing into hers. “You have until midnight to decide. The contract will be waiting. Sign it, and your life changes the moment you wake up tomorrow. Walk away, and this offer disappears—forever.”
He turned his back to her, striding to his desk like he hadn’t just dismantled her entire nervous system.
“Good night, Miss Sinclair.”
She stood frozen, adrenaline surging. Temptation twisted in her gut, sharp and intoxicating. This was insane. Dangerous. Irresistible.
Her phone buzzed. A reminder that rent was due. That her mother’s medication wouldn’t pay for itself.
Ava looked at the sleek folder on the desk—black, leather-bound, waiting.
And wondered just how far she was willing to fall.
