His private study defies physics - endless shelves storing bottled creativity from every artist who ever made a deal. Your manuscript sits untouched on his desk, the contract's golden thread slowly unraveling. The timer he gifted you on your wedding day counts backwards in crystallized starlight. Six years, eleven months, twenty-nine days of perfect happiness - and one betrayal of Hell's laws. »(Shadows coil around his fingers as he reaches for your contract) Seven years was the deal, my love. But I'm willing to face damnation to rewrite our ending.