The Disgraced Heiress's Deal With The Devil

Everet carried her into the penthouse suite and dropped her onto the center of the king-sized mattress. The movement was ungentle, driven by a raw, suppressed urgency.

On the bed, Francisca let out an agonizing whimper. Her hands frantically clawed at the neckline of her ruined evening gown, the expensive fabric now feeling like a suffocating layer of fire. The drug had completely hijacked her nervous system, turning her blood into a boiling, agonizing ache.

Everet stood by the bed, staring down at her. His severe mysophobia screamed at him to step back, to sanitize his hands, to throw this stranger out. But the moment he created distance between them, the excruciating, maddening static in his brain—the noise that had been driving him to the brink of insanity for months—threatened to return.

Francisca rolled over, her tear-soaked lashes fluttering blindly. Driven by pure, chemical desperation, her hand reached out into the empty air until her fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist.

A shockwave of profound, intoxicating silence instantly surged through Everet's system. The agonizing noise in his head vanished, leaving behind a pristine, heavenly quiet.

He stared at the small, trembling hand gripping his wrist. His abyssal eyes darkened into something utterly predatory.

Francisca pulled herself up, her rationality completely shattered. She didn't know who he was; she only knew his icy skin was the only thing keeping her from burning alive. She pressed her hot, trembling lips against his throat, her tears wetting his collar. "Please..." she sobbed, her voice broken. "Save me... please..."

"I'm no savior, little bird," Everet murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against her lips. His large hand grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her to look up into his dangerous, storm-black eyes. "I'm the devil you just summoned. And there is no going back."

He flipped her over, effortlessly pinning her wrists to the silk sheets.

Outside, a violent thunderstorm broke, lightning flashing across the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the only sounds were desperate, ragged breaths and the harsh tearing of silk.

Francisca floated in a chaotic sea of sensation. The drug blurred the lines between agony and terrifying pleasure. She clung to the terrifying stranger above her, her nails instinctively digging into the hard muscles of his back, feeling the rough texture of old scar tissue. She was drowning, and he was the only driftwood in the storm.

When the storm finally subsided, Everet fell asleep holding her. For the first time in six excruciating months, he didn't need a handful of heavy sedatives. He just slept, deeply and peacefully.

Morning light sliced through the heavy blackout curtains.

Francisca woke up with a sharp gasp. A brutal headache hammered at her skull, but it was nothing compared to the crushing soreness of her body. Memories of the night before crashed into her mind like shattered glass—the old pervert, the drugged wine, the window, the fall, and... the man.

She turned her head stiffly. The stranger was still asleep next to her. Even in slumber, his chiseled, marble-like features radiated a terrifying, untouchable dominance. His heavy, muscular arm was draped across her waist, pinning her down in a possessive lock.

Panic seized her throat, suffocating her. What have I done? She had escaped Silas Thorne, only to trade her innocence to a complete stranger. Her own flesh and blood had sold her to an old monster just to fund her stepsister's lavish life, and now she was lying in a stranger's bed, completely ruined. If this man woke up, what would he do? What if he was connected to Silas? The media would tear her apart. The Bankrupt Jennings Heiress Sells Herself.

Holding her breath, Francisca carefully, millimeter by millimeter, lifted his heavy arm. He didn't stir.

She slid out of bed, her bare feet hitting the plush carpet. She looked around frantically. Her evening gown lay in shredded, unsalvageable tatters on the floor.

She rushed to the massive walk-in closet. Rows of identical, bespoke white shirts hung impeccably. She grabbed one and hastily pulled it on. The expensive fabric swallowed her delicate frame, hitting her mid-thigh.

As she turned to leave, her eyes caught something on the nightstand—a platinum money clip resting next to a million-dollar Patek Philippe watch. Engraved on the clip was a solitary, sharp letter: A.

Combined with the terrifying aura of the man, a horrific realization struck her. Everet Adams. The "Living Hades" of Wall Street. A man known for destroying entire bloodlines before breakfast.

Francisca flinched, her blood running cold. She had to get out of here. Now.

She checked her pockets. Empty. No cash, no ID. Just a tube of lipstick that had miraculously survived the chaos.

She grabbed a notepad from the hotel stationery set. With violently shaking hands, she scribbled: I'm sorry. I was drugged. She hesitated, then added a string of numbers—her burner phone. I will find a way to compensate you.

Shoes in hand, she crept out of the bedroom, her heart pounding violently against her ribs.

Just as she slipped out the front door of the suite and sprinted down the hallway, the elevator dinged. Liam Vance, the head of security, stepped out holding a classified dossier. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman wearing his boss's shirt disappearing around the corner.

He quickly swiped his keycard and entered the suite, walking straight into the bedroom.

The bed was a chaotic wreck. Everet was already sitting up, his muscular chest bare, his dark eyes staring fixedly at the empty spot beside him. The pristine silence in his head was gone, replaced by the faint, returning buzz of static.

His "cure" had run away.

He picked up the note. He read the trembling handwriting, his expression unreadable.

"Boss," Liam said, swallowing hard, his voice carefully neutral. "I ran the background check on the incident downstairs last night. Silas Thorne was tearing the hotel apart looking for a woman he drugged. The woman who just ran out... that was Francisca Jennings."

Everet stared at the crumpled paper. Slowly, a dark, chillingly possessive smirk touched his lips.

"Francisca Jennings," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the ink. He slowly crushed the paper in his fist, his voice dropping to a freezing, absolute command. "Find out why she was drugged. And kill the hotel security footage. Now."