The Disgraced Heiress's Deal With The Devil

The dimly lit VIP alcove of the Pierre Hotel's second-floor restaurant reeked of rich food and the nauseating aura of old money.

Francisca Jennings sat rigidly on the edge of the plush dining chair, her fingernails digging into her palms so hard they nearly drew blood. Her own father had lied to her. He had tearfully begged her to attend a blind date with a "young, promising investor" to save their bankrupt family company.

But there was no young investor. Sitting across the table was Silas Thorne—a notorious, perverted billionaire in his sixties.

"Your father really delivered this time... so young, so untouched," Silas murmured, taking a slow sip of his wine. His cloudy eyes fixed on her chest with a damp, sickeningly lecherous gaze. "Fifty million to buy you. I'm very satisfied with this deal. From now on, you belong to me. As long as you're a good girl and keep me happy, you'll have whatever you want."

Francisca’s stomach churned with violent disgust. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gagging. She needed the fifty million investment to keep her younger brother out of prison. Her father had thrown her to the wolves, and this disgusting old pig was the only one holding the leash. She had to endure this. Just for a little while.

"Mr. Thorne, my father sent me here to discuss the business proposal—"

"Oh, we can discuss business in bed," Silas smirked, his wrinkled face squeezing together in a display of pure, greasy entitlement. "Why hide it? Your father took my money, which means every inch of you is mine."

He casually slid his smartphone across the table, his cloudy eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "Still thinking he'll use that money to save your brother? Look. Your stepsister just posted from her first-class flight to Paris, flaunting a new diamond necklace. He sold you to fund her luxury vacation, and threw a pathetic few grand at a public defender to let your brother rot."

A visceral, agonizing betrayal ripped through Francisca's chest. Before she could even process the cruel truth, Silas suddenly reached across the table, his damp, age-spotted hand grabbing her bare thigh. "Let me test the merchandise first.

The sheer revulsion overrode her restraint. Francisca violently jerked back, dodging his filthy touch, and stood up. "Please show some respect, Mr. Thorne!"

Silas’s hand grabbed empty air. A flash of dark, vicious anger twisted his face, but a second later, he let out a cold, sleazy chuckle. He leaned back, pouring a glass of red wine and pushing it toward her.

"Stubborn. I like that," he sneered smoothly, tossing a pen onto the table. "Fine. Drink to our deal, and I'll sign the fifty million check right now. Be a good girl, and I promise I’ll be gentle with you tonight."

Desperate to stall for time and just get this over with, Francisca picked up the glass. She took a small swallow, planning to find an excuse to leave immediately after.

But less than a minute later, a terrifying, unnatural heat exploded in her stomach. Her breath hitched. A heavy, melting weakness spread rapidly through her limbs, turning her bones to jelly, and her vision began to violently blur.

He drugged the wine!

Panic and absolute despair crashed over her like a tidal wave. "I... I need to use the restroom," she choked out, her legs trembling so badly she nearly knocked over her chair. Before the old man could react, she turned and stumbled frantically out of the alcove, rushing into the restaurant's second-floor washroom and locking the heavy door behind her.

She slammed her hands on the marble sink, splashing ice-cold water onto her face. But it was useless. The drug was moving too fast, turning her blood into molten lava and stripping away her rationality.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A heavy thud rattled the door.

"Stop wasting your energy, Francisca!" Silas’s voice came from the other side, completely stripped of its polite facade, dripping with vile lust. "The drug is already kicking in! Your father took my money, which makes you the bitch I bought! Open the damn door, strip naked, and beg for it! If I have to break this door down, I won't be so gentle!"

Hearing his nauseating voice, Francisca gagged, tears of humiliation and fierce fury stinging her eyes. I would rather die than let that disgusting pig touch me!

Her bloodshot eyes darted wildly and landed on the narrow ventilation window high above the sink. She remembered the restaurant was only on the second floor. If she climbed out and dropped to the first floor, she might break a leg, but that was a thousand times better than being defiled by that monster.

She kicked off her heels and, fueled by pure adrenaline, hauled herself up. The freezing autumn wind of New York slashed at her bare skin, a brutal contrast to the fire burning inside her. She squeezed through the window, hanging precariously onto the exterior drainage pipe.

Her limbs were failing her, but she slid down the rough metal pipe desperately, her bare feet frantically seeking purchase, until she found an open window just a few feet below on the first floor.

She swung herself inside, crashing heavily onto the cold tiled floor.

Gasping for air, she looked up—and her breath caught in her throat.

It was the men's washroom on the ground floor. And standing just a few feet away by the sinks was a man.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, radiating an aura of absolute, terrifying power. Dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit that screamed untouchable wealth, he had just finished washing his hands and was slowly, methodically adjusting his platinum cuffs.

Hearing the sudden crash, the man turned his head.

Francisca's mind went completely blank. He was devastatingly handsome, with features carved from cold marble and eyes as black as an endless abyss. But it wasn't his looks that paralyzed her; it was the sheer, suffocating pressure he emitted. He looked like a ruthless apex predator whose domain had just been breached.

"She jumped out the window! Find her! Don't let her escape!" Silas’s furious roar echoed faintly from the floor above.

Startled by the shout, Francisca tried to scramble to her feet, but the drug had completely destroyed her balance. Her legs gave out entirely, and she pitched forward, crashing directly into the stranger’s chest.

Everet Adams’s eyes darkened with instant, lethal intent. He had severe mysophobia. Physical contact with strangers disgusted him to the point of murder. He raised a large, calloused hand, fully prepared to grab this reckless woman by the throat and snap her neck.

But the moment his long fingers brushed against her burning skin, Everet froze.

For months, he had been tormented by a severe neurological condition—a constant, maddening static in his brain that kept him awake, turning him into a violent, cold-blooded monster. No doctor could cure it. But now, as this woman’s soft, feverish body pressed against his chest... the excruciating noise vanished.

Absolute, pristine silence washed over his mind.

Francisca was losing her mind to the drug. The man’s body was as cold and hard as a statue, providing a desperate relief to her burning fire. She couldn't control herself. She whimpered painfully, her delicate hands instinctively grabbing his expensive silk tie. Driven by the unbearable heat, she tugged at it, her hot, trembling lips accidentally brushing against his Adam's apple. "Please... help me... it hurts so much..."

Everet’s breath hitched. His abyss-like eyes instantly darkened into a dangerous, stormy black. Instead of pushing her away, his large hand slid down to her slender waist, gripping her with a bruising, terrifyingly possessive force.

Holding her tightly against his chest, Everet turned and stepped out of the washroom.

Just as he walked into the quiet corridor, Liam, his head of security, hurried over. "Mr. Adams, the board members are—"

Liam stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw dropping in absolute shock. His boss—the ruthless, untouchable Everet Adams, the "Living Hades" of Wall Street who treated women like walking diseases—was holding a half-undressed, flushed woman tightly in his arms right in the middle of the hallway. And the woman was tearing at his custom-made shirt!

Everet didn't even spare his subordinate a glance. He effortlessly adjusted his grip, pressing Francisca's squirming, burning body flush against his chest.

"Cancel all meetings." Everet commanded, his voice a low, freezing baritone that brooked no argument.

He looked down at the woman whimpering and writhing in his arms. A dark, predatory fire ignited in his cold eyes as he pinched her chin, his thumb tracing her swollen lower lip.

"You crashed into my hell, little bird," he whispered, his voice dripping with dangerous possession. "Don't even think about begging for mercy tonight."