THE DEMON'S BARGAIN

CHAPTER 2: VICIOUS B

DARLA’S POV

Mother would be gravely disappointed if she could see me now.

Since she couldn’t mold Juniper into her picture-perfect doll, I was left to bear the brunt of her obsessive nagging—my hair, my words, my choice in men.

Charles Carmichael was the only man she ever deemed worthy of her daughter’s heart, the only one she truly approved of. And for that, I curse her.

May her suffocating soul rest in hell.

I almost wish she were here to see me now—to witness just how uncouth and improper I look as I storm down the marble hallway, barefoot, hair wild, and clutching a crumpled receipt like a goddamn death warrant.

Paranoia is a vicious b***h.

It had me digging through every nook and cranny of his belongings by 9 p.m., searching for something—anything—to prove I’m not the crazy wife he’s making me out to be.

Call it luck, call it tragedy, or maybe the reward of my persistence, but I finally found the receipt. Casually tucked away in his suit jacket, carelessly discarded in the laundry—like he hadn’t lied about being out of town all weekend.

Like he hadn’t blown off my 25th birthday to get his d**k wet!

I march into Charles’ man cave without the usual decorum, not caring if the slide-through doors shatter from the force of my swing, or if—heaven forbid—the ruckus distracts him from his precious golf game.

It’s sacrilege—high treason, in fact—to interrupt Charles Carmichael during one of his matches, especially when Jameson "The Hawk" Mercer, his favorite golf legend, is playing.

Even though it’s a Friday night, of course, my husband is perched rigidly on the plush leather club chair, eyes glued to the massive screen just as the camera zooms in on Mercer’s signature swing.

That alone is unusual, considering he doesn’t spend most nights at home anymore—much less Fridays. But for golf, he would.

He doesn’t even register my presence beside his chair—or maybe he just doesn’t care enough to acknowledge it.

Instead, he reaches tensely, rapidly, for his glass of scotch on the footstool, downing it in one go, as if to dilute the cutthroat moment of the game.

I take a deep breath.

“Charles—” My voice barely makes it through the deafening roar from the TV as Mercer misses.

“f*****g hell!” He throws his hands up in frustration, jaw clenched as he watches Mercer walk away, muttering curses under his breath.

“Charles.” It comes out calmer than I wanted, far too composed for the anger boiling beneath my skin. For this, Mother would be proud.

The commentators speculate about Mercer’s uncharacteristic miss, questioning whether the pressure is finally getting to him.

Charles anxiously threads his fingers through his blond, overly greasy hair before pouring another glass of scotch, hunched stiffly on the edge of his seat.

“Charles!”

“Christ, not now, Darla!” he snaps, throwing me an irritated glance. Once upon a time—a month ago, really—I would have moved mountains just to have those beautiful blue eyes stare at me with light and adoration again.

“Who is she?”

"Jesus, not this again. Can we save the paranoid meltdown for when The Hawk isn’t playing the goddamn finals?"

Paranoid meltdown?

Is that what this is? Is that what it’s called now when a woman finds out her husband of five f*****g years has been cheating?

I have never been a violent woman, never acted out of line or unladylike, never even uttered a foul word if I could help it.

But in that fleeting second, a savage part of me—bitter, tired, angry—imagined grabbing the bottle of scotch and smashing it against his head, driving the brutal edge into his eyes over and over and over again, until his face was nothing but a shredded, bloody mess beneath the jagged glass.

Yet despite the searing rage that boiled my blood, suffocating my breaths and leaving my heart pounding like it might explode, I managed to unclench fist, lift the receipt, and throw it at him—deadly calm.

“Care to explain this? Friday, September 13th at 7:30 p.m. at The Silver Swan Hotel..”

Charles barely looks up from his game, sparing the receipt only a second as it bounces off his knees.

“Darla, baby, you really need to stop going through my things. It’s invasive.”

“Who the hell was it, Charles?”

“Work associates. You wouldn’t understand the nature of these deals.”

Something inside me snaps.

