Claimed by the Devil in a Suit
He doesn't believe in love.
He believes in ownership.
Lucien Vale built his empire the same way he destroys his enemies-quietly, strategically, without mercy. To the world, he's the youngest billionaire in Europe. To those who cross him, he's something far darker.
They call him The Devil in a Suit.
When struggling art conservator Amara Rossi unknowingly restores a painting tied to one of Lucien's most dangerous secrets, she becomes collateral in a war she never saw coming. To protect her-and control the damage-Lucien does what he does best.
He claims her.
What begins as a contract meant to silence her turns into an obsession neither of them expected. Amara refuses to be owned. Lucien has never been denied.
But behind Lucien's cold precision is a man forged by betrayal, raised in violence, and taught that love is a weakness exploited by enemies. And behind Amara's defiance is a woman who has spent her life surviving powerful men.
Their chemistry is volatile. Their power dynamic intoxicating.
Their connection? Terrifyingly real.
Because the devil doesn't fall in love.
He possesses.
And when Lucien realizes he would burn empires for her, the question isn't whether he can keep Amara-
It's whether she can survive being claimed by him.
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Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The phone kept vibrating.
Unknown number.
The sound was soft, but in the silence between them, it felt deafening.
Amara stared at the screen as if it might burn her.
Lucien did not move. He did not reach for her. He did not crowd her space.
He simply watched.
"Answer it," he repeated calmly.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She forced herself to breathe once, twice, then pressed accept.
She hit speaker.
"Yes?" she said, hating that her voice wasn't perfectly steady.
A man's voice answered.
Smooth. Polite. Almost warm.
"Miss Rossi. Thank you for taking my call."
Her stomach tightened.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Adrian Kovar."
The name landed like ice water.
Across the table, Lucien's expression did not change.
But something lethal flickered in his eyes.
Amara swallowed.
"I don't know anyone by that name."
"You restored a Madonna this week," Kovar continued lightly. "Florentine. Late fifteenth century. Quite beautiful."
Her fingers curled around the edge of the table.
"I restore many things," she replied carefully.
"Yes," he murmured. "But not all of them whisper back."
Her breath caught.
Lucien's gaze locked onto hers. Stay steady.
"I'm not sure what you mean," she said.
A soft chuckle came through the speaker.
"You found something beneath the varnish," Kovar said. "Curiosity is admirable, Miss Rossi. Dangerous, but admirable."
The café suddenly felt too small. Too exposed.
"This is inappropriate," she said firmly. "If you have questions regarding ownership, contact the registered client."
"Oh, I don't have questions," Kovar replied.
A pause.
"I have interests."
Silence pressed in.
Lucien stepped slightly closer to the table but did not speak.
He was letting her handle it.
Testing her? Or respecting her?
She couldn't tell.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Only to ensure," Kovar said gently, "that your professional enthusiasm doesn't lead you into... complicated territory."
"Are you threatening me?"
"Threatening?" He sounded amused. "No, Miss Rossi. Merely advising."
Her jaw tightened.
"I don't respond well to advice from strangers."
"Then allow me to remedy that," he said smoothly. "We won't be strangers for long."
The line went dead.
The silence that followed was heavier than the call itself.
Her heart was racing now-no pretending otherwise.
Lucien picked up her phone and turned the screen toward himself.
He didn't ask permission.
His thumb moved quickly across the display.
"He masked the route," Lucien said. "But not perfectly."
"You can trace it?" she asked.
"Yes."
Her breath shook slightly. She hated that.
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"I know."
"You said they wouldn't contact me."
"I said they wouldn't harm you."
"That didn't feel like safety."
His gaze lifted to hers.
"No," he agreed. "It didn't."
The air between them shifted.
This wasn't theory anymore.
It wasn't business politics.
It was real.
She stepped back slightly, putting space between them.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"Yes."
"I restore paintings."
"And you uncovered leverage."
