Chapter Two— The Devil's Proposal

“Where are you going?” I snapped. "You just drove past my condo.”

He didn’t answer. Not a twitch, not a glance.

One hand gripped the wheel; the other tapped a lazy beat on the console. Too casual, as if hauling me off against my will was just another Friday chore.

A chill crept up my spine, and I forced myself to glare at him instead of shivering, willing him to burn right there on the steering wheel.

Then again, a car crash would just add another scandal to my growing list.

“I appreciate the rescue,” I bit out, “but this silent, brooding statue act? Not it. Turn around.”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

“Fine then, I’ll sue you for kidnapping,” I threatened.

That earned me a scoff. “Let me guess, people usually piss themselves when you say that, Little Red?”

“First, disgusting. Second, my name is Isabella Montez. Not Little Red. Third—” I threw my hands up. “I don’t have time for your riddles. I've got a fire to put out, so unless you want your face splashed on the same headlines as mine, drive. Back to my condo.”

“They’ll be waiting there.” His voice was calm, infuriatingly sure, just as iron gates rolled open ahead of us.

My stomach dropped—the Salazar mansion. It's been a while since I was within these walls.

The gates closed behind us with a groan as the car pulled into a massive compound, men in black patrolling like shadows. We stopped before a mansion that looked more like a fortress than a home—stone walls, arched windows, high ceilings.

I didn’t wait for the engine to cut; I shoved the car door open and stalked into the vast sitting room. The hood came off, and I collapsed onto a couch, hand pressed to my forehead.

Before I could take any action against the tabloid, I needed to know what really happened last night, and—

“You should—”

“Shh.” I lifted a finger, not bothering to look up. “I’m trying to think.”

“Did you just shush me?”

He sank into the couch adjacent to mine, crossing his legs.

“Did I stutter?” I shot back.

“I was going to clear some of your confusion—” he pushed to his feet, “—but it’s clear my opinion isn’t needed.”

I watched him climb the stairs, my eyes narrowed on the broad, familiar line of his back.

My stomach knotted. Then I saw it—the tattoo at the base of his neck.

My breath stuttered. Oh God. I'd seen that tattoo before.

I shot off the couch. “Wait!”

He stopped but didn’t turn. I yanked my phone from my pocket, pulled up the photos and held it aloft.

My gaze skidded from the phone to him and back. “What—it was really you?”

No. It couldn’t be. Right? I kissed Emilio Salazar?

He strode back down the stairs and dropped into the couch he just left. “Ah. You figured it out.”

“Ah?” I pointed a finger at him, resisting the urge to reach out and strangle him. “You—you’re the reason I’m in this mess!”

An eyebrow darted up. “Am I?”

My fingers curled, nails digging into my palm. His calmness was infuriating. He had the guts to turn my world upside down and then act like everything was peachy.

Diego had warned me to never trust his smile. Now I understood why.

Oh God. Diego. I completely forgot about him.

My thumb flew across my phone screen, sending a quick text. At least he’d know where I was, even if I didn’t.

I forced a breath out, steadying myself and Salazar chuckled.

The sound cut through me. “You think this is funny?”

“Maybe. I'm enjoying your fire a little too much.”

I turned away, telling myself not to play into his game.

The tabloid post—getting to the root of it—was all that mattered.

“Why in God’s name did you kiss me?” I snapped, pivoting back to him.

His answer was quick. “I didn’t.”

“The photo says otherwise.”

“Photos lie.” His tone was cool, sharp. “They give you what they want you to see.”

I knew that all too well. My chest tightened as the memories flooded in. Headlines. The camera flashes. Mateo.

I crossed my arms and lifted my chin. “Why should I believe you?”

He leaned forward, voice dropping. “Because, Little Red, I was the only one there. You weren’t exactly…conscious, were you?”

A chill crawled down my spine at his words.

“Will you believe the tabloids instead?” he pressed, gaze pinning me.

“Heavens!”

I plopped back onto the couch.

He was right. I couldn’t believe the tabloid. If anything, I should believe him and figure out what really happened last night. Even though he was the last person I wanted to depend on.