“Oh, for god’s sake—you’re such a compulsive liar!” My breath hitches, my chest tightineing. “Do you think I’m that stupid? You swore you were in Westlake on business the weekend of my birthday, and now you’re conveniently checking into The Silver Swan Hotel at 7:30 p.m; with a suite booked for two!”

I pause, trying to hold on to the calm I’ve maintained so far, trying to find some shred of the woman my mother built—but that part of me is fighting just as hard to be heard.

“Do you share hotel rooms with your associates now? Out of the kindness of your heart, you take them to dinner at Mapleton’s most expensive restaurant too? You’re too much of an asshole to be that generous! We both know you’re screwing someone, and it sure as hell isn’t me.”

I’m heaving, my breaths growing ragged as my chest tightens painfully. Saying it out loud burns my tongue, sets my lungs and heart ablaze with acid.

It makes it feel even more real—truer than every flimsy love confession he’s ever made. Truer than the stupid ring on my finger. Truer than those blue eyes that once held my world in orbit.

Charles Carmichael is a cheating piece of s**t.

And at this moment, all he does is sigh—deeply, like my words are as exhausting as dealing with an annoying child.

Fortunate timing—just as the commercials roll, he leans back in his chair, casually swirling the scotch in his glass before taking a slow, deliberate sip. Calm. Unbothered. Infuriating.

“Grow up, Darla. You’re being hysterical. I’ve told you before, and I’ll say it again—I had business to handle. Those reservations were necessary for sealing the deal. You think high-profile clients don’t expect a little luxury?" He scoffs, rolling his eyes as if I’m the one being unreasonable. "I’m hurt that you’d think everything is a dramatic affair. Not everyone revolves around your damn insecurities. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

The nerve of this bastard-

"Out of proportion?" An ugly, mirthless laugh slips from my lips. "You've been emotionally distant for months, Charles! You don't even touch me anymore—much less stay home unless it’s for your stupid game. You're always texting this so-called 'plumber,'" I spit the word with disgust, "and now, you're booking hotel rooms behind my back, making reservations for two people. Two! There were no business associates, you lying, cheating bastard. Don’t insult me!"

There’s a flicker of irritation when he meets my gaze.

"I'm not doing this with you—not while you're acting like a child." His posture shifts, attention snapping back to the screen as soon as the commercial ends, like our argument holds very little consequence. "Now shut up, the game's back on."

I don’t hear the commentator’s words anymore. I’m not even sure I’m breathing, standing so rigid that I feel that murderous little thing inside me shatter—violently and without warning.

It's like I don't exist—like I hadn’t just confronted him with his lies.

It’s ironic—bitterly so—that I let myself fall so deeply for this man.

Once upon a time, quite pathetically, I’d have marveled at how Charles looked like he belonged on the front cover of every high-society magazine. I had been in awe that a man that stunning, suave, and magnetic could ever be interested in me.

He had that disarming, rich-boy charm—clean-cut, perfectly groomed, and devilishly handsome.

The kind of man who made you fall before you even realized it, with a smile so sharp it could cut through steel, leaving you desperate for just a sliver of his attention.

The kind of man who, with one glance, made you forget you were just another trophy on his shelf.

Mother made it out to be something special—that I had to keep being special for him. But I was never special. No, not at all. Naive, desperate girls like me just pull in egoists like flies—narcissists.

My chest tightens, and my vision blurs, hazing over a furious red. Rage surges through me, burning hot and wild, igniting every nerve until all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears.

For the first time, I stand here watching him—not in awe, not with longing—but with disgust. With irritation. With a violent, visceral need to do something.

​​And so, without really realizing it, my eyes sweep through the game room—no, his golf shrine.

A mini indoor golf course takes up half the space, framed photos of Charles with golf legends plastered on every wall like badges of honor.

There’s a custom bar stocked with his most prized bottles, right next to the ridiculous display of his golf trophies.

But my eyes latch on to the one thing he cares about most: his favorite golf club, signed by Mercer himself, gleaming in its glass case like the eighth wonder of the world.

And just like that, I know what to do.