Chapter Eleven Charlotte
Chapter Eleven
Charlotte
Between everything Azrael and I did last night and the way Lucifer pounded into me this morning—like he was trying to make certain everyone in the neighboring buildings could overhear me—I’m going to need a minimum of two full bottles of Tylenol in order to get through work.
The lower impact pharmaceuticals and other substances have on celestials is inconvenient, to say the least.
And that says nothing about how I’m starting to feel about Azrael, or the fact that the apocalypse has basically become my life’s background noise. This morning was a clear reminder that there can never be any kind of future for him and me.
Not without Lucifer.
And I could never give him up.
I’m completely addicted to him.
Which is part of the problem, actually.
When I finally break free of my security team at the Chelsea Pier, I feel Lucifer’s demonic army watching me.
They’re more of a . . . feeling than anything else.
An occasional inhuman gleam in someone’s eye, a knowing grin from a total stranger, or the uncanny awareness that settles into the pit of my stomach whenever I’m out in the city.
They’re everywhere.
The idea shouldn’t terrify me.
They’re my fiancé’s creations after all.
But somehow, the thought is still unnerving.
As I round toward the studio entrance, a flyer fluttering on a nearby lamppost catches my attention.
Rapture Awaits the Righteous! The Final Purge Is upon Us! But the Lord Has Not Forgotten His People!
Followed by a stylized caricature of me with devil horns and the sharp end of the Holy Lance piercing between my legs.
Flustered, I crumple the paper in my fist and throw it into the nearest garbage. The Righteous are still the evangelical death cult they’ve always been, but how a growing number of people can’t see that concerns me.
And why are they so obsessed with me?
What’s their endgame?
I make my way through the rest of the production complex to Studio 8, where Imani waits for me.
“Careful.” She kisses my cheeks and nods to where Greed is currently shouting at the Vogue photography team. “She’s in a mood.”
I place a hand on Imani’s arm like it might lend me strength.
One of these days I’ll have to get the full story of how she’s survived working for Lucifer this long. I could use a few pointers.
“I said alkaline, you fool!” Greed shouts, tossing the uncapped bottle of non-alkaline water at her quivering PA.
The bottle’s contents go flying.
I let out a heavy sigh.
Like the others, this new assistant won’t last long. Not that I blame her.
I make my way across the all-white studio, signaling to the crew and style team that we’re taking a short break before I mutter a few words of encouragement and directions on where to find the exact right brand of water to Greed’s crying assistant.
She scurries off, and Greed finally flops down in her director’s chair.
“Did you see what those minimalist, lo-fi idiots over at Rolling Stone ran this morning?” She wrinkles her nose. “The nerve of some humans.”
Greed’s not only taken to using me as her personal publicist—only a few more weeks of this hell and counting, and then I’m off scot-free from when she helped me escape the CFDA awards—but she’s also decided I’m what essentially amounts to her celestial therapist.
At least when she isn’t training me to use my “divine abilities.”
That’s a whole other aspect to our relationship.
“Mimi, have you eaten?”
“Why wouldn’t I have?”
I roll my eyes. “Imani, can you—”
“I’m on it,” she calls as she exits the studio.
“You know you get hangry whenever you try not to eat. These detoxes are starting to become a problem.” I shake my head, examining the lighting to see if we can adjust it to be more flattering. These are the sorts of skills I’ve learned since I first started dating Lucifer.
Along with a lot of other things.
Mimi waves a dismissive hand. “Please. Like food will fix this. I’m not a child, Charlotte.”
“Of course.” I smile my best Sunday-morning-greeting grin.
Though the way she bullies me during training definitely reminds me of being a child.
Thankfully, Greed and I have finally made some progress on that front. I’m still not great at harnessing my anger as a fuel for my power, but so far, I can shoot some pretty sick light beams out of my hands, and I’m even starting to be able to wield Lucifer’s shadows.
Apparently, when Lucifer gifted me God’s redemption, he made it so I’m the only immortal, aside from Azrael, capable of navigating all three realms.
Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory (i.e., Earth these days).
Go figure.
Which is exactly why I’m stuck here working for Greed: all the divine favors doing PR for Lucifer’s siblings is affording me, in exchange for their help stopping the apocalypse.
With Fashion Week right around the corner, and all the speculation about if Lucifer and I are still getting married, the PR hours I’ve been pulling for them have been insane. The other Originals have been racking up a helluva tab.
