The Devil Wears a Signature Ring

Name: The Devil Wears a Signature Ring
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Dennis T. Morgan

Romance | Ongoing

5.0

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The Devil Wears a Signature Ring A dark, seductive thriller where fashion hides secrets-and power demands a price. He rules the world of couture with charm, secrets, and a signature ring forged in blood. She's the only one brave-or foolish-enough to challenge him. When sharp-tongued investigative journalist Isla Monroe stumbles upon whispers of a secret society buried deep within the fashion elite, she sets her sights on Luca Devereaux, the mysterious CEO of Devereaux Atelier. Handsome, cold, and dangerously influential, Luca wears more than designer suits-he wears a ring bound to a legacy of ruthless ambition and unspeakable darkness. Every clue Isla uncovers draws her further into a world of opulence and obsession, where powerful men play god behind velvet curtains-and where those who get too close rarely make it out alive. But Islam is no stranger to danger, and she's not backing down-until the game turns personal. Because Luca is watching her. Testing her. Saving her... or setting her up. As passion blurs the line between truth and manipulation, Isla must uncover what the ring truly represents-before it claims her soul like it has every wearer before her.

Crime Modern Betrayal Revenge Playboy Attractive Age gap Queen Revenge

Chapter 5 The Mirror Between Us

The day before yesterday 15:51

Chapter 1 The Man with the Ring

The sky above Paris was ink-stained and brooding, clouds heavy with the weight of a spring storm waiting to snap. Rain misted the cobblestone streets of the 8th arrondissement, painting the city in shades of silver and secrecy. Somewhere behind the iron gates of the Palais Devereaux, where the elite sipped vintage champagne and models moved like whispers, a new mystery was about to be born.

Isla Monroe's heels clicked with determined precision as she strode past a gilded mirror in the foyer of the Grand Palais, where Devereaux Atelier's invitation-only fashion show was being hosted. She caught a glimpse of herself-black sheath dress, coat draped over her arm, and the signature red lipstick she wore when she needed courage. Her press badge, falsified but flawless, hung like a key to danger from the lanyard around her neck.

She wasn't here for the runway.

She was here for him.

Luca Devereaux.

A name whispered in the corners of the fashion world with reverence, fear, and a touch of erotic fascination. The man who turned thread into desire and models into goddesses. CEO. Icon. Enigma. And if the leads Isla had been chasing were true-kingpin of a clandestine society that pulled strings far beyond fashion.

She'd heard stories. That he never removed his ring. That it was forged centuries ago in blood and gold. That every wearer before him had died mysteriously, their names scrubbed clean from history, their legacies swallowed by fire.

Isla didn't believe in curses. But she believed in power. And Devereaux had it in spades.

The fashion show opened like a dagger. Lights dimmed, a cello moaned, and the first model emerged draped in molten silk and shadows. But Isla wasn't watching the runway. She scanned the private balcony that overlooked the venue.

There.

He was shadowed in gold and glass, seated alone in a high-backed chair like a sovereign on a throne. Luca Devereaux. Tall, immaculately tailored in black with a midnight blue handkerchief and a watch that cost more than her apartment. But it was the ring that caught the light-the obsidian stone set in a dark band, gleaming like a secret.

She stared too long. He looked down.

And their eyes locked.

Isla's breath hitched. Luca tilted his head ever so slightly, like a predator registering movement in the grass. One heartbeat. Two. Then a subtle, impossible smile curled on his lips-as if he knew exactly who she was.

And what she wanted.

The after-party was held at an underground gallery just off Rue Saint-Honoré, a hidden space lacquered in black glass, velvet, and whispered invitation. Isla had slipped in before the main crowd arrived, using a hacked guest list and nerves of steel. She moved through the room like smoke-silent, intentional, collecting glances but offering none.

She spotted Marcus Bellamy near the bar, Luca's personal assistant-slash-enforcer, known for his brutal efficiency and disarming charm. He was laughing with two models but scanning the crowd like a hawk. Security detail, no doubt. That meant Luca was already here.

Isla edged toward the back, where the VIP area was roped off by a single velvet cord and two guards in black suits. She clutched her clutch tighter, her fingers brushing the voice recorder hidden in its lining.

"You're not on the list," one of the guards said, stepping forward.

"I'm not supposed to be," Isla replied, tone cool, unbothered. "But I was told Luca Devereaux would want to speak with me."

The guard raised an eyebrow. "By whom?"

"Luca Devereaux."

Before he could respond, a voice as smooth as aged whiskey cut through the ambient music.

"Let her in."

Isla turned.

He was there. In the flesh. Closer than he'd ever been. Luca Devereaux wasn't just beautiful-he was arrested. Sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes like storm clouds, and a stillness that suggested he could command silence with a look. He gestured with two fingers. The velvet cord dropped.

She stepped inside.

"You've been following me," Luca said casually, as if they were old lovers reuniting over cocktails.

They stood in a corner booth cloaked in shadows. A single low light illuminated his face, cutting across his features like a painting.

"Curious choice of words for someone in fashion," Isla replied, settling across from him. "Some would call it journalism."

"And some would call it trespassing."

His tone was dry, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He picked up his glass-a deep red wine-and sipped slowly. Isla couldn't look away from the ring.

"What do you want, Miss Monroe?"

"The truth."

"About what?"

"About the Atelier. The ring. The rumors. The disappearances."

Luca leaned forward, placing the glass on the table with surgical grace.

"That's quite a list."

"I'm good with puzzles."

"And terrible with boundaries."

Isla shrugged. "Occupational hazard."

He chuckled low, the sound like velvet pulled tight. Then he reached across the table-his fingers brushed hers. Cold. Deliberate. The ring tapped against her knuckles.

"Let me give you a piece of advice," Luca said. "There are stories that exist to entertain. And there are stories that exist to protect people from the truth. You're digging in the wrong cemetery."

"Am I?" Or did I just find the body?"

Something flickered in his eyes-gone in a second.

She pressed on. "Why don't you take the ring off?"

"Because I made a vow."

"To whom?"

"To the devil."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Isla felt a chill brush her spine. Not from fear-from something deeper. Recognition. She was looking at a man who believed what he said.

And that made him dangerous.

Later, as Isla stood alone on the gallery balcony, the rain finally broke above Paris. It drummed against the glass, slicking the streets below with reflections of gold and blood. She pulled her coat tighter, trying to focus, trying to breathe.

She should leave. She had enough to write a piece that would rattle the front page. The quote alone would send her editor into cardiac arrest.

But instead of heading for the door, she opened her phone. One message blinked in from Elias.

Sis. Stop chasing ghosts. Call me back. We need to talk about Mom.

She ignored it.

Something rustled behind her.

She turned.

Luca stood in the doorway, silent as a shadow, watching her with that same unreadable expression. He stepped forward slowly, the ring catching the city lights like a wink from something ancient.

"Still curious?" he asked.

Isla's heart thudded. She didn't trust him. Not his words, not his smile, and definitely not that ring.

But God help her, she was curious.

"I want to see the truth," she said.

Luca nodded once. "Then come with me."

She hesitated for only a second.

And followed him into the dark.