Cruel Devotion

Part 1: Her Last Dollar

The coffee was cold, the cup half-empty, and Ivy didn't have the nerve to ask for a refill.

She dragged her chipped nail along the lip of the ceramic mug, head down, hoping the barista wouldn't come around again. She'd already been asked-twice-if she needed anything else. Translation: Buy something or get out.

She couldn't. Not with exactly $4.12 in her checking account and nothing in her wallet but lint and a maxed-out student ID from a college she didn't even attend anymore.

Outside, the clouds rolled like bruises over the skyline. Inside, the café's warm chatter swirled around her-a low buzz of people who still had jobs, plans, apartments. Futures. Ivy clutched the mug tighter, as if it were the only thing anchoring her to this version of the world.

"Excuse me," a voice said, smooth and sharp as glass.

Ivy glanced up-and blinked.

The woman standing beside her table didn't belong here. Not in this beat-up coffee shop two blocks from a homeless shelter and one down from a liquor store with bars on the windows. She wore winter-white heels and a blazer so structured it could have been armor. Blonde hair pulled back in a sleek twist. Lipstick the color of fresh blood.

"I need this table," the woman said.

Ivy started to gather her things, cheeks burning. "Yeah, sorry, I was just-"

"For you," the woman added, sitting down across from her before Ivy could stand. "I need this table. With you in it."

"...What?"

The woman placed a leather folder between them with deliberate care. Then she folded her hands over it, studying Ivy the way people studied stock reports or security footage.

"You're Ivy Taylor, correct? Former NYU. Dropped out spring semester, citing financial hardship. Age twenty-one. Parents: deceased. No siblings. No stable address. Currently sleeping in an illegally sublet room off Delancey. Yes?"

Ivy's mouth opened and closed. "Who the hell are you?"

The woman's smile didn't reach her eyes.

"My name is Celeste Vale. I work in high-end image management for exclusive clientele." She tapped the folder once. "And I have an offer that could solve all your problems."

Ivy leaned back slowly, heart pounding. "Are you trying to-look, if this is some kind of sugar baby-"

"It's not," Celeste said crisply. "You won't be expected to sleep with anyone. You will, however, be expected to lie."

Silence fell like a dropped curtain between them.

"I think you have the wrong person," Ivy said, voice tighter than she wanted.

"No," Celeste said. "I have exactly the right one."

She pushed the folder toward her. Ivy didn't open it.

Instead, she stared at the woman, searching for a catch. There was always a catch. Pretty girls don't get plucked out of rock-bottom for no reason.

Celeste arched a brow. "You'll want to read what's inside."

Ivy didn't move.

But her hand-it betrayed her, reaching out anyway.

---

Part 2: The Offer

Her fingers brushed the edge of the folder.

It was smooth. Expensive. Black leather with gold trim, like something from a corporate boardroom Ivy would never be allowed into. She pulled it toward her and flipped it open, slow as a bad decision.

Inside: a single page.

Non-Disclosure Agreement.

She blinked. Then laughed under her breath. "Right. This is the part where I sign my soul away."

"No," Celeste said calmly, sliding a Montblanc pen across the table. "This is the part where you decide if you're interested in hearing a number that could change your life."

Ivy didn't pick up the pen. She looked Celeste dead in the eye. "Is this a modeling thing? Escorting? Some kind of cult?"

Celeste smiled, barely. "No, no, and... not exactly."

"Try again."

"You'll be playing the role of a fiancée."

Ivy stared. "Excuse me?"

"Public appearances. Social events. Occasional travel. Your job is to be devoted, charming, photogenic, and silent."

Ivy's stomach turned. "So, I was right. This is just-rich man rents a pretty girl for show."

Celeste arched a brow. "Do you see another rich man sitting here?"

Ivy hesitated. "So it's not for you?"

"I'm happily married," she replied with the kind of chill that made it clear: not to a man who needs pretending. "The client is someone else."

"And he wants a fake girlfriend."

"A fake fiancée," Celeste corrected, as if that made all the difference. "For exactly one year."

Ivy laughed again. This time it had a bitter edge. "I think you're confused. I don't play house. I'm not... whatever this is."

"You're desperate," Celeste said plainly. "You're smart, adaptable, attractive in a way that reads well to cameras, and most importantly-you have no one. No ties. No trail. That makes you perfect."

Ivy's chest tightened.

Celeste pulled another sheet from the folder and slid it over.

This one had a number on it.

Six zeroes.

And before that: a one.

Ivy blinked. "That's a joke."

"It's not."

"That's-" she choked out, "-more than most people make in ten years."

"Correct. And you'll make it in one."

Ivy stared at the paper. She couldn't help it. The number seared itself into her brain.

