The Devil’s Pawn (The De Vil Dynasty #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

IMOGEN

Oakleigh Hall looms before me, vast and imposing in its sheer scale. Most people would probably find it an impressive-looking building, but all I see is a prison, a life sentence hanging over my head, with no early release for good behavior.

Ominous gray clouds hang low in the sky, swollen with rain yet to fall. Despite it being June, a crisp wind rolls across my shoulders. Perhaps it’s because, according to Mom, we’re only about ten miles from the English Channel. Already, I miss the warmth of the California sun. I turn my face up to the sky, as I would if I were at home. The first fat droplet of rain hits my cheek. I wipe it away, returning my gaze to the gloomy mansion before me.

The residence of the powerful De Vil family will never be home to me.

Never.

Except, once I step through those heavy wooden doors, there is no going back.

Then again, there was no going back long before I set foot on English soil for the first time in my twenty-one years. My father sold me to the De Vil family before I was born, signing a contract that would open up supply chains for his business dealings to Europe and beyond. Refusing to marry the eldest son and breaking that agreement isn’t in the cards.

The stakes for my family are too high a price to pay.

You see, the De Vils are one of the most powerful families in the world, with influence beyond most people’s comprehension. If I refuse to go through with this marriage, my dad told me the De Vils will cut him off from his business contacts, and he’ll lose everything. It doesn’t matter how wealthy my father and his family are. They’re small fry compared to the De Vils. It’s a risk I can’t, and won’t, take.

From as far back as I can remember, my parents were upfront about the part I’m expected to play in this trade off they engineered. That didn’t stop me from having dreams of my own, and as time passed and the eldest son of the De Vils didn’t come for me, I began to hope he never would.

How wrong I was. Doesn’t the Devil always collect his prize?

Last Friday, I graduated from college clutching my precious architectural studies degree. It’s usually a four-year course, but my parents paid for extra tuition to ensure I finished it in three. The grades I got were enough to accept a job with one of the top companies in America—a firm I’d spent a couple of internship placements with during my college years. My intention was to train as an accredited architect while gaining valuable on-the-job experience. Except that night, my parents told me something they never had before.

The contract they’d signed included an agreement that the wedding would take place immediately after I graduated.

I’m still not over the shock or the speed of it all. It’s happening so fast that Emma, my best friend, can’t be here to support me as my maid of honor. Nor can any of my other college friends make it. They’re already diving headfirst into their new lives off college campus, either taking a year off to travel, or starting their careers. Mom’s excuse was that she wanted me to enjoy my time at college like any other girl my age, without having the expectation of marriage hanging over my head. It’s a noble reason, but it doesn’t make me any less infuriated that my parents kept such an important detail from me.

My stomach somersaults at the thought of how different my life will now be from that of my friends. How envious I am of them. How that envy curdles in my gut and leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I’m not one to wallow in self-pity, but all that’s run through my mind since Friday night has been a single thought of… why me?

I glance at my father. He catches me looking and pats my hand, as if that will make everything better. It won’t. It doesn’t. But right now, my wants are non-existent. I smile anyway. To him, this marriage is a good thing. A union between Alexander De Vil and me will open even more doors for my father, as well as providing me with a life of privilege and luxury. In return, I’m expected to produce an heir and a spare to continue the De Vil legacy.

That’s their plan.

It isn’t mine.

I may not have a choice other than to go through with the wedding, but I refuse to accept that this is it. That this is my life until the day I die. My brain has been in overdrive for the last five days, trying to find a way out, to prove that I’m not as powerless as I fear I might be.

My father determined my future before I’d taken a single breath, but futures change. Mine will change. It has to. Zenith, the company I intended to work for, has given me three months to accept the job, or they’ll have to offer it to someone else.

There’s only one way for me to get out of this marriage: Alexander De Vil must end it.

And he will.

I’ll make certain of it.

Somehow.

The problem is, I don’t know how to make that happen, and if I can’t come up with a solution soon, I’ll lose everything that matters to me. A chance to make an independent life for myself in a career that means something. That makes a difference in this world.