She ran a hand through her hair, pacing once beside the table.
"This is your war," she said. "Your father. Your rivals. Your mess."
He absorbed the accusation without flinching.
"Yes."
The simple admission disarmed her.
"And now I'm in it."
"Yes."
"Without consent."
A pause.
"That was not my intention."
She laughed softly, incredulous. "You followed me in a car."
"To protect you."
"That's not protection. That's control."
His jaw tightened.
"You're still here," he said evenly. "You're still standing. You were not approached physically. You were not cornered privately. He called. Through a masked line."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"It should make you understand the difference."
She stared at him.
"What difference?"
"The difference between intimidation and elimination."
The words dropped like lead.
Her stomach turned.
"You think he'd kill me?"
"I think he'd prefer not to."
"That's not reassuring."
"He would rather use you."
A cold shiver crept up her spine.
"As what?" she asked quietly.
"Leverage."
The word settled heavily.
She stopped pacing.
"And what does that mean?"
"It means," Lucien said calmly, "he believes you are now important to me."
Her head snapped up.
"Why would he think that?"
"Because I'm standing here."
The realization hit her like a physical force.
"You shouldn't have come," she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "I should have."
"You made this worse."
"No," he replied softly. "I made it visible."
Her heart pounded.
"You don't even know me."
His gaze held hers.
"I know enough."
"That's not possible."
"It is when risk is involved."
She exhaled shakily.
"You're talking like I'm an asset."
"I'm talking like you're exposed."
"Stop using that word."
His eyes softened slightly.
"You're frightened."
The quiet observation broke something inside her.
"I'm not used to being dragged into strangers' power games," she said.
"You're not a stranger anymore."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The weight of them hung in the air.
She stared at him.
"What does that mean?"
He didn't answer immediately.
For the first time since she met him, he seemed to choose his words carefully.
"It means," he said at last, "he believes proximity equals leverage."
"And does it?"
A long pause.
His jaw tightened.
"Yes."
Her breath caught.
The honesty hit harder than denial would have.
She stepped back again.
"So I am leverage."
"No."
"You just said-"
"I said he believes you are."
"And you?"
Silence.
He looked at her differently now.
Not calculating.
Not assessing.
Something else.
"You are a variable I did not anticipate," he said quietly.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Frustration flared again.
"You don't get to decide what I deserve to hear."
"No," he agreed. "But I do decide how this ends."
Her eyes flashed.
"You're not in control of everything."
"No," he said softly. "But I control enough."
The café door opened behind them. A group of tourists entered, laughing loudly.
The normalcy felt surreal.
Lucien glanced briefly toward the entrance.
Then back at her.
"You can't go back to the atelier," he said.
She stiffened.
"I absolutely can."
"No."
"You don't own my movements."
"This isn't ownership."
"It feels like it."
"It's survival."
She hesitated.
He stepped closer-but not aggressively. Just enough to lower his voice.
"If Kovar believes you matter," he said quietly, "he will test that theory."
Her breath trembled slightly.
"By calling?"
"By escalating."
Her mind raced.
"What does escalating look like?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Pressure. Surveillance. Fear."
She swallowed.
"I already feel that."
"Yes."
"And you think hiding in your house fixes it?"
"My house," he said evenly, "is the safest location in London."
"That's arrogant."
"It's factual."
She looked at him-really looked.
There was no performance in him.
No bravado.
Just certainty.
And beneath that-
Tension.
Not fear.
But something close.
"You're not worried about me," she said slowly.
His eyes flickered.
"You're worried about something else."
A beat of silence.
He didn't deny it.
"Your father," she said quietly.
His jaw tightened.
"Kovar and your father."
His gaze hardened again.
"This isn't about him."
"It feels like it is."
His voice dropped.
"It's about preventing history from repeating."
The weight behind that sentence was unmistakable.
For the first time, she saw it.
Not the billionaire.
Not the devil.
The son.
