Chapter 38 Seventy Wishes, One Hundred Fifty-Three Days
Ravial stood a few feet away, hands behind his back, blindfold in place, watching her without moving.
Leitana sat on the small velvet stool, clutching the bucket with both hands like a child holding something too precious to let go.
The bucket was the size of a big coffee mug (small enough for her to hold easily, big enough to feel important).
It was made of pure platinum.
The entire outside was completely covered in tiny, sparkling diamonds, so many that you couldn’t see any metal at all; just a solid, blinding shine.
On top of the lid sat one big, deep-red ruby shaped like a heart.
When she turned it even a little, the diamonds flashed like sunlight on water.
Inside, the bucket was lined with soft rose gold. Empty. Waiting.
Next to it on the tray: one thin, clear diamond card (like a very small, see-through piece of glass) and a gold pen with a diamond tip.
Her tears kept falling, dripping onto the diamonds and sliding off.
Ravial spoke, voice low and calm, no extra softness, just fact.
“Write what you want. Anything. One wish at a time. Scratch it into that diamond card with the pen, drop it inside. It’s mine to give you. Starting now.”
He didn’t move to comfort her.
He didn’t smile.
He just stood there, tall and still, letting her cry while she held the most expensive, heartbreaking toy anyone had ever made.
In his head, the math was simple and brutal:
One hundred and fifty-three days left.
This little bucket will hold seventy wishes at most.
She won’t even get halfway.
Leitana wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, picked up the diamond card, and started writing, the stylus shaking between her fingers.
Leitana’s fingers shook so hard the diamond card rattled against the tray.
She pressed the stylus down, scratched a few careful words, then stopped.
Scratched again.
Her lips moved silently, like she was praying over each letter.
When she finished, her hand hovered over the slot, afraid to let go.
Ravial watched without a word, arms still folded behind his back.
Finally she lifted the thin plaque toward him, eyes wide and wet, offering it like a confession.
He stepped forward once, took it between two fingers, and tilted it to the light.
Whatever was carved there made the air change.
For the first time since they walked into the room, something shifted behind the blindfold (a flicker, a tightening of his jaw, the smallest intake of breath).
Not anger.
Not amusement.
Something deeper. Something almost…. caught off guard.
He stared at the words a long second.
Then he gave one sharp nod, the kind a king gives when he has just been given an order he intends to obey.
Without speaking, he lowered the plaque through the slot himself.
It fell with a single, perfect clink against the rose-gold bottom.
Leitana looked up at him, tears still clinging to her lashes, but now her mouth curved into the softest, shyest smile, like sunrise breaking over still water.
Ravial’s fingers brushed the ruby on the lid, sealing the promise.
Whatever she had asked for, it was already done.
And the Devil had just knelt to a wish he never saw coming.
They stepped out of the building into the golden afternoon light.
Leitana inhaled deeply, the fresh air filling her lungs, then turned to Ravial. He stood a few feet away, speaking in low tones to two of his men.
The one she always saw closest to him (tall, scarred, quiet) glanced down at her for a split second. Surprise flickered across his hard face, gone so fast she almost thought she’d imagined it.
Curiosity sparked inside her chest.
What were they talking about?
Was it her?
She tilted her head, straining to catch a word, but the conversation ended. The men gave short nods, climbed into their cars, and shut the doors. Three black SUVs in total: one for them, two trailing behind like silent shadows.
Her cheeks burned at the memory of earlier (when Ravial had pulled over on that quiet road, the entourage stopping behind them). Had they known why? Had they guessed what he was doing to her in the front seat? The thought made her want to sink into the ground.
She shoved the embarrassment away and focused on his back instead.
The white shirt stretched tight across his shoulders, every muscle outlined, almost indecent in the sunlight.
Then she remembered the words she’d scratched into the diamond card.
Her heart skipped.
She ran to him, the bucket clinking wildly, diamond plaque rattling inside like a tiny bell.
Before he could turn fully, she grabbed his hand.
He went rigid (every line of his body locking) then slowly looked down at their joined fingers, then up at her face.
She beamed, huge and unguarded.
Something dark and unreadable flashed behind the blindfold.
He had never (not once) let anyone hold his hand in public.
The urge to pull away was immediate, violent.
But the vow he’d made over that diamond plaque was stronger.
Death would have been easier.
This was torture.
Still, he let her keep his hand.
“Let’s go,” she said happily, already tugging him toward the wide, sun-drenched walkway.
He exhaled once (slow, controlled) and let the little star drag him into the light.
He had braced himself for yachts, private jets, crowns of diamonds.
Things he could buy and be done with.
Instead she had asked for the one thing money couldn’t purchase:
the sight of Ravial Ashbourne, blindfolded devil of Wall Street, walking hand-in-hand with his wife like any other man.
Every step felt like walking across hot coals.
He kept his pace slow on purpose, forcing her to stay close.
Each time someone passed, he yanked her against his side, arm snapping around her waist, fingers digging possessively into the dip above her hip.
Look again, his grip said, and I’ll dig your eyes out with a spoon.
She only laughed, breathless and clueless, thinking he was being playful.
And for the first time in his life, Ravial Ashbourne walked down a public street holding someone’s hand,
hating every second,
and refusing to let go.
After the third time, she huffed, “Yu walking too slow, Ravial!” and slipped free.
Then she was off, skipping ahead, the diamond bucket swinging from her wrist.
Ravial stopped dead.
He watched her go.
The sundress fluttered high on her thighs with every bounce.
Her hair, thick, black, wild, spilled down to the curve of her ass and moved like it had its own heartbeat.
Sunlight poured over her skin and turned her into something unholy.
Phones rose like weapons.
People knew him instantly: Ravial Ashbourne, blindfold, Forbes’ third most beautiful monster alive.
Then they realised the girl dancing ten feet ahead was his wife.
His wife.
The shift in attention was instant, hungry.
Cameras swung to her.
Lenses zoomed.
Whispers turned to murmurs turned to gasps.
Ravial’s pulse went very quiet.
He resumed walking, slower now, each step measured.
Behind the blindfold his thoughts were flat, surgical, already counting.
Twenty-seven phones in sight.
Three professional cameras.
Every single image of her would be wiped from existence by midnight.
Every photographer who posted her face would wake up tomorrow unable to hold a camera again.
Quiet.
Efficient.
Permanent.
She spun back toward him, laughing, arms wide, bucket flashing.
“Come, Ravial! Faster!”
He didn’t smile.
He simply closed the distance in three long strides, caught her wrist, and yanked her back against his chest so hard the air left her lungs in a soft gasp.
His mouth brushed her ear, voice low enough only she could hear.
“Keep skipping ahead like that, baby, and I’ll put a leash on this pretty neck so the whole world knows exactly who you answer to.”
His thumb stroked once over her pulse, slow, rough.
Then he let go, laced their fingers again, and tugged her forward.
She was still smiling, chee
ks flushed, thinking it was a game.
He wasn’t smiling at all.
And every phone that caught the moment just filmed the exact second the Devil marked his territory in front of the sun.