Chapter 2

"I'm getting married in two months."

The phone line dead-ended into absolute silence. Then Jade’s voice exploded through the speaker, sharp enough to make me flinch. "What do you mean you're getting married? Ariana, you don't even have a boyfriend!"

"I got sold, Jade," I said. The words tasted like ash in my mouth. I pressed my back hard against the bedroom wall, my fingernails digging into the drywall just to keep my hands from shaking. "To a man I've never met. A billionaire."

"Stop joking. Where is this coming from?"

"I'm not joking."

I told her. Every humiliating detail. The paper-thin threat against Whitney, the way my mother wouldn't even meet my eyes, and the lawyer who talked about my life like he was appraising a piece of furniture.

By the time I stopped talking, my chest felt hollowed out, my breathing short and shallow.

"Your mum agreed to this?!" Jade was practically breathing fire into the receiver. "She auctioned you off?!"

A hot tear spilled over my lashes, tracking down my cheek before I could swipe it away. "If I run, Jade, they take Whitney. She's fourteen. I can't let them destroy her."

"Listen to me," Jade’s voice shifted, dropping into a fierce, protective growl. "You are not sitting in that dark room drowning in this tonight. Put something on. We are going out."

"Jade, no. My head is spinning, I can't—"

"New spot on York Street. Opening night. Put on that red dress you made for your project. I’ll meet you there in thirty."

"Jade—"

Click.

The line went dead.

I didn't just put on a dress; I pulled up my laptop first. I typed Damien Voss into the search bar. High-profile headlines flooded the screen: Voss Enterprises Secures $2B Merger, The Reclusive Heir Who Refuses Media Interviews. He was ruthless, untouchable, and calculated.

I slammed the laptop shut and walked to my closet. Reaching for the red leather dress I had hand-stitched for my design final—the one with the sharp silhouette and plunging line—I slipped into it like armor. If a billionaire thought he was buying a meek girl who would hide in the dark, he was mistaken. Tonight was my last stand as an independent woman, and I was going out looking dangerous.

Thirty minutes later, the bass from The Velvet Vault hit my chest like a physical punch.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, spilled bourbon, and sweat. Jade was already at the bar, looking lethal in a slate-blue dress, sliding a shot glass across the sticky marble counter toward me.

"Drink," she ordered.

I didn't argue. I threw the vodka back in one gulp. Fire burned down my throat, searing away the lump that had been lodged there all afternoon.

For twenty minutes, I let the music swallow me. I danced until my feet ached, letting the heavy bass drown out the memory of my mother's crying and the cold weight of that contract.

Then, a voice cut right through the noise, dropping low behind my ear.

"Can I have this dance?"

A cold shiver ran up the back of my neck. I spun around.

The man standing there felt like a nightmare dressed in tailored wool—custom suit, pitch-black hair, and a diamond Rolex that caught the strobe lights. But it was his eyes that made my skin crawl. Dark, sharp, and totally devoid of warmth.

"No," I said, my teeth clenching.

A slow, deliberate smile touched his lips. He took a heavy step forward, closing the space between us until I could feel the heat radiating off him.

"I didn't know you looked this hot in red," he murmured. His eyes dragged down the open neckline of my dress, heavy and possessive. "Next time, don't wear something so revealing."

A sudden wave of rage flooded my veins. "Who the hell are you to tell me what to wear?"

He didn't answer. He just held my gaze for one long, suffocating second, turned, and disappeared into the shadows of the VIP lounge.

My skin felt dirty where his eyes had touched.

An hour and three drinks later, the alcohol hit me like a brick wall. My knees felt soft, my stomach turning, and I excused myself to hunt down the restroom at the back of the venue.

The hallway was dim, smelling of bleach and stale beer. I was standing near the service exit, waiting my turn, when two massive hands suddenly clamped onto my waist from behind, slamming me hard against the brick wall.

All the air blew out of my lungs.

"Hey, beautiful," a foul, alcohol-soaked breath scraped against my jaw.