Something shifted inside her.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But understanding.
She exhaled slowly.
"If I go with you," she said carefully, "it's temporary."
"Yes."
"And I maintain autonomy."
"Yes."
"And if I decide to leave?"
"You won't be stopped."
A pause.
"You'll advise against it," she said.
"Yes."
"But you won't stop me."
"No."
She studied his face for any sign of deception.
Found none.
Her phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
Her stomach dropped.
Lucien didn't look at the screen this time.
He looked at her.
"You see?" he said quietly.
The buzzing stopped.
Silence returned.
Her independence warred with instinct.
Everything in her resisted surrender.
But this wasn't surrender.
It was strategy.
"You're not kidnapping me," she said firmly.
"No."
"I'm choosing this."
"Yes."
He held her gaze.
"And I don't belong to you."
Something flickered in his eyes again.
Dangerous.
Possessive.
Gone in a second.
"You don't belong to anyone," he said quietly.
The words carried weight.
More than they should have.
She nodded once.
"Fine."
He didn't smile.
He didn't celebrate.
He simply stepped aside, gesturing toward the door.
"After you."
The gesture was subtle.
Respectful.
But charged.
As they walked out of the café together, the rain had started again-fine and silver against the London air.
The Bentley waited at the curb.
The door opened before they reached it.
Amara paused briefly before stepping inside.
Lucien followed.
The door closed.
The world outside blurred as the car pulled away.
Neither spoke immediately.
The city lights streaked past the window.
She felt it then.
The shift.
A line crossed.
Not by force.
By choice.
And as the car disappeared into the London traffic, one truth settled quietly between them:
This was no longer about a painting.
It was about power.
And proximity.
And the dangerous space where both begin to feel like something else.
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7.2
Betrayed by her sister. Killed by her husband.
Reborn, Sarah returns with one goal-revenge.
This time, she won't be the fool.
And with the Knox, the most dangerous man by her side...
she'll ruin them all, and take back everything that belongs to her.
Promotional line: They killed me once. This time, I'll destroy them first.
8.4
Palermo does not forgive.
Neither does it forget.
When Guerrero Valenti, the feared leader of the Vikings, vanished, the city exhaled a dangerous calm-but only for a moment. In the shadows, enemies waited. Rivals sharpened their knives. And one woman bore a secret that could ignite every street in the city.
Lucia Romano carried the child of a man who had disappeared into legend and rumor. A son who had not been claimed, not protected, not named.
The city whispered of him with venom: the bastard of the Vikings.
The boy was fragile, but he was a storm waiting to erupt. And every night, Palermo tested him. Masked men tried to snatch him from his crib. Fire, steel, and blood became his lullabies. Yet he survived. Every threat only sharpened his instincts, every scream hardened his mother's resolve.
But whispers spread faster than steel through the night-rumors of a man returning. A shadow that would claim everything, sparking fear in every heart:
Guerrero Valenti.
The father who abandoned him.
The legend whose name alone commands obedience.
The storm that will rise, carrying vengeance, blood, and fire.
And when he comes,
Every man who dared call the bastard his enemy will fall.
Every street, every roof, every whispered corner will bow to the son of Guerrero Valenti or be washed in blood.
This is the story of survival.
Of fire and steel.
Of a mother and her son.
Of a father's return.
Even the earth is getting ready to absorb blood ... the blood of those who call the legitimate son of the Vikings a "BASTARD", and collect necks........the necks of those fallen by the sword of GUERRERO VALANTI.
And upon his return Heads will bow to the one they called a BASTARD .
9.8
After three agonizing months, I finally found my fiancé, Barnett Spencer, at a gala at The Plaza. He had vanished without a trace, and I was on the verge of losing my mind.
But when I saw him on stage, my blood turned to ice. He had a strange woman tucked into his arm, and a lawyer announced that a recent accident had erased the last six years of his memory-our entire relationship.
