Bound To The Devil From My Past

Ashlie's fingers dug into the leather of her designer clutch, the dampness of her palms making the material slip. The concrete steps of the New York City Clerk's office were cold, radiating a chill straight through the soles of her shoes, but the sweat on her neck felt hot and sticky. She stared at the heavy wooden doors, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Just go in. Sign the paper. Get it over with.

The voice in her head sounded desperate, even to herself. She forced herself to breathe, the air tasting like exhaust fumes and impending rain. She pulled her phone from her bag, the screen blinding in the gray afternoon light. A text from her father sat there, unanswered.

Ashlie, I'm sorry. But he promised to save the company. This is our only chance.

She could picture Warren Bradford sitting in his empty office, his face drawn, his hair seemingly whiter than it had been just a week ago. The great Bradford Group, built over generations, reduced to a begging bowl. And she was the price.

She locked the phone and shoved it back into her bag. Running away wasn't an option. If she ran, the creditors would circle by midnight. Her family would be ruined. She was the sacrifice, and the altar was right here.

A sleek, black Bentley Mulsanne glided to the curb, its engine a silent purr. It looked absurdly expensive against the grimy street, a shark swimming in a koi pond. Every head on the sidewalk turned.

Ashlie's stomach dropped. Her breath hitched, a sudden, sharp restriction in her chest.

The driver stepped out, crisp and efficient, and pulled open the rear door.

First, a shoe hit the pavement. A polished John Lobb oxford, so shiny it reflected the gray sky. The cost of that single shoe could cover a month's rent on her studio space.

Then, a leg. Tailored trousers draped perfectly over a long, muscular frame. The man unfolded himself from the back seat, rising to his full height. He was tall, his shoulders broad, filling out that obscenely expensive suit like it was armor.

Ashlie squinted against the glare. The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, silhouetting him, turning him into a dark, faceless shape. She couldn't see his features, but she could feel the weight of his gaze. It hit her like a physical force, pinning her to the spot.

He moved forward, each step measured, deliberate. The sunlight shifted, finally catching his face.

Ashlie's lungs forgot how to work.

The face was sharp, all hard angles and arrogant lines. A jaw that looked like it had been carved from granite. Cheekbones that could cut glass. But the eyes... the eyes were the color of a frozen lake, and just as warm.

No.

Her mind screamed, a sudden, violent rejection of reality. She knew that face. She would know it anywhere, even fourteen years later. She had spent her childhood tormenting the boy who wore it.

Ellsworth Marshall.

The 'Glass Prince.' The sickly, pale kid she and her friends had cornered in the schoolyard, the one they had pushed around just because they could. The boy who coughed, who stumbled, who looked at her with those same eyes-only back then, they had been filled with pain, not this... this icy domination.

He stopped a few feet away from her. A smirk, slow and razor-sharp, curved his lips. It was a look of pure, unadulterated triumph.

"Long time no see, Ashlie Bradford." His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the space between them. "Or, I suppose I should be calling you... Mrs. Marshall, very soon."

The world tilted. Ashlie gripped the iron railing beside the steps, her knuckles turning white. This wasn't a rescue. This wasn't a business deal. This was a trap, and she had walked right into it.

She opened her mouth, a question or a protest fighting to get out, but her throat was sealed shut. She could only stare, her eyes wide with a horror she couldn't hide.

Ellsworth watched her struggle, his gaze sweeping over her face like a searchlight. He was enjoying this. He was savoring her shock.

He lifted his wrist, checking a Patek Philippe watch that probably cost more than her father's remaining shares. His expression hardened, the amusement vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

"Our appointment is in five minutes," he said, his tone clipped. "Let's go."

He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned on his heel and strode toward the entrance, his long legs eating up the distance. He didn't look back to see if she was following. He expected her to.

Ashlie stood frozen, her legs feeling like they were filled with wet sand. The reality of her situation crashed over her, cold and suffocating. She was about to marry the devil from her past.

Her phone buzzed again. She didn't need to look to know it was her father.

Is he there? Ashlie, please.

The plea was a bucket of ice water. She had no choice. She had never had a choice.

She forced her legs to move, climbing the steps one by one, following the man who held her family's life in his hands.

Inside, the air conditioning was brutal, raising goosebumps on her bare arms. The waiting room was fluorescent and bureaucratic, a sterile environment for ending lives.

Ellsworth was already seated, his posture immaculate. He held a financial magazine in his hands, his eyes scanning the pages. He didn't look up as she approached. He didn't acknowledge her existence. It was as if she were a piece of furniture, a necessary but uninteresting detail.

That silence, that complete dismissal, stung worse than his smirk. It was a reminder of her place. She was nothing but a pawn.

Ashlie sat down two chairs away, her body rigid. She stared at the faded pattern on the carpet, counting the threads to keep from screaming.

"Number 84."

The clerk's voice cut through the hum of the room. Ashlie flinched.

Ellsworth snapped the magazine shut. He stood, smoothing a hand down his tie. Finally, he turned his head to look at her.

His eyes were flat, devoid of any warmth. But there was a command in them, a silent order that brooked no argument.

It was time.

"Your performance," his look seemed to say, "starts now."