The Devil’s Deal
Ten years ago, Mom poured her soul into building Gracia Clothing from the ground up. It was her dream, her identity. And Dad—he might not have said it much, but he was her biggest cheerleader. Always in the shadows, backing her with every ounce of strength he had, even working behind the scenes to keep the company private, safe from vultures and boardroom politics.
But everything changed three years ago.
The day Gracia was set to go public should’ve been a celebration. Instead, it turned into a nightmare. News broke about a major fallout between Green Company and Nelson Industries. It wasn’t just a business deal gone bad—it was a full-blown scandal that shattered my father. Overnight, everything he’d built began to crumble like a sandcastle against a tidal wave.
To keep Green Company alive, Mom made the ultimate sacrifice—she sold every last share of Gracia Clothing to James Anderson. That decision nearly killed her inside. But even that wasn’t enough to stop the freefall. The project failed. The company collapsed. And we lost everything.
And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I found out something that hit like a sucker punch—James Anderson is married into the Nelson family. Yeah, the same damn Nelsons who turned their backs on us when we needed allies the most.
Since that day, sleep became a luxury I couldn’t afford. The questions kept me up at night, clawing at my sanity. So, I did the only thing I could—I joined Gracia Clothing. My company. My legacy. Only now it wears a different name, a different face.
Anderson may no longer be the CEO, but his ghosts still haunt every hallway of this building. I know he’s hiding something—something dark. And I swear, I won’t rest until I drag every single one of his secrets into the light.
And then there’s the Scotts. I'm not sure what their game is, but I know they’re playing one. And William—his presence during the auction of our home, our assets—it wasn’t just a coincidence. It felt… calculated. Cold.
Was it him? Was it the Scotts who pulled the strings to ruin us? Or was someone else hiding behind the curtain, pulling Dad’s empire down brick by brick? Whoever it was, they had power, and they knew exactly how to wield it against Sebastian Green.
The sharp beep of the coffee machine broke through Skylar's thoughts, yanking her back to the present.
She grabbed the cup, her fingers tightening around it like she could crush every memory she just relived.
“He wants coffee?” she muttered, a flame flickering in her voice. “Fine. He’ll get it. But he better know I’m not the same girl who used to trail behind him like a lovesick puppy on campus. That Skylar’s long gone.”
Nora leaned on the counter with a wicked smirk. “Then make sure he tastes that in every damn sip. Remind him. One cup at a time.”
And with that, Skylar straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked out. Coffee in hand. Secrets buried deep in her heart. And a storm brewing right behind her eyes.
The past wasn’t done with her.
But neither was she.
Skylar took a deep breath and walked into William’s cabin, the coffee cup trembling slightly in her grip—not from fear, but from the storm brewing inside her. She placed it gently on his desk, saying nothing.
William didn’t even look up from his laptop. “Hmm,” he murmured, taking a sip. Then his brow furrowed. “Too bitter. Try again.”
She bit her tongue, hard. Without a word, she turned on her heel, marched back to the pantry, and made a second cup.
The same routine played out again. And again. And again.
“Too sweet.”
“Not hot enough.”
“Wrong mug.”
By the fifth cup, Skylar slammed the coffee down a little too hard, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“That's better?” she snapped, her eyes blazing.
William finally looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. “Still not perfect. Maybe you need practice.”
That was it.
Skylar crossed her arms. “You know what, William? Enough with your games. If you’ve got a problem with me, say it to my face like a man. This childish, high-school bullying isn’t going to work on me.”
He arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Bullying? I thought it was mentorship.”
“I’m a designer, not your nanny,” she shot back. “I didn’t come here to play waitress and make your coffee runs.”
Her words hung in the air, sharp as glass. William’s jaw clenched, but the smirk never left.
“Fine,” he said, suddenly serious. He picked up a thick, crisp file from the stack on his desk and tossed it across to her. “You want to prove you’re more than just a secretary? Take this.”
She caught it mid-air, eyes narrowing. “What’s this?”
“A challenge,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Lo Stile. Heard of them?”
Her heart skipped. Lo Stile—the elite Milan-based fashion powerhouse. They were scouting for local brands for a limited collaboration. Rumors were they’d already been approached by every top-tier Indian fashion house. Gracia, in comparison, was barely a blip on their radar.