A man wearing a smart, dark gray suit, white shirt, and green tie opens the imposing front door when we’re still several feet away. He’s balding, but he wears it well. A far younger man scurries past him, beelining for our car. He has the luggage out of the trunk in a flash. I’ve traveled lightly. Most of my stuff is coming next week. The instructions Alexander left with my parents were clear: the De Vils have organized everything for this coming Saturday, including my wedding dress.

“Mr. and Mrs. Salinger.” The elder man bows his head and steps back. “Miss Imogen, please, do come in. Mr. De Vil has instructed I take you straight through to the living room.”

I feel as though someone has dropped me right in the middle of Downton Abbey. Will everyone be this stuffy, or is it just this guy? A shiver runs through me. I’ll be an outsider, a stranger. Will the staff be cold and standoffish? Or will they welcome me with open arms ?

Panic rises within me, flattening my lungs. I break out in a cold sweat, the kind that appears right before you’re about to throw up. It’s happening. That thing which has always hovered in the background like an unspeakable secret.

You’re okay, Imogen. You’re a fucking warrior. You’ll survive this. It’s not forever.

It is not forever.

I’ll do whatever needs to be done to make my escape and keep my father in the good graces of the De Vils. After all, if Alexander is the one to end this sham of a marriage, he’ll be the bad guy, and I’ll look like the poor little victim, dumped by her powerful, billionaire husband.

The grand entranceway is possibly the most intimidating space I’ve ever been in. The ceiling must be a hundred feet high, with crystal chandeliers hanging at precise intervals. Ahead, there’s a wide staircase sweeping off to the left and the right. The old, oak chevron flooring looks as if someone got down on their hands and knees and polished it for days. A grand piano sits off to one side, and a crystal vase with white flowers and green foliage proudly rests on top.

“Follow me, please.”

Our greeter—butler?—strides to the grand staircase and sweeps up to the second floor. Mom and Dad follow, gushing about how beautiful the interior of Oakleigh is while asking questions about the hall’s heritage. I trail behind, taking in my surroundings. This isn’t a home. It’s too big, too impersonal, too cold .

A bout of homesickness hits me, and I clutch myself around the middle.

We pass by so many doors and make so many turns, I know I wouldn’t be able to find the exit if someone dropped a billion dollars in my lap and told me to run. Maybe that’s their strategy. Once you’re in here, it’s impossible to find the way out.

Eventually, the guy—I decide to call him the manservant—stops outside a set of paneled double doors made from a dark wood. A black walnut, maybe. He raps twice on the door, then opens them both in a sweeping motion and enters.

“Mr. De Vil. I have Mr. and Mrs. Salinger and Miss Imogen.”

Okay, this Miss Imogen bullshit is going to get old real fast. “Just Imogen,” I mutter before I’ve even set eyes on who is in the room.

Moving alongside my parents, I take a peek. Two men rise to their feet from identical high-backed chairs set on either side of an enormous fireplace. A real fire burns in the grate, even though it’s summer, lending warmth to the room. Unlike the formal, cold entrance hallway, this room is lovely. Light floods in through several large sash windows, despite the gray clouds blanketing the sky, and the furniture isn’t as stark and traditional as what greeted me earlier. It’s cozy, with squishy couches adorned with scatter cushions in bright colors, set around a smoked glass coffee table. In the center of the table is an open box of cigars, although neither man is smoking.

This isn’t the first time I’ve seen what Alexander De Vil looks like, but checking out the occasional formal photograph on the internet does not remotely prepare me for meeting the man in person.

His tall, imposing figure and handsome face sucks all the oxygen from the room. He’s dressed in an open-necked, pale blue shirt and dark pants, and his shoes are so highly polished, I bet I could see my reflection in them.

One glance at his father, and it’s obvious where Alexander gets his looks from. Charles De Vil has aged well, with salt-and-pepper dark hair and good looks the passage of time has barely touched. That’s either down to good genes, or he’s got Botox on speed dial.

“Jessica, Scott, welcome to our home.” Charles beams, hand outstretched. He shakes my father’s first, then my mother’s. “I can’t believe it’s taken a wedding to get you here.” He laughs.

