Page 2 of The Devil's Pawn

You’re okay, Imogen. You’re a fucking warrior. You’ll survive this. It’s not forever.

It isnotforever.

I’ll do whatever needs to be done to make my escapeandkeep my father in the good graces of the De Vils. After all, if Alexander is the one to end this sham of a marriage,he’llbe the bad guy, and I’ll look like the poor little victim, dumped by her powerful, billionaire husband.

The grand entranceway is possibly the most intimidating space I’ve ever been in. The ceiling must be a hundred feet high, with crystal chandeliers hanging at precise intervals. Ahead, there’s a wide staircase sweeping off to the left and the right. The old, oak chevron flooring looks as if someone got down on their hands and knees and polished it for days. A grand piano sits off to one side, and a crystal vase with white flowers and green foliage proudly rests on top.

“Follow me, please.”

Our greeter—butler?—strides to the grand staircase and sweeps up to the second floor. Mom and Dad follow, gushing about how beautiful the interior of Oakleigh is while asking questions about the hall’s heritage. I trail behind, taking in my surroundings. This isn’t a home. It’s too big, too impersonal, toocold.

A bout of homesickness hits me, and I clutch myself around the middle.

We pass by so many doors and make so many turns, I know I wouldn’t be able to find the exit if someone dropped a billion dollars in my lap and told me to run. Maybe that’stheir strategy. Once you’re in here, it’s impossible to find the way out.

Eventually, the guy—I decide to call him the manservant—stops outside a set of paneled double doors made from a dark wood. A black walnut, maybe. He raps twice on the door, then opens them both in a sweeping motion and enters.

“Mr. De Vil. I have Mr. and Mrs. Salinger and Miss Imogen.”

Okay, this Miss Imogen bullshit is going to get old real fast. “Just Imogen,” I mutter before I’ve even set eyes on who is in the room.

Moving alongside my parents, I take a peek. Two men rise to their feet from identical high-backed chairs set on either side of an enormous fireplace. A real fire burns in the grate, even though it’s summer, lending warmth to the room. Unlike the formal, cold entrance hallway, this room is lovely. Light floods in through several large sash windows, despite the gray clouds blanketing the sky, and the furniture isn’t as stark and traditional as what greeted me earlier. It’s cozy, with squishy couches adorned with scatter cushions in bright colors, set around a smoked glass coffee table. In the center of the table is an open box of cigars, although neither man is smoking.

This isn’t the first time I’ve seen what Alexander De Vil looks like, but checking out the occasional formal photograph on the internet does not remotely prepare me for meeting the man in person.

His tall, imposing figure and handsome face sucks all the oxygen from the room. He’s dressed in an open-necked, pale blue shirt and dark pants, and his shoes are so highly polished, I bet I could see myreflection in them.

One glance at his father, and it’s obvious where Alexander gets his looks from. Charles De Vil has aged well, with salt-and-pepper dark hair and good looks the passage of time has barely touched. That’s either down to good genes, or he’s got Botox on speed dial.

“Jessica, Scott, welcome to our home.” Charles beams, hand outstretched. He shakes my father’s first, then my mother’s. “I can’t believe it’s taken a wedding to get you here.” He laughs.

As far as I know, we’ve never received an invitation before, but I choose not to bring that up, mainly because I don’t want to embarrass my parents. My father has drummed into me how he expects me to behave.

“And Imogen… my, what a beauty you’ve grown into.”

“Thank you, Mr. De Vil,” I answer in a manner to please my parents.

“Charles, please. After all, you’ll be my daughter-in-law in four short days.”

My stomach tilts. Four days. Ninety-six hours… and three months to make my husband demand a divorce before the one thing I want more than anything else in the world is taken from me.

My eyes drift to Alexander. Unlike his father, he hasn’t moved since he stood. His hands are behind his back, presumably laced together, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking with that blank expression. As if he senses my gaze on him, his eyes meet mine, his stare penetrating.

A shiver runs up my spine. As much as I’ve tried to put on a brave face, if only to convince myself I’ll be fine, one hard glare from my future husband, and I’m overcome with an urge to flee. Screw Daddy, screw AlexanderDe Vil, and screw the stupid contract my father signed twenty-two years ago.

Except, I can’t. For all I know, Dad could lose more than his business. He could lose his life, too. I don’t know a lot about how it all works, but from what little research I’ve managed to do, the De Vil family belong to a group called The Consortium, along with nine other families from across the globe. I’m unsure what that means in reality, but what I do know is that their power reaches far and wide. If I dig my heels in and refuse to go through with this wedding, Lord only knows what they’ll do to my dad. This family doesn’t operate within the boundaries of the law. It’s the law that operates withintheirboundaries.

However anxious I am, I’m sticking to the plan. Once the wedding is over and my parents are back home in California, I’ll figure out the right course of action and slowly but surely chip away until he realizes I’m not worth the trouble. At thirty-five, Alexander is a lot older than me. Maybe I can play on the age difference—infuriate him with some childish antics and make him believe I’m too immature for his tastes. It’ll be a lie, of course. My friends often joke that I’m old before my time, but if it helps me to escape this marriage sooner, I’ll play the part of an infantile brat.

Charles places his hand on my lower back and urges me in Alexander’s direction. The introductions are awkward, Alexander’s hand cool as he shakes mine. To think, in a few short days, it’s expected I’ll sleep with this stranger.

I feel sick at the thought.

My parents shake his hand, too, and I can’t help wondering if they’re thinking the same as me and it might give them pause. But one look at their beaming smiles, and that thread of hope snaps as easily as a brittle twig.

“Why don’t we all sit?” Charles gestures to the couch nearest to his chair. “What would you like to drink? Tea? Coffee? A whiskey, perhaps?”

It’s all so… normal. Anyone would think we were here for a regular business meeting rather than engaging in what amounts to little more than my father trading my life for his gain. Harsh, considering I’ve always known this is my fate, maybe, but let’s call it like it is.

---