Chapter 5 - Signing with the Devil
Thorne Tower rose eighty stories above Midtown Manhattan, an obsidian obelisk of glass and steel that seemed to pierce the low-hanging rainclouds like a spear.
By the time I reached the executive lobby, my sneakers were soaked through, my jeans were damp from the relentless drizzle, and I was clutching my waterlogged handbag like a shield. The marble floors were so polished they reflected the soaring twenty-foot ceilings like black ice.
Two security guards in tailored suits stepped forward the moment I approached the private glass elevators, but before they could utter a syllable, a sleek woman in a tailored pencil skirt intercepted them.
"Miss Collins," she said with a crisp, respectful nod. "I am Claire, Mr. Thorne’s chief of staff. He is waiting for you on the eighty-second floor. Follow me, please."
The guards instantly stepped back, their expressions transforming from suspicion to absolute deference. That was my first taste of Gabriel Thorne’s power: his name alone acted as an invisible key, clearing obstacles before they could even materialize.
The private elevator ascended eighty-two floors in twenty-four seconds, the pressure popping my ears.
When the doors opened, there were no receptionists or waiting rooms. The entire top floor was a minimalist masterpiece of charcoal slate, towering floor-to-ceiling glass, and priceless modern art. The entirety of Central Park sprawled beneath the windows like a tiny green carpet hemmed in by concrete.
Gabriel stood by the glass, holding an espresso cup, his back to the room. He wore a charcoal-gray three-piece suit without a tie, his silhouette broad, imposing, and perfectly framed against the Manhattan skyline.
"Your sneakers are squeaking, Ava," he said without turning around.
"Damian had Langford Real Estate buy my building and evict me this morning," I said, walking straight to the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. "He thinks he’s going to break me."
Gabriel turned slowly, taking a measured sip from his cup. His eyes flicked down to my soaked shoes, then back to my face. There was no pity in his gaze—only a cold, predatory satisfaction.
"Damian is an amateur acting on panic," Gabriel said. "He thinks power is about kicking someone when they are down. True power is ensuring they never have the strength to stand up again."
He walked over to the desk, pulled the Montblanc pen from his breast pocket, and laid it beside the twenty-page contract that was already laid out, open to the final signature page.
"The rules are simple, Ava," he said, standing just across the desk from me, his presence overwhelming the vast room. "First: You live here. The penthouse has five suites; you will take the east wing. Second: You do not speak to the press without Claire’s clearance. Third: In public, you look at me as if I am the only man in the room. You touch me when appropriate. You make every woman who ever looked down on you realize they are breathing your dust."
"And the fourth rule?" I asked, my fingers hovering over the heavy gold pen.
Gabriel leaned down, resting his palms flat on the desk, his face inches from mine. His gaze was searing.
"You do not fall in love with me, Ava. I can protect your life, I can destroy your enemies, and I can give you more wealth than you can spend in three lifetimes. But I do not have a heart to give you. Do we understand each other?"
I looked at him—at the ruthless, untouchable king of New York who thought he was the only one who had survived hell.
"Don't worry, Mr. Thorne," I said, gripping the pen with steady fingers. "I gave my heart to an ambitious man once. He sold it for a shortcut to the upper class. I won’t make that mistake twice."
I pressed the nib to the paper and signed my name.
*Ava Collins.*
Gabriel watched the ink dry, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his lips.
May you like
"Good," he whispered. "Now let’s go kill a snake."
***