"Why would anyone pay that much for a lie?" she asked.

"Because for him, appearances are worth more than truth."

Ivy leaned back, crossing her arms. "Who is he?"

"You'll meet him today, if you sign the NDA."

Ivy looked down at the paper again. Her throat was dry.

"Let me guess," she said, voice sharp. "No touching. No sex. Just pretend to love a stranger while he waves me around like a trophy."

Celeste's smile curved like a blade. "He doesn't want love. He wants control. You'll give him the illusion of both."

"And if I say no?"

"You walk away," she said. "And go back to stretching four dollars across four days."

Ivy's hand clenched.

Celeste didn't push. She just sat there, serene, the pen gleaming in the low light between them.

Ivy took it.

She signed.

---

Part 3: Meet the Devil

Ivy's signature was still wet when Celeste stood.

"Come with me."

No small talk. No chance to change her mind.

Ivy followed, her breath shallow as they stepped out into the gray city light. A sleek black car idled at the curb. No driver in sight-just a man in a suit holding the rear door open like he'd been waiting for her all day.

She slid in after Celeste, the leather seat swallowing her up. The doors shut with a gentle, final thunk.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To meet the man who now owns a year of your life."

The car pulled away.

Ivy stared out the tinted window, streets blurring past like the edges of a dream she couldn't wake from. When they stopped, it was outside a hotel she'd only seen in movies-the kind with gold lettering, bellboys in gloves, and doors that hissed open like magic.

They didn't stop at the lobby.

They went up. And up. All the way to the top.

Celeste led the way down a velvet-lined hallway and stopped in front of a door with no number.

She knocked once. Then opened it.

Ivy stepped inside.

The suite was minimalist, cold, and huge. Steel and stone and midnight-black glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city like a throne room in the sky.

And in the center of it-like he'd been placed there for effect-stood a man.

Tall. Still. Silent.

His suit was black-on-black, no tie, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a flash of throat. His posture said predator in repose. His eyes-

They were the only thing not cold. They burned.

Knox Soren didn't smile. Didn't speak.

He just looked at her.

And Ivy felt her spine straighten without meaning to.

Celeste cleared her throat. "This is Ivy Taylor."

Knox said nothing.

"She's agreed to the NDA."

Still nothing.

The silence stretched. Ivy shifted her weight. "Do I... say something, or-?"

"You'll be living with him," Celeste said crisply. "Attending social functions. You'll need to look convincing."

Ivy turned to Knox. "And what do you need?"

Finally, he spoke.

His voice was low. Polished, but with something dangerous underneath-like velvet covering a loaded gun.

"I need someone who knows how to lie without blinking."

Ivy stared back. "And you think that's me?"

He stepped closer.

Not fast. Just enough to make the air between them tighten.

"I think you've lied your whole life," he said. "To survive."

Her pulse spiked.

"And if I'm bad at pretending?" she asked.

He studied her for a long, slow second.

Then: "You won't be."

Ivy's mouth opened. Closed.

Knox tilted his head, voice dropping lower.

"Can you pretend to be mine?"

She swallowed.

"...Yes."

That was all he said. No welcome. No handshake.

He just turned, walked away, and disappeared into the other room.

Celeste placed a contract on the table and looked at Ivy. "That was the easy part."

---

Part 4: Terms of Surrender

The door clicked shut behind Knox.

Ivy was still standing, heart kicking like it didn't know how to stop. The silence he left behind felt thick, charged, like he'd filled the room with something that didn't leave just because he did.

Celeste calmly took a seat at the black marble table.

The contract lay in front of her, thick and heavy, pages fanned out like a dare.

"Sit," she said, like a teacher with no patience left.

Ivy did. Slowly.

Celeste turned the first page with a practiced flick. "You'll want to listen carefully."

"I'm listening."

"One year. Non-negotiable. Starting immediately."

Ivy nodded.

"You'll live with him, attend events as needed, maintain the appearance of an engaged couple. No deviation. No alternate relationships. Public affection may be required. In private, you'll keep your distance unless instructed otherwise."

Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Instructed?"

Celeste didn't flinch. "Knox is... meticulous."

"That's a creepy word for controlling."

Celeste tilted her head. "He doesn't pretend to be anything else."

Ivy looked down at the contract. "Is this even legal?"

"Every clause has been vetted by five lawyers. You can take it with you to review. But if you delay more than twenty-four hours, the offer's rescinded."

"And what's the pay?"

Celeste flipped to a page and tapped.

Ivy's eyes widened.

$83,333 per month.

She couldn't even picture that in her bank account. It didn't feel real.

"You'll also receive housing, full medical coverage, private security, a lifestyle stipend, and a nondisclosure penalty clause."

