Percival

"So, it's marry or go broke?" Ava stared at Thomas Moore, her fifty-something manager, like he'd sprouted horns.

"That's right." He sipped coffee as if dictating their lives was routine. "We market you two as the ultimate writer power-couple. Social media followings combined? Explosive. In fact," he waved his phone casually, "the engagement announcement's already gone live. Venue booked. Cake flavors chosen. Trending number three worldwide."

"But Leo's my best friend! We write in opposite genres!" Ava's voice cracked. Beside her, Leo Vance—infuriatingly calm—said nothing.

Thomas pushed his glasses down his nose. "You were nobodies. I made you bestsellers. You owe me your lifestyle."

"You can't force—"

"Oh, I can." His smile was knife-thin. "Fight, sulk, I don't care. But this marriage is happening. I already told Vogue you're giving them an exclusive."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Ava spun on Leo. "Unbelievable. You just sat there."

"I was processing," he said, defensive.

"Processing? While he basically ordered us to play house?"

He crossed his arms. "I didn't hear you suggesting an escape plan."

"I was too busy trying to keep us alive!"

They'd been best friends since a writer's conference five years ago—coffee-fueled deadlines, scathing reviews, endless laughter. And the unspoken torture of not admitting they were in love. But this? Marriage-for-marketing? That was new.

Later, Ava sat cross-legged on her floor, glaring at a blinking cursor. The submission deadline was approaching, and she needed a plot twist: a princess, a pauper, a cunning friend. But something was missing.

What if the friend was secretly a demon in love with the princess?

Grinning, she typed into her search bar: how to summon a demon boyfriend.

The page stalled. She got up to check the Wi-Fi. It was working just fine. She sighed and poured orange juice from the kitchen cabinet. Her phone buzzed: Leo.

"What if we stage a public fight? A wine-throwing scandal?"

"Thomas would spin it as cute," Ava muttered, hunting snacks.

"Okay, new publisher?"

"We already signed. We're trapped. Shit!"

The orange juice spilled across her keyboard. She cursed, wiping it hastily—too distracted to notice the website had loaded. The cursor hovered over a glowing red button:

SUMMON NOW.

A thunderclap shook the room. The Wi-Fi screamed. Smoke burst from the screen. The call cut out. And in her living room stood a man—absurdly handsome, golden-eyed, shadows behind him clapping politely. His curls twitched, rearranging themselves into tiny horn-shapes when he smirked.

On his shoulder perched a bright blue parrot.

"Thief!" Ava shrieked, hurling her glass, running to the door. The door wouldn't budge.

"I'm not a thief," the man snapped. "I'm Azazel. Your demon boyfriend. Why would you summon me just to attack me?"

"I didn't summon anyone!"

Azazel pointed at her laptop. The glowing site pulsed menacingly.

"This was a mistake. Please go back!"

"Not an option, mortal." He stroked the parrot's feathers.

The parrot squawked. Then spoke. "You two are bonded for life!"