THE DEMON'S BARGAIN

DARLA’S POV I should’ve known from the moment the ‘plumber’ was texting him at 3 a.m. But when you’re married to a man like Charles Carmichael—sweet-talking devil, dirty grins, and diamonds on a platter—one little lie and a kiss is all it takes to fry your brain cells until you’re exactly where he needs you: stupid, ignorant, and, dare I say, in love. Like I’ve been for the five years of our marriage. The High Society magazines have been kind enough to call us "a picture of perfection"—the golden couple of old money and new legacies. But when they’re unkind, they don’t hold back, always quick to brand me as the charity case who was saved by her knight in shining Armani. The gold-digging housewife. The Carmichaels’ pity bride. The small-town nobody. My mother used to say the insults were a small price to pay for being a Carmichael now. They were, after all, this town’s royalty—Carmichael & Co., with their name stamped on half the city’s real estate. But lately, I’ve often found myself wondering what other 'small prices' I had unknowingly paid for an entry into this gilded hell. When Charles asked me to quit my dreams of photography two weeks before our marriage, I thought he was crazy. I was ready to fight him tooth and nail, to move the heavens and hell if need be, but I failed from the second he smiled at me. How could I resist those electrifying blue eyes or the certainty in his voice when he spoke of our future—our home, traveling the world together, loving, and repeating? "There’d be no room for photography," he said. "My family has all the money you’d ever need." I wish I had fought harder. I wish I had told him money doesn’t buy dreams. But, most of all, I wish I had listened to my sister, Juniper. She advised me to call it off then. But Mother threw a fit—"You can cry about dead dreams over caviar," she sternly told me. And so, I married Charles Carmichael—the man who stole my heart with his beautiful lies and rose-colored dreams. Too bad I paid many more prices after then, and for everyone, I got an exaggerated gift in return. I now call them condolences. The custom Cartier necklace came in when I had my tubes tied because Charles decided he didn’t want kids after all. The man could convince a drowning person they didn’t need air, and it’d make perfect sense. I got the new Porsche when I agreed to bleach my brown hair platinum blonde. “It’ll suit us better,” he said, kissing me like I’d won the lottery. Now, we just look like a knock-off Barbie and Ken. I could go on—the private jet, the luxury trip to Paris, the custom Birkin, the diamond tennis bracelet. The condolences were unending, and in different ways, so were my many deaths. Maybe Mother was right after all; I am living the f*****g caviar dream. Yacht soirees on Mondays, spa trips on Tuesdays, private shopping on Wednesdays, country club lunches on Thursdays, and weekend getaways in the Hamptons. And, of course, apparently, Charles was cheating every other day. Not that I’ve caught him in the act, but damn, a woman knows these things. The late-night "business meetings" were subtle at first. He waltzed in from work somewhere between 8 p.m. and 10 p.m., maybe even flashed me a smile if I was lucky. Then it became a miracle if I saw him at all before 2 a.m. He always came home too tired to kiss me, too tired to touch me, too f*****g tired to even pretend I mattered. By morning? He was gone by 6 a.m.—hours before work even started. But did I suspect a thing? Not once. Not for a second did it cross my mind that my husband was balls-deep in someone else. That he was screwing her twice a day—and maybe more for all I know. I could accept that he was controlling, an entitled, privileged asshole. But a cheater? No, never. Not after all the grand dreams. Not after the endless promises. Not after every damn thing I’ve sacrificed to be his perfect, polished trophy wife. He wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t dare do that to me. The least I deserve is a shred of loyalty. The tiniest f*****g atom of the devotion I’ve poured into this ugly, hollow marriage. But every time I brought it up, he’d brush it off⸺call me insecure, paranoid, laugh it off like my suspicions were a joke, or worse, kiss me until the doubts melted away. Still, I should have known better. Plumbers don’t text at 3am. Business meetings don’t stretch into midnight. And yet, what it really took to shatter my delusion is the small piece of paper in my hand. A receipt. A VIP reservation for two at The Silver Swan Hotel and Restaurant. Booked on the weekend that he swore was the busiest time of his last ‘business trip.’ He f****d her on my birthday.