“What happened? If my memory serves me right, you weren't invited. So, why were you at the party? Did you bring me home? And why in heaven’s name were you that close to me?!”

“Which question do you want me to hit first?”

I fixed him with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t test my patience, Salazar.”

“Or what, Little Red?”

The question hung in the air like a knife. My throat tightened as I swallowed. The truth was, I didn’t know what Salazar was capable of. I’d heard whispers, warnings from Diego, but being this close made them feel too real.

He pursed his lips as if weighing his options, then leaned into the couch, placing an ankle on a knee. “You were drunk.”

I rolled my eyes in spite of myself. “Yeah, Sherlock. And?”

“Some man tried luring you into a room. I stepped in, took you home.” He gave a lazy shrug. “The tabloid twisted it.”

“A man was trying to lure me into a room,” I repeated, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I almost—almost slept with a stranger.

And I was supposed to be thanking him?!

“You should be thanking me,” he said softly, almost mockingly, as if reading my mind. “I kept you from falling into another man’s bed. That makes me your knight, doesn’t it?”

More like a demon out for my soul.

“Thank you,” I spat, the words tasting like poison.

His gaze bore into me. “That was the fakest thanks I’ve ever heard and I’ve heard plenty.”

Jesus. Men and the ego pads on their shoulders.

“You remember the man’s face, don't you?” I asked, steering the conversation back to what was important.

He tilted his head, silent for a beat.

“Do you want me to?”

I frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he said, eyes dark, voice low, “I remember enough to make you lose sleep. Whether I tell you… depends.”

I shook my head slowly. “You are unbelievable.”

“So I'm told.” He spread his arms along the backrest, but his eyes stayed sharp. Like a predator testing how fast I’d run.

It kept me on edge, and I hated the fact that I couldn't seem to figure out what he was thinking.

“But let’s say, for now, I don't remember his face,” he continued.

“For now?” My voice pitched high.

He shrugged, deliberate. “Unfortunately, the more I think, the less I seem to recall. Maybe I drank too much. Or maybe—” His eyes cut to me. “—you haven't given me a reason to remember.”

God. Talking to him was like trying to wrestle smoke.

I paced the enormous space, trying to think of alternatives. The silence of the mansion pressed in, thick and watchful.

“Date me.”

My gaze sliced across to Salazar; if looks could wound, he’d be bleeding out on that couch.

“Why would I ever date you?” I hissed.

“Date me and the allegedly wild night becomes a love story.” He gave a lazy shrug. “Your choice.”

Love story? Please. But damn it, he was right. His stunt at the lounge already tied us together.

My name—again—dangling on a hook for the world to tear apart. Mateo's ghost whispered in my ears. Father’s voice echoed and my stomach twisted.

I can't date Emilio Salazar. Diego would kill me. And if I could check the CCTV footage from last night, maybe I could douse this fire.

“Fine. I’ll check the hotel CCTV.”

“Too late. Already tampered with,” Salazar cut in. “What you saw online was all that survived.”

I gaped at him. “Im—impossible.”

“This seems like a set-up. A tabloid milking your scandal for clicks, maybe.” His gaze met mine and held. “Date me.”

Why was he pushing this? What did he care if the media tore me apart?

Unless… he was hoping to get something from this.

“What do you gain from helping me?” I scoffed. “Or maybe, you aren't helping after all, but trying to pull my strings.”

Our eyes clashed—his calm, calculating; mine sharp, daring him to push further.

And then he smirked, the corner of his mouth barely lifting.

“I happen to need an arm candy to secure a deal,” he said smoothly. “And what woman could pull more weight than the perfect Señorita Montez?”

I didn’t blink. My gaze pinned him where he sat.

He just happened to need a woman to show off right now? How convenient. Too convenient.

I didn’t trust him. But, what if he decided to confirm the wild night agenda?

He wouldn’t do that, right? I was his brother’s best friend.

I parted my lips to tell him I'll fight my battles myself, but my phone rang, cutting through the silence.

I glanced at the screen and my heart lurched at the caller ID.

Secretary Cruz. The executioner in a suit.

The call I'd been dreading. This was the call I wouldn't survive unscathed