"What's the penalty?"

Celeste's voice stayed calm. "You don't want to know."

Ivy frowned. "Is that supposed to scare me?"

"No," she said. "It's supposed to warn you."

Ivy hesitated. "Why me?"

Celeste closed the folder. "Because Knox doesn't want someone from his world. He wants someone no one will expect. No ties, no risk, no leaks. You're a ghost, Ivy. And that makes you perfect."

Ivy leaned back, biting her lip. "What happens if I break the contract?"

Celeste stood.

And smiled.

"Don't."

---

Part 5: One Signature

Ivy stared at the contract like it might bite her.

It sat between them, thick as a Bible, and just as damning.

"Do I get a copy?" she asked, mostly to fill the silence.

Celeste was already pulling out a slim leather binder from her bag. "This is yours. Full contract, digital access, legal hotline. Don't lose it."

Ivy thumbed through the first few pages. The text was dense, airtight. So many clauses. So many rules. And her name printed in bold, black ink at the top of every one.

Ivy L. Taylor.

Party B: Temporary Fiancée.

She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.

"This is insane," she muttered.

"Yes," Celeste agreed. "And yet here you are."

Ivy looked at her. "Do you do this often?"

"Only when he asks," she said. "And he doesn't ask often."

Ivy hesitated. "Has he done this before?"

Celeste's eyes gave nothing away. "Not like this."

A beat passed.

Then Ivy set the contract down, exhaled through her nose, and leaned forward.

"Fine," she said. "Give me the pen."

Celeste offered it with the air of someone passing a knife.

Ivy signed.

Once.

Twice.

Initialed.

Dated.

When she was done, the room felt different-like the walls were leaning in. Like the air had thickened.

Celeste gently took the signed contract and placed it into her briefcase. Clicked it shut.

Then she pulled out a sleek black phone and slid it across the table. "This is your new number. Knox will be the only one who calls."

A black card followed. "Unlimited expense account. Use discretion."

Then a key. Small. Metal. Sharp.

"What's this for?" Ivy asked.

"His house," Celeste said. "You live with him now."

---

Part 6: Into the Cage

Ivy gripped the key tighter than she meant to.

It felt heavier than it should. Like it unlocked more than just a door.

Celeste stood and smoothed her blazer. "He'll expect you tonight."

"Tonight?" Ivy blinked. "I thought I'd have time to-"

"You'll be given one hour to pack your things," Celeste interrupted. "A driver will meet you outside your apartment. Bring only what you need. Everything else will be replaced."

Ivy didn't move.

Celeste's tone softened. Just slightly.

"Ivy. If you want out, this is your last window."

Ivy looked down at the key in her palm.

She thought of her sublet-if you could call it that. A mattress on the floor. One chair. A cracked bathroom mirror. She thought of waking up hungry, of dodging rent texts, of watching other girls walk into lives she'd never touch.

She looked up.

"I'll go."

Celeste nodded once. "Good."

---

An hour later, Ivy sat in the back of the same black car, her single duffel bag tucked beside her, heart pounding hard enough to bruise bone. The city rolled by in fading twilight, until the buildings thinned out and glass gave way to stone and trees and silence.

They drove up a steep private road.

At the top: a fortress.

The house looked carved out of the cliffside. All glass, steel, and shadow. Not a single light on. It stared down over the city like it didn't need to blink.

The car stopped.

The driver didn't open her door.

Ivy stepped out alone.

The front door opened before she even knocked.

A man in a dark suit stood there, older, stiff-backed, impassive.

"Ms. Taylor," he said with a nod. "Mr. Soren is expecting you. I'll take your bag."

He didn't wait for her permission.

She stepped inside.

The interior was worse-beautiful, yes, but cold in a way that felt deliberate. Marble floors. Black and gray everything. No art, no warmth, no signs of life. Only the quiet hum of power beneath the walls.

A staircase curved up like a question mark.

"Your room is on the second floor," the man said. "Follow me."

She did, her footsteps too loud on the smooth floor.

At the top, he opened a door and stepped aside.

The room inside was enormous. Larger than her entire apartment. The bed looked like it had never been touched. The walls were bare. Everything smelled faintly of new linen and money.

"Mr. Soren will speak with you tomorrow," the man said. "You may order food through the tablet on the desk. Security monitors are in place for your safety."

Ivy turned. "Security monitors?"

But the man was already gone.

She stepped into the room, bag still in hand. The door shut behind her with a hiss.

Silence wrapped around her.

Then-click.

She turned.

A small red light blinked above the doorframe. Barely visible.

A camera.

Watching.

And just beyond the door, she thought she saw a shadow move in the hallway. Tall. Still.

Watching back.

---