The Devil And His Rose

James sat down beside Becca, who was cradling their newborn with such tenderness it made his chest tighten.

She glanced up at him and gave a warm smile, her exhaustion eclipsed by the pride and joy in her eyes.

"She has blonde hair," Becca said softly, her fingers gently brushing the baby's delicate curls. "She must have gotten it from my mother."

James leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the soft tufts of hair. "Don't you think it's looking a little too white, though?" he asked with a quiet laugh, trying to mask the unease that crept into his voice.

Becca chuckled, her smile widening as she shook her head. "Newborns can look like that. Give it time—it'll probably darken a bit."

Her tone was light, reassuring, as if the thought didn't trouble her in the slightest. "Besides, it makes her look like an angel."

James raised an eyebrow, his laugh a little drier this time. "An angel, huh? You're being too kind."

He reached out, his finger lightly grazing the baby's tiny hand. The child's fingers twitched instinctively, gripping him with surprising strength.

Becca's gaze softened, watching the two of them. "You worry too much," she said after a moment. "She's perfect, James. Don't overthink it."

He nodded slowly, though something in the back of his mind wouldn't quiet down. Still, for now, he let it go, focusing on the warmth of the moment as Becca leaned her head against his shoulder, their child nestled safely between them.

How much James wanted things to stay like this forever. The warmth of Becca at his side, the tiny weight of their daughter between them—it felt like peace for the first time in ages.

But his conscience wouldn't let him rest. The lie he carried sat heavy in his chest, twisting every quiet moment into a reminder of what he had done.

How could he lie to her? To Becca—his Becca, the woman who trusted him with everything?

A part of him insisted that silence was the best path forward, that telling her would do more harm than good.

But another part screamed that it was a betrayal to keep her in the dark, especially if one day she woke up to discover the truth on her own—on the day it was too late to fix anything.

His hand tightened on the blanket, his mind racing. Finally, the weight became unbearable.

"Becca," James said, his voice breaking slightly, trembling with uncertainty.

Becca immediately turned to him, the light in her eyes dimming as her brow furrowed. She knew that tone—knew it too well after seven years of marriage.

It was the voice he used when he'd done something reckless, something foolish, something she'd inevitably have to fix.

"What have you done now?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light, though her smile faltered.

She assumed, as always, that it would be some minor catastrophe. James forgetting an important date, or maybe an impulsive decision that would annoy her for a week before they laughed about it.

That's all it could be. Right?

But James didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He didn't even meet her eyes. "I have something to confess," he said, his voice quieter now, raw with guilt.

He kept his gaze on the floor, afraid of what he might see in hers.

Becca's worry deepened. The way he spoke, the way his hands fidgeted—it was wrong.

This wasn't like the usual mistakes he confessed to. This was something else. Something heavier.

"I made a deal," James said finally, his words landing like stones between them. His voice cracked at the edges, and still, he didn't look at her.

Becca froze, her heart stuttering in her chest. For a moment, she didn't respond, her mind trying to piece together what he meant.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, steadier, but edged with something sharp.

"What kind of deal, James?" she asked, the warmth in her tone replaced by something colder, something wary.

Her hands tightened around their child protectively, her breath caught in her throat as she waited for an answer.

"A deal with a demon," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Becca stared at him, the words hanging heavy in the air. At first, she thought it had to be a prank—a silly, ill-timed joke.

James had a habit of messing with her, and this felt like one of those moments. She waited for the laugh, for the smirk, for anything that would break the tension in his expression.

But he didn't laugh. He didn't smirk. He just sat there, guilt etched across every inch of his face.

Her throat tightened, and she had to force herself to speak. "What… what did the creature request?" The question came out strained, almost choked, her voice betraying the growing fear in her chest.

James swallowed hard, his hands trembling as they rested on his knees. He couldn't meet her eyes. "Our daughter," he said, his voice low and heavy. "After she turns 18."

The moment James's words settled, it was as if the world shifted beneath Becca. Her breath hitched, her chest tightening as though all the air had been stolen from the room.

Her hands gripped the hospital sheets so hard her knuckles turned white, trembling uncontrollably as the weight of his betrayal crushed her.

Her mind raced. How could he? How could the man she trusted, the father of her first child, make such a deal? How could he gamble with their daughter's life?

"Becca," James said softly, his voice laced with worry as he leaned closer, his hand reaching out to comfort her.

But the moment his fingers brushed her arm, she recoiled violently, pulling away as though his touch burned. Her wide, tear-filled eyes met his, raw with disbelief and fury.

"Leave," she whispered, her voice cracking as she choked back a sob.

The word carried the full weight of her pain, trembling yet sharp enough to cut.

"Becca…" James began, his tone pleading, but the look in her eyes stopped him cold.

He realized in that moment that nothing he said could undo the damage. Words would only deepen the wound.

For a moment, he stood there, rooted in place, staring at her.

He wanted to explain, to beg, to promise her he'd fix this somehow. But he knew she wasn't ready to hear it.

With a heavy sigh, James rose to his feet. His movements were slow, hesitant, as if hoping she might stop him. She didn't.

At the door, he paused, glancing back at her one last time.

Becca had turned her face away, tears streaming silently down her cheeks as she cradled their daughter protectively in her arms.

James clenched his jaw, the ache in his chest unbearable as he stepped through the doorway, quietly closing the door behind him.