chapter 2:My debt ,your demand

Ariana woke abruptly to a silence so deep it felt like a vault. The guest suite was massive, all white leather, cold marble, and floor-to-ceiling glass that offered a dizzying, contemptuous view of Manhattan.

She bolted upright. Her body ached, but the memory of Simon’s betrayal and the alley terror was worse. She wasn't wearing her ruined dress; she was in soft silk pajamas that smelled impossibly clean and expensive.

The door clicked open, and Lucas Hill entered. He didn't walk; he commanded the space, making the huge room feel instantly smaller. He was in dark, tailored chinos and a crisp white shirt that emphasized the sheer, controlled power of his build. He carried a silver tray—coffee and a bowl of fresh berries—and the simple, domestic gesture felt bizarrely intimate coming from a man who looked like he belonged on a throne.

“You’re awake,” he stated, his voice flat. “Take the coffee. You have a meeting in forty minutes.”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do!” Ariana snapped, pushing off the bed. Her head swam, but she straightened her spine, replacing fear with pure defiance. “Where is my phone? I’m going home. I'll handle the media firestorm myself.”

“You are in my penthouse. Your phone is secured. And no, you are not leaving.” Lucas leaned against the marble counter, his gray eyes pinning her in place. “Your escape last night was chaotic. It put the entire Carter empire at risk. You don’t leave this penthouse until I decide the threat is gone.”

“My chaos?” The accusation hit hard. “My fiancé—the man you were happy to shake hands with—was sleeping with corporate rivals! I’m allowed a breakdown after that kind of calculated cruelty!”

“Emotion is irrelevant here,” Lucas countered, his voice like surgical steel. “Your tantrum provided Simon Vance the exact opening he needed for phase two of his plan.”

Ariana stared. “Phase two? He lost a fiancée, not a war.”

Lucas took two steps, closing the distance between them until the air felt tight and charged, the dangerous heat of him radiating off his body. “Simon Vance is a snake aligned with The Hawthorne Group—a consortium specializing in hostile corporate raids. The moment you publicly broke the engagement, you handed them the legal loophole to launch an aggressive acquisition bid against the Carter Group. Your substantial personal shares are the weak point. If we don’t close that loophole, your family’s entire legacy will crash in the next two days.”

A cold dread settled in her stomach. This wasn't revenge; it was high treason. Simon hadn’t just cheated; he had been a corporate spy.

“So you yanked me out of a street fight just to lock me in a better, golden cage?” she spat, fighting the dizzying sense of him being too close, too powerful.

“I secured an asset that belongs to Trevor, and Trevor is my priority. This is about control.” He walked to his desk and retrieved two thick documents. “Which brings us to the only viable solution.”

Lucas turned, holding the papers like weapons, the harsh morning light emphasizing the unyielding planes of his face. “We neutralize Simon and the Hawthorne Group by eliminating the core issue: the broken engagement. We don’t stop; we accelerate. We announce our engagement immediately, followed by a quick, private ceremony. You become Mrs. Lucas Hill. Your assets merge with mine, making the Carter Group untouchable. This is the only shield fast enough.”

The suggestion was a punch to the gut. “Marry you? I would rather marry a gargoyle! You crushed my heart years ago, and now you want to buy my life to fix a spreadsheet?”

“I am controlling the chaos, Ariana. And right now, I need a wife.” He dropped a thick legal document onto the bed, his voice dropping to a low growl that resonated deep in her chest. “One hour. The clock is ticking.”

A hurried knock sounded, and Trevor Carter burst in, his face drawn and defeated.

“He’s right, Ari. Simon’s already making hostile moves. This is bigger than the wedding. Lucas’s protection is the only firewall we have left.” Trevor looked desperate, which instantly shattered Ariana’s will to fight.

Ariana picked up the document. The title stared back at her: Contract of Control: Pre-Nuptial Agreement. Under the definition of marital property, her name was linked to a single, dehumanizing term: Strategic Collateral.

She finally met Lucas’s gaze. His eyes were cold, yet the intensity of his focