Rain poured like a curse from the heavens.
Each drop was cold, heavy—like judgment falling from above as the priest droned on about mercy, peace, and everlasting life. Elara Sinclair stood at the edge of the grave, her black dress soaked, her fingers clenched around a crumpled tissue that had long lost its purpose. Her eyes were dry, yet her soul was drowning.
No one deserved to be buried like this.
Not her sister.
Not Liana.
A white coffin, simple and unmarked, was slowly being lowered into the wet earth as if the world couldn't be bothered to care. There were no photos displayed, no wreaths with her name spelled in roses, no tearful family members sobbing beside Elara.
Only silence.
Only strangers holding umbrellas, glancing at their watches.
The crowd had been paid by the state.
No one else came.
Not even the Knight family.
Not the people responsible.
---
Liana had been driving home from a part-time job that night. The accident report said she lost control, swerved into a median, and flipped her car.
But Elara didn't believe it.
Not when Liana had called her fifteen minutes before the crash, breathless and terrified, whispering, "He found out, Elara. I shouldn't have taken it… He knows—"
And then the line went dead.
That was the last time Elara heard her voice.
The next morning, the Knight family's name appeared in her sister's voicemail log—an outgoing call made just minutes before the crash.
Lucien Knight.
The heir of Knight Corp. The youngest CEO in the city's history. Ruthless, untouchable, born with power and poison in his blood.
Liana had been working as a low-level secretary at their firm for barely three months. Then suddenly she was dead. No police report pursued it. No lawsuit. No investigation.
Just silence—and a threat in Elara's mailbox that read:
Let it go. Or you'll be next.
---
Elara's jaw tightened as the priest closed his bible and motioned for the coffin to be lowered fully.
"No," she whispered.
No response.
"No!"
She stepped forward suddenly, water sloshing beneath her heels, startling the man beside the casket.
"You can't just bury her like this!" she shouted, voice cracking as she stared down at the pristine white box. "She deserves to be remembered. She wasn't just a mistake you bury in the rain!"
"Elara—" someone from the cemetery staff stepped forward.
"I don't care!" she turned, her voice trembling. "My sister was twenty-two. She had dreams, a life—someone killed her and you're all pretending it doesn't matter!"
Thunder cracked in the distance.
The strangers around her began to disperse, mumbling apologies, awkwardly averting their eyes. Just another crazy girl at another sad funeral. No headlines. No answers.
Only grief.
And rage.
---
By nightfall, Elara sat in her cramped apartment, the city glowing faintly through the rain-streaked window. Her fingers trembled around a chipped mug of tea she hadn't touched.
Her phone buzzed for the seventh time.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
She didn't want to answer it.
She did anyway.
"Elara Sinclair?" a man's voice, calm, cool—almost polite.
"Who is this?"
"I represent Mr. Lucien Knight. He requests your presence."
Her heart turned to ice.
"At ten o'clock tonight," the voice continued. "You will be picked up. Wear black."
She stared at the phone. "If this is a threat—"
"It's a proposition."
The line went dead.
---
Ten o'clock came too fast.
A sleek black car—no plates—pulled up outside her building. The driver didn't speak. The interior smelled like leather, money, and faint cologne.
She should've refused.
But Elara had learned something about grief: it strips you down to your bare instincts. Anger. Survival. Vengeance.
When they pulled up to the towering glass headquarters of Knight Corp., Elara's breath hitched. She'd seen it a thousand times in headlines. The press called it "The Fortress." A symbol of Lucien's empire.
And she was about to walk right into it.
---
She was led through a private elevator—no stops, no sound, no warning. Her reflection stared back at her from mirrored walls: pale skin, hollow eyes, wet lashes.
Then the doors opened into a room made of night.
Black marble floors. Bookshelves of leather-bound volumes no one read. A fireplace flickering in the far corner like it belonged in a villain's lair.
And in the center, behind a glass desk, stood the devil himself.
Lucien Knight.
Tailored suit. Jet-black hair slicked back. Hands in his pockets like the world was beneath him. Those eyes—sharp, grey, impossible—met hers like he already knew every secret she was hiding.
"Elara Sinclair," he said.
She didn't answer.
He stepped forward, and even the air seemed to shift.
"You've been asking questions," he said smoothly. "About your sister."
Her throat tightened.
"I admire your persistence," he added. "Most people stop when they're warned."
"Most people aren't me."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "No. They aren't."
He walked past her, slowly, deliberately. "Liana was… unfortunate. But her death was an accident."
"She called you before she died."
"She worked for me," he said simply. "Employees call all the time."
"She was scared," Elara said. "She said he found out."
Lucien turned.
The firelight caught the edge of something dark in his expression.
"You think I killed your sister?"
"I think someone under your name did," she snapped. "And I want the truth."
Lucien watched her for a long moment.
Then he pulled a folder from the desk and slid it toward her.
Inside was a contract.
One page.
Her name typed at the top.
Beneath it, a bold header: MARRIAGE AGREEMENT.
She stared at it.
"What is this?"
"My proposal," Lucien said.
Her heart pounded. "This is a joke."
"No." His voice hardened. "It's an offer. One that ensures your safety, grants you access to the truth, and solves a very inconvenient problem for me."
"What problem?"
"My inheritance," he said, like it was obvious. "The board demands a public marriage to secure succession. I need a wife. You need answers. I'm offering both."
"You think I'd marry the man whose name is on my sister's death file?"
Lucien stepped closer.
"You want justice, don't you?" he murmured. "You want access to the Knight family. You want protection. Leverage. Power."
He leaned in.
"Marry me. And I'll give you the truth."
Elara's hands clenched at her sides.
The offer was poison.
But so was silence.
---
Suddenly, the elevator chimed behind them.
Lucien didn't turn.
Footsteps approached, and a tall woman in red entered. Her lips were blood-red, her eyes sharp.
"Elara Sinclair," she said coolly. "You have twenty-four hours. Refuse, and you'll never see us again. Accept, and you'll become the most envied—and hunted—woman in the city."
She tossed a velvet box at Elara's feet.
Inside it was a diamond ring.
And a silver key.
---
Elara stared at them, her chest heaving.
In that moment, she saw her sister's face—soft, scared, betrayed. The world had buried her like she was nothing.
Elara wouldn't let that be the end.
If she had to marry the devil to bring down his empire… so be it.