"Get off me!" I shoved at his chest with everything I had, but he didn't budge. Panic erupted in my chest like a flare—wild, blinding fear. His mouth pressed roughly against my neck, his weight pinning me down. "Let me go!"

Before I could scream, a heavy fist flew over my shoulder, cracking straight into the guy's jaw with a sickening thud.

The man went limp, crashing heavily to the floor with a groan.

I slid down the wall, my chest heaving, my eyes wide and frantic. Standing over the body was the man in the black suit. His knuckles were raw, his expression thunderous.

"Are you hurt?" He stepped closer, his hands hovering inches from my arms, scanning every inch of my body. "Did he touch you, Ariana?"

For a fraction of a second, the icy mask on his face cracked. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek, and his breathing was jagged—not from the fight, but from a dark, genuine rage at what had almost happened. Beneath his ruthless exterior sat a man who possessed a strict, unyielding code: he abhorred predators. He reached a hand out, his fingers hovering half an inch from my trembling shoulder, suppressing the urge to pull me close before he pulled his hand back into a tight fist.

The relief in my chest withered instantly. Cold terror took its place.

"How do you know my name?" My voice came out as a broken rasp. I scrambled back, my shoulder hitting the wall. "I never gave you my name."

He looked down at me, his dark eyes completely unreadable under the hallway light. "You'll find out soon."

Then, the world tilted. My vision blurred into black, the floor seemed to drop out from beneath my feet, and everything went silent.

My alarm shrieked at 6:00 AM.

I bolted upright, my heart slamming into my ribs like a trapped bird. My head pounded violently. Beside me, Jade was fast asleep, still wrapped in her blue dress.

How did I get here? Who was that man?

A soft, hesitant knock sounded at my door. Whitney peeked her head in, holding a heavy cream envelope.

"Mum said this came for you," she whispered. She looked at Jade, then stepped into the room and threw her arms around my neck, squeezing me so hard I could barely breathe. "I'm sorry, Ari," she sobbed softly into my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

My throat tightened until it hurt. I wrapped my arms around her small shoulders, burying my face in her hair. "I've got you," I whispered back, my voice shaking. "Don't worry. I've got you."

She wiped her eyes and slipped out.

I broke the wax seal on the envelope. Printed in raised gold letters:

VOSS ENTERPRISES

Executive Suite — Floor 40

12:00 PM Sharp.

Damien Voss.

The man who bought me. The man who thought he owned me.

I crumpled the card in my fist, pulled the blanket over my head, and didn't move until noon.

By 2:00 PM, I shoved open the heavy glass doors of Voss Enterprises. Two hours late.

My heart was hammering a furious beat against my ribs, but I forced my chin up. The building was an obscene display of wealth—gold-plated elevators, towering marble columns, and glass that looked out over the entire city.

The executive secretary didn't even check my name. She just took one look at my red dress, swallowed nervously, and pointed toward the massive oak doors at the end of the hall.

I didn't knock. I grabbed the brass handle and shoved the door open.

The office was huge, freezing cold, and drowned in silence. Behind a massive mahogany desk sat a leather chair, turned completely toward the floor-to-ceiling window, showing only the back of a man's head.

"Sit," a deep, quiet voice commanded.

"I'm not a dog you get to command, Mr. Voss," I spat, my hands curling into tight fists at my sides.

A low, smooth chuckle drifted through the air, sending a sudden spike of dread straight down my spine.

"That isn't a very grateful way to address the man who pulled a predator off you last night... is it, Ariana?"

The leather chair slowly, deliberately rotated around.

Every drop of blood drained from my face. My knees gave out, and I had to grab the frame of the doorway just to stay upright.

Sitting behind the desk, unbuttoning his charcoal suit jacket with agonizing slowness, was the man from the club. The man who had stared at my dress. The man who knew my name before I ever spoke it.

"You..." The word died in my throat.

Damien Voss leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished desk, his icy eyes locking onto mine like a trap snapping shut.

"Welcome to your new life, sweetheart," he whispered. "You're late."