As far as I know, we’ve never received an invitation before, but I choose not to bring that up, mainly because I don’t want to embarrass my parents. My father has drummed into me how he expects me to behave.

“And Imogen… my, what a beauty you’ve grown into.”

“Thank you, Mr. De Vil,” I answer in a manner to please my parents.

“Charles, please. After all, you’ll be my daughter-in-law in four short days.”

My stomach tilts. Four days. Ninety-six hours… and three months to make my husband demand a divorce before the one thing I want more than anything else in the world is taken from me.

My eyes drift to Alexander. Unlike his father, he hasn’t moved since he stood. His hands are behind his back, presumably laced together, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking with that blank expression. As if he senses my gaze on him, his eyes meet mine, his stare penetrating.

A shiver runs up my spine. As much as I’ve tried to put on a brave face, if only to convince myself I’ll be fine, one hard glare from my future husband, and I’m overcome with an urge to flee. Screw Daddy, screw Alexander De Vil, and screw the stupid contract my father signed twenty-two years ago.

Except, I can’t. For all I know, Dad could lose more than his business. He could lose his life, too. I don’t know a lot about how it all works, but from what little research I’ve managed to do, the De Vil family belong to a group called The Consortium, along with nine other families from across the globe. I’m unsure what that means in reality, but what I do know is that their power reaches far and wide. If I dig my heels in and refuse to go through with this wedding, Lord only knows what they’ll do to my dad. This family doesn’t operate within the boundaries of the law. It’s the law that operates within their boundaries.

However anxious I am, I’m sticking to the plan. Once the wedding is over and my parents are back home in California, I’ll figure out the right course of action and slowly but surely chip away until he realizes I’m not worth the trouble. At thirty-five, Alexander is a lot older than me. Maybe I can play on the age difference—infuriate him with some childish antics and make him believe I’m too immature for his tastes. It’ll be a lie, of course. My friends often joke that I’m old before my time, but if it helps me to escape this marriage sooner, I’ll play the part of an infantile brat.

Charles places his hand on my lower back and urges me in Alexander’s direction. The introductions are awkward, Alexander’s hand cool as he shakes mine. To think, in a few short days, it’s expected I’ll sleep with this stranger.

I feel sick at the thought.

My parents shake his hand, too, and I can’t help wondering if they’re thinking the same as me and it might give them pause. But one look at their beaming smiles, and that thread of hope snaps as easily as a brittle twig .

“Why don’t we all sit?” Charles gestures to the couch nearest to his chair. “What would you like to drink? Tea? Coffee? A whiskey, perhaps?”

It’s all so… normal. Anyone would think we were here for a regular business meeting rather than engaging in what amounts to little more than my father trading my life for his gain. Harsh, considering I’ve always known this is my fate, maybe, but let’s call it like it is.

“Coffee sounds lovely,” Mom pipes up. “But I’m sure Scott wouldn’t say no to something a little stronger.”

Dad’s easy laugh is a dagger to my heart. I wasn’t sure how he’d react when this day finally came, and I guess a part of me had hoped he’d be a little more… reserved. Instead, he’s practically crawling up Charles De Vil’s ass.

Mom isn’t much better, fluttering her eyelashes at Charles, and giggling as if she’s eighteen rather than forty-four.

But whatever they’ve done, I love my parents. They might have benefitted from this agreement, but they truly believe they’re securing a wonderful future for me by pressing ahead with this marriage.

Charles orders the manservant, whose name I learn is Alan, to fetch the drinks. Meanwhile, I sit in silence, picking at a loose thread on my knee-length, bright yellow dress scattered with blue forget-me-nots. It’s nothing like I’d have chosen to wear if anyone had bothered to ask me. It’s far too bright to suit my mood. Gray would have been better. Or black for mourning.

When I raise my gaze, Alexander’s eyes are on me, his face a blank canvas . Despite my earlier pledge to play the long game, I glower. One side of his mouth curls in to an almost smile .

Or it could be gas. Who’s to know?

Irritated by his continued silence, my promises to play the respectful and compliant fiancée scatter like dust motes in the air.

“So…” I stare daggers at my future husband. “Have you mastered the art of thrilling conversation, or is this performance a special treat just for me?”