Control is everything.

Without it, empires crumble, men rot in alleys, and little girls are left to nightmares. I learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago, and I swore Sophia would never have to.

Which is why Christiana Moretti’s defiance was… inconvenient.

Admirable, yes—if I were a man who admired women who spat in my face. But inconvenient all the same.

I leaned back in my chair, scrolling through the early morning papers spread across my desk. My announcement at the gala for tomorrow hadn’t even happened yet, and already the whispers were multiplying. “Pierson linked to Moretti heiress.” “Devil’s deal with gambling tycoon’s daughter.”

I let the headlines wash over me. Speculation never bothered me—it fueled me. Half the men in this city feared what they didn’t know, and the other half wanted to pay me to teach them.

Christiana, though… she was something else.

She wasn’t afraid. Not of me, not of what I could do to her father, not even of this world she barely understood. She was angry. Fire wrapped in silk, fury disguised with sarcasm. And though I’d never admit it aloud, I liked watching her burn.

The knock on my study door came sharp, hurried. Marcus, my chief of staff, entered without waiting for permission. Only he had that luxury.

“She’s tried calling her lawyer again,” Marcus reported. “Third time this week.”

Of course she had.

“And?” I asked, sipping my coffee.

“And,” Marcus’s lips twitched, “the calls didn’t go through.”

I raised a brow. “You intercepted them.”

He shrugged. “Your orders.”

True. My orders. Still, I couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped from me. “She doesn’t quit, does she?”

“No, sir. She’s furious.”

Good. Fury meant she hadn’t given up. I hated quitters. But fury also meant she’d fight me, and I couldn’t allow that—not when enemies were watching.

“Let her rage,” I said finally, setting my cup down. “She’ll learn soon enough that rage is a luxury she can’t afford.”

…

That evening, I found her on the balcony of the west wing, phone in hand, pacing like a caged animal.

“You know,” I said, stepping into the light, “you’re not as stealthy as you think.”

She spun around, eyes blazing, that ring on her nose. God, she was beautiful even when she was angry.

“Stay out of my business,” she snapped.

“Correction,” I replied calmly, “you are my business.”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “You’re insane.”

“Possibly,” I admitted. “But insanity pays well.”

She rolled her eyes so hard I almost applauded.

“Listen to me, Pierson,” she said, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “I don’t care how much money you have or how many men jump when you snap your fingers. I will never marry you.”

I stepped closer, deliberately slow, savoring the way her breath hitched even though she’d rather die than admit it.

“Never is a long time, Christiana.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to hit me. She wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “You don’t scare me.”

I leaned in, close enough that her perfume—citrus and something floral—curled into my lungs. “I don’t need to scare you,” I murmured. “I just need to outlast you.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. Her eyes searched mine like she was desperate to find a crack in the stone. She wouldn’t find one.

Finally, she shoved past me, muttering curses under her breath as she stormed back into the house.

I let her go. I always let her go.

Because she didn’t realize it yet, but every step she took was still within the boundaries I’d already drawn.

…

Later, in Sophia’s room, I sat at her bedside, brushing back her hair as she drifted toward sleep. Her small hand clung to my wrist, anchoring me.

“Daddy?” she whispered, her voice groggy.

“Yes, angel.”

“Is she staying?”

She didn’t say Christiana’s name, but I knew. Children always know.

I hesitated, just for a minute. “For now.”

Sophia’s brow furrowed even in sleep. “I don’t like her.”

I smiled faintly. “That’s fine. You don’t have to. Just… give her time.”

Her breathing evened out, soft and steady. I stayed a moment longer, listening to the fragile rhythm that kept me grounded.

Leaving her room, I closed the door quietly and leaned against the wall, the weight of my double life pressing down. To Sophia, I was just her father. To Christiana, I was the devil.

Both were true.

And as I stood there in the dark hall, one thought lingered stubbornly, uninvited:

She’ll fight me to the end. And I’ll let her.

Because in the end, she’ll lose. And when she does, she’ll belong to me.