Chapter 5 Ambrose
Ambrose
“Iread your articles. Touching stuff,” I mused, reclining in my chair.
Across from me, Mr. James peered over his notepad with the kind of half-smile people wear when they think they’re clever. He set the pad down, deliberate, like he wanted to remind me he’s not here as a fan—as if his articles did not do that already.
“I’m surprised you read them,” he said. “Have to say, I’m touched.”
“How could I not,” I replied, my tone mild, “when you paint me in such an interesting light?”
He hummed.
“Still, I appreciate you taking time for me today,” he said. “Even if only a few moments.”
“Empires don’t build themselves,” I murmured, glancing toward the glass wall. “The work never stops.”
Through the glass, I spotted Harper, hands on hips, glaring down a printer like it personally offended her ancestors.
Her stiletto heel tapped a steady staccato of growing rage against the tile.
She jabbed a button. Nothing. Kicked it.
Satisfying. She’d always been impatient—with machines, with people, with everything except results.
It’s one of the reasons I would never let her quit, not that she had ever shown anything but eagerness for the job.
I watched longer than I should, then I blinked hard and forced myself back to the room.
James didn’t miss it. “Your empire looks suspiciously like it was built in a day,” he said, voice oily with charm. “Tell me, how did a Hellborne broker so much trust in a city that doesn’t give it freely?”
“I know people.”
His jaw twitched.
“Know them,” he repeated, “or influence them?”
“Influence—” I began, my voice smooth. My eyes drifted back to the door. Harper was still fighting the printer. She kicked it lightly and I struggled to stifle my laugh. I should have bought a new one months ago. “It is part of business.”
“You don’t think that’s a little… underhanded?”
“Only if you’re bad at it.”
“I don’t like games, Ambrose.”
“Then ask the questions you do like, Mr. James.”
He leaned forward. “You’ve been hiding from the spotlight for years, yet your business is booming.
Investors adore you. The media calls you the most eligible man in the City.
And considering your… origins—some might assume you’re spreading those pheromones of yours around.
I mean a demon in the perfume business? A little on the nose if you ask me. ”
There it was.
“Cute,” I said flatly. “Also, a criminal accusation, Mr. James. One where if it were true, would be punishable by law.”
“So, you deny it?”
“I’ve never needed tricks to close a deal. Or a bedroom door.”
A void smile plasters his face. “Ever considered politics?” he asked, trying to recover. “You’re good at sidestepping.”
“I prefer battles with higher stakes.” I looked back to the printer, but Harper was already gone. “At the end of the day,” I said, rising from my chair, letting the silence stretch like a rope he was too eager to tug on, “success comes down to one thing.”
“Let me guess—hard work?”
“No.” I walked to the door but didn’t open it. “Luck. Everything is luck. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling hustle culture or pulling you into a pyramid scheme.”
“And here I thought demons were all about the deals and contracts.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, a slow, faint smile curving my lips. “Even devils get lucky, Mr. James.”
I was almost out of the room when he called after me, voice softer this time, almost tentative.
“One last thing. Do you plan to marry?”
I paused, that familiar tightening in my chest returning. The word echoed unspoken between us. Mate.
My mind wandered to Harper—the subtle scent of exhaustion clinging to her skin, the worn line across her ring finger where, until recently, a ring once sat. People put so much trust in others, and for what? What do those vows for eternal devotion leave you with?
Suffering. And if there is no prenup, financial ruin.
“Perhaps,” I said slowly, “that’s the one thing luck can’t give you.”
“Love?”
“No.” I met his eyes steadily.
“Loyalty.”
I closed the door softly behind me, the hum of the office fading into a dull roar. The faint scent of toner and paper lingered in the air, but beneath it, unmistakably—Harper’s scent, stubborn and alive, threading through the sterile atmosphere like wildflowers in concrete.
Loyalty. The word tasted strange on my tongue, unfamiliar and raw. I’d built everything on control, on power, on knowing every angle. But loyalty? That required something else. Trust. Vulnerability. Something Hellbornes were not usually familiar with—or given the chance to be familiar with.
My mind drifted again to Harper. To her ex. She had promised her future to him. Agreed to marry him. Brought him along to all the company dinners. Even hinted at his work with other perfume companies. And yet despite how much care she poured onto him, their promise of that future fell apart.
The way the thought of her crying made my skin burn with a need to shield her from everything unclean in this world unsettled me.
I stared at the empty pill bottles that scattered my nigh stand. My pheromones burned under my skin, drenching my room in my own scent.
They itched at the surface, begging me to take another dose. Just one. Just enough to dull the edge. To make the need go quiet.
I dragged a shaking hand down my face, trying to breathe through it. But my lungs felt too tight. My body hummed with a craving that feels too close to hunger and too far from anything I could control.
Fuck.
Every day, I told myself I was still in control.
That I was fine. That I didn’t spend every waking minute thinking about all the ways I could ruin Harper and my image right along with her.
I had to lie to myself. Because what happened when the control runs out? When the carefully built image I’d spent years upholding started to crack?
What happened when people found out that I was… broken?
That I was not the polished, measured man on the covers of business journals and investor columns.
No one wanted someone broken. Especially not a Hellborne.
If they ever found out that my pheromones were out of control… it would all unravel. Every deal. Every scrap of credibility. Everything I’d built would vanish. I’d become exactly what they always assumed I was.
Just another demon using his pheromones to get ahead.
Me? Underhanded? I wanted to laugh.
The world was underhanded. Humans were underhanded. But they watched me like I was the only one who might cheat. Like my nature was something I’ll inevitably fall back into.
As if that were all demons could do.
Lie. Cheat. Manipulate.
But what about humans? Did they not do the same?
When I first left hell, I wanted something different. Even as a youngling I knew I could be more than what people said. And yet here I was waiting on a fucking pheromone therapist so I could partake in everything that threatened to unmake me.
I heard the door open followed by the echo of heels clicking on the marble floor.
“Just six sessions,” I muttered to myself, rising from the bed. “Then I can get back to my own life.”
Whatever that meant anymore.
I exhaled, low and controlled, fighting to suppress the scent pouring off me and the need to dominate. I started for the stairs.
“Just six sessions and then—”
It hit me.
That scent.
Her scent.
Fresh. Soft. The smell of a garden in full bloom. Alive. Dangerous.
“Harper…”