In front of a sea of reporters, Barnett looked right through me with freezing hostility.
"Miss, you have the wrong person."
He then declared that the woman beside him, Joslyn, was not only the person who saved his life but also his new, legal wife. The news hit me like a physical blow, and the camera flashes swallowed me whole as reporters shoved microphones in my face, asking how it felt to be publicly dumped.
The man I had loved for six years had turned me into a national joke, a delusional stranger trying to cling to his wealth.
That night, as I was drowning my humiliation in a martini, his ruthless younger brother, Dixon, found me. He slid a marriage contract across the bar.
"Marry me," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I want his shares. You want his pain. We both get what we want."
Fueled by alcohol and a burning need for revenge, I grabbed his pen and signed my name. I was no longer the abandoned fiancée. I was about to become my ex's worst nightmare: his new sister-in-law.
9.1
The best way to get back at a cheating bastard? Make him sick to his stomach for the rest of his life!
Days before her wedding, Corinne caught her fiancé cheating with his coworker in what she thought was their future home.
Furious, she tore everything apart, ended the engagement, and decided on a bold revenge plan.
To make him regret it for life, she set her sights on marrying his powerful uncle. Confident in her scheme, she tried to win over the cold, untouchable man, only to realize too late that she had mistaken his identity.
The man she married was far more dangerous than she imagined!
Corinne decided to make a quick escape. "Let's get a divorce. We're clearly not right for each other... "
He cornered her with a knowing smile, "Not right for each other? Funny, that's not what you said last night in bed. Want me to remind you how wrong you are?"
8.2
Denice Copeland's son was dying of leukemia, and his only hope for survival was a savior sibling.
But the wealthy Montgomery family offered a cruel ultimatum. To get the experimental treatments her son desperately needed, Denice had to conceive a child naturally with Jasper Montgomery—her dead husband's cold, estranged twin brother.
Jasper treated the arrangement like a clinical transaction, taking her body without a shred of tenderness and threatening to cut her son's medical care if she disobeyed. The ultimate betrayal happened when Denice collapsed from exhaustion at his hospital. Jasper's glamorous partner, Kira, suddenly appeared and took control of Denice's dying son. Kira made the little boy call her "Mommy" and ordered security to throw Denice out.
"I don't know you. I've never seen you before in my life."
Jasper stood between Denice and her own son, coldly defending the woman who had stolen her child.
Denice was completely shattered. She finally understood she had never been anything but a cheap stand-in for Kira, a convenient breeding vessel for the Montgomery bloodline. Stripped of her dignity, her past love, and now her only child, her mind violently fractured in her freezing, mildew-stained apartment.
Abandoning the last shred of her pride, she sent Jasper one final, desperate text.
"Tonight. I'm ovulating. Come."
Then, she stepped fully clothed into a scalding shower to drown herself, forcing the man who destroyed her to finally face the wreckage he had made.
9.4
I was bleeding out on the cold ER table, my body failing, while the hospital’s blood bank sat empty.
My husband, Clayton, stood just outside the glass doors, watching me die with the terrifying indifference of a man deciding on dinner.
When the doctor begged him to sign the transfusion consent form to save my life, he didn't hesitate. He took the pen, slashed his signature across the Refusal of Treatment form, and turned his back on me to answer a call from the woman he truly loved.
As my heart monitor flatlined into a long, piercing scream, I watched him walk away to comfort his mistress over a thunderstorm, leaving his legal wife to rot in a body bag.
I was nothing to him—a vicious, disposable obstacle in his perfect world—and he ensured I left with absolutely nothing, freezing my accounts and cutting off my life.
But he made one fatal mistake: he left me alive.
I survived, and as I lay in the dark, the pathetic flame of my love for him snapped and died, replaced by a cold, broken promise.
If I survived this night, I would make sure he bled for every second of the hell he put me through.
I ripped the IV from my arm, stood up on my prosthetic leg, and walked out to start my war.