“You want me to win this client?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief.
He shrugged. “You said you’re a designer. Prove it. Win Lo Stile over with your work—your designs. If you can do that, I’ll officially remove you from the secretary pool. You’ll have your own team, your own space. Freedom.”
She glanced down at the file again, her fingers tightening around it. Everything about it screamed impossible. But something in her refused to back down.
“And if I fail?” she asked.
“You’ll keep bringing me coffee,” William said smoothly. “And maybe learn to get the sugar ratio right.”
Her pride screamed. But so did her ambition.
Skylar straightened, eyes locked with his. “Challenge accepted.”
William watched her go, something unreadable in his gaze. And as she walked out of the cabin with the file in hand, Skylar didn’t feel fear. She felt fire.
Let them have their long queues, their big budgets, their polished portfolios.
She had something they didn’t—grit, fury, and a reason to fight.
She was going to make Lo Stile choose Gracia.
No matter what.
She was blabbering one more another thing, hurting some curses to William and Lo Stile when packing her stuffs at secretarial department to have back to design department when Neon, chief of department came over.
Skylar stormed into the secretarial bay, the Lo Stile file clutched to her chest and a firestorm of words tumbling from her mouth.
“Lo Stile, huh?” she muttered, tossing a stapler and notepad into her tote. “International elitists who probably wear thousand-dollar socks and sip espresso out of gold cups. And William—oh, William Scott, the devil in a three-piece suit—arrogant, smug, coffee-obsessed control freak!”
A few heads turned. Some secretaries exchanged amused glances; others wisely stayed out of it.
She grabbed her sketch pad, her pens, and what little dignity she had left in this department.
“And he thinks I’ll lose? Watch me—I'll blow Lo Stile away with one damn sketch,” she grumbled. “I’m a designer, not his glorified barista.”
She was just about to walk out when a pair of stilettos clicked sharply against the tiled floor. The atmosphere shifted.
Neon.
The chief of the design department, immaculately dressed in black linen and a perpetual sneer, stopped just inches away from Skylar.
“Going somewhere, coffee girl?” Neon said, folding her arms. Her voice carried the chill of a winter wind.
Skylar looked up. Her jaw clenched. “Back to the design floor. I’ve been given a project.”
Neon scoffed. “Given? Or pitied?” Her eyes scanned the mess Skylar was stuffing into her bag. “Heard you’re playing fetch for William now. Must be nice—climbing up without talent, just charm and pity.”
Laughter echoed from a few of Neon’s loyal minions. Skylar swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Neon, that’s enough,” said Ammy, one of the junior designers. “She’s talented. You know it.”
“Stay out of this,” Neon snapped. “This isn’t a charity house. If she messes up this project and ruins Gracia’s image in front of Lo Stile, we’re all going to look like fools.”
Skylar felt heat rush to her face. She wanted to scream, to throw something—but the memory of last time flashed back: one complaint, one outburst, and you're out.
Neon stepped closer, voice like poison. “One slip, sweetheart. And I’ll personally make sure you’re out of Gracia before you can blink. So pack carefully.”
The silence was thick. Ugly.
That’s when the cabin door behind them opened.
William stepped out, his presence as commanding as a gunshot.
“Problem here?” he asked, voice casual but cold.
Everyone turned, tension cracking like glass. Neon stiffened.
“No, Mr. Scott. Just giving some guidance,” she said quickly.
“Hmm,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to Skylar, then back to Neon. “Good. Because if anyone here wastes Skylar’s time or distracts her from the Lo Stile pitch, I’ll personally handle it.”
The message was clear.
Neon went silent.
“Skylar,” William said, ignoring the others, “my cabin. Now.”
Skylar followed without a word, but her stride was different—stronger. The whispers buzzed behind her, but she didn’t care.
Once the door closed behind them, she finally let out a breath.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, avoiding his eyes.
“I didn’t do it for you,” he said simply, walking around his desk. “Lo Stile matters. And so does the reputation of this company.”
“Right,” she said, though her voice betrayed her.
He looked at her for a moment, then added, “You're coming with me.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I’m going home. And you’re coming with me,” he said, grabbing his coat.
She frowned. “You want me to move in with you?”