And when the time is right, I’m going to cash in majorly.
Make them help me open the seals for Michael, while Lucifer makes whatever deals are necessary to flip some of Michael’s angelic army to our side.
Team No Apocalypse for the win.
If I can keep them all on our side, that is.
Michael won’t know what hit him.
“So, what’s wrong now? This is your third diva moment this week. Did they forget the titanium straws for your champagne again?”
Greed scowls. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t already know.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Honestly, I don’t, Mimi. Just like I also can’t do anything about Azmodeus upstaging you at the Golden Globes last week, especially since you’re still refusing to tell me who—”
“If you dare accuse me of knowing which one of my idiotic siblings opened the second seal again, I am done with you. Do you hear me?” Greed practically snarls. “I won’t have any more of your amateur sleuthing. Not today. After all, this is your fault.”
“My fault?”
Greed huffs, flopping back into her chair before she shoves her phone in my direction.
Inside Zest: How Greed Built a Billion-Dollar Wellness Empire on Exploitation, Snake Oil, and Silicon Valley Sleaze.
I wince, then lift a brow.
I’m not sure how that has anything to do with me.
Other than it being my job to fix it.
Mimi sticks out her foot to examine the custom art heels she’s wearing—a collab between Christian Louboutin and a Japanese ceramist in prep for Fashion Week. “I couldn’t possibly know what they’re talking about, of course.”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes. She’s that much like Lucifer, refusing to admit any vulnerability. “But I still don’t see what this has to do with—”
“Read the opening lines, Charlotte,” she says, overenunciating each word like she can’t believe how stupid I’m being.
I frown.
This family . . .
I snatch the phone out of her hand.
Culture / Investigation
January Issue
By Riley Vega, Rolling Stone
It turns out the biggest scandal in wellness didn’t start with a faulty jade egg or a recall on astral protein powder.
It started with a religious revelation when a recent viral livestream from Righteous stronghold and evangelical megachurch Victory in His Name revealed former Apollyon intern Charlotte Bellefleur née Davis—daughter of the far-right firebrand, Greed’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, and yes, Lucifer’s fiancée—is immortal.
And once the internet finished spiraling over that, a deeper question began to emerge: If the devil’s bride-to-be has been secretly immortal this whole time .
. . what else are these “people” hiding?
All roads, naturally, led to Zest—Greed’s sprawling self-help empire-slash-luxury cult, hawking $800 “clarity mists” and workshops promising “financial enlightenment through divine femininity.” But behind the crystals and cashmere lies something far more terrestrial: shell companies, labor violations, off-the-books pharmaceutical testing, and a trail of NDAs thick enough to choke an entire Sedona wellness retreat.
It turns out that the devil really is in the details.
I stare at the article, my stomach churning, until a sudden, unexpected round of nausea has me.
“Not on my shoes again!” Greed shrieks.
I drop to my knees and upchuck what remains of my coffee. Imani and then Mia, my assistant—thank God—are at my side a moment later.
“That’s it! You’re fired, Charlotte!” Greed blusters, waving her arms about, like me and my vomit are the most disgusting thing she’s ever seen.
Far worse than the exploitation she’s directly responsible for in this morning’s headlines.
I swipe at my mouth. “You can’t fire me, Mimi. I’m doing this as a favor to repay you. Besides, we have a celestial contract.”
The terms of which I’ve recently learned are enforced by the archangel Gabriel, another one of Lucifer’s siblings.
God’s messenger.
“Maybe not the right time to mention the contract,” Mia mutters, helping me to my feet.
I don’t have the heart to point out to her that for me, this is progress. Six months ago, I was nothing but a terrified mess standing before Greed.
Now look at me.
Confidently vomiting on her couture shoes and everything.
Leaving Mia to deal with the fallout, Imani quickly whisks me out of the room, frog-marching me to one of the nearby dressing rooms before she shoves a bottle of non-alkaline water into my hand and orders me to sit.
I flop back into a makeup chair.
This is so not what I needed this morning.
“We can’t allow them to drag her brand like this. Even if it is a tiny bit—”
“It’s not her brand that’s the problem.” Imani levels me with a hard look.
“Straight talk?” I take a tentative sip.
“Straight talk,” she agrees, before she lets out a long sigh. “This whole debacle with the livestream’s getting in the way of your work. You’re a PR nightmare, Charlotte. Having you near the other Originals is poisoning everything. Their images, their brands.”