Chapter Four: The Devil Himself
1126 Words
“You’re joking.”
I blink a few times. This is unreal.
Imagine the most untouchable celebrity you can think of—Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg. Now combine that with a luxury designer. Jimmy Choo, Tom Ford, Alexander Wang. Whoever.
Now imagine them in your car.
Jack Valentine tilts his head, giving me a long, assessing look. His eyes flick to my shoeless feet and back up to my face. If I were his assistant, I’d have been fired by now.
That thought jolts a humorless laugh out of me. My fingers inch toward the door handle, but my feet throb, and the thought of walking makes my stomach turn.
“Do you honestly believe that?” His voice is low, almost dangerous.
Before I can respond, his finger brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through me. His eyes—biting, brilliant blue—lock onto mine, and I’m forced to look away.
“Do you think I’m the kind of man who... jokes?”
The way he says it is venomous, like the word itself is beneath him.
Keep it together. My eyes drop to my nails—fresh pink, perfect as ever. At least I can count on that.
“I mean, obviously. Fiancé? That’s insane.” It takes everything I have to keep my voice steady.
“Look at me when you’re talking to me.”
I shouldn’t. If it were anyone else, I’d keep staring at my nails like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. But it’s him. One of the most powerful men in the world. And he just gave me an order.
My breath catches as I meet his gaze again. His cologne wraps around me, dark and intoxicating. My body betrays me. My thighs squeeze together, heat flooding my face.
“I’m looking. So what?”
He pulls out his phone with a graceful motion, holding it out but not offering it to me. It’s more like he’s taunting me with it.
I would be offended, but the glowing screen draws my attention immediately.
My mouth drops open—something I’m usually very careful to avoid in front of a man.
The headline reads: Fashion Mogul Jack Valentine Confirms Engagement to Rising Model BeBe Sinclair.
The article was posted an hour ago and already has over a thousand comments.
A barking laugh escapes me. “Come on, Valentine. Companies pull these PR stunts all the time. What’s the difference?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes trace my collarbone, lingering before sliding back up to my face. I can’t tell if he’s angry. He’s too powerful for that. Anger would be beneath him.
His silence unnerves me. He could crush me like an ant. He designs dresses for the president’s daughters, for God’s sake.
He leans closer. Too close.
My brain spirals. When was the last time I had s*x? Good s*x? Where I wasn’t staring at the clock over someone’s bony shoulder?
I hate my brain.
His breath, warm and laced with whiskey and citrus, fans over my cheek. Deep, smooth, and full of trouble—the kind that ruins good girls.
“Go ahead,” he says softly. “Tell them it’s fake. See how that plays out for you.”
It feels like ice water has been poured over me.
My voice is stuck in my throat, but he’s not done.
“Look at the comments.” His finger flicks lazily across the screen, scrolling through the article. It’s a farce, barely a hundred words long, ending with links to my i********:.
I’ve never been bothered by my lingerie shots being public—every model has them. But seeing them here, attached to this?
The comments blur in my vision. Heart-eyes. “Congrats!” Gold digger. Stunt.
My stomach churns. I suddenly crave salty fries and a Coke.
“I’ll just do an interview,” I say finally. “Clear it up.”
He smirks. I’m so tired of people smirking at me. Worse, it looks infuriatingly good on him. His smirk is wicked, sexy. The kind that could tempt angels to sin.
“Oh? And how will that go? Will you tell them you had a meltdown and threw an heirloom ring on my hand for fun?”
He noticed the ring.
For a moment, pride flares that he recognized it as special. But it’s quickly snuffed out by the overwhelming mess I’ve made. My hands won’t stop shaking, my throat stings, and I have no idea how to escape this.
I grab the door handle again. My legs ache, but I’d rather crawl home than stay in this car.
Click.
The door locks with a whisper-quiet finality.
Jack leans over me, his shoulder brushing against my chest. His hand lingers on the lock. He’s close enough that the heat of his body seeps through his suit jacket, overwhelming me.
His chin tilts toward mine, his fingers warm as they gently catch my jaw. The ring I shoved onto his hand gleams faintly in the dim light.
My mouth falls open weakly.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“H-home,” I stammer.
Boss bitches don’t stammer.
I should push him away. I should look anywhere but at those eyes, but I can’t. Flames lick deep in my stomach, and my hands suddenly feel too hot.
He exhales a soft laugh, his breath curling over me like smoke. “Careful. Keep stammering like that, and I might start thinking you like this.”
All the blood drains from my face.
“When was the last time you had good s*x, Sinclair?” he asks, his voice a dangerous purr. “Because you keep staring at my mouth. Are you waiting for me to kiss you, or are you afraid I will?”
His thumb brushes my lower lip, slow and testing. My breath stutters. I should bite him, slap him—something—but I sit there, trembling like an i***t.
He watches me closely, his smirk deepening. Dangerous. Devastating.
“You really think you can just walk away from me?”
Fries. A Coke. A hot shower. My dog. Those are the only things I need right now. I cling to them like a lifeline.
“Yes,” I manage to say, curtly. “Of course.”
You are BeBe Sinclair. You show weakness for no man.
The silence stretches, his gaze dipping briefly to where my thighs are pressed tightly together. My hands clench into fists as I focus on my nails.
“You keep looking at my mouth,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Tell me, Sinclair. Why did your thighs just clench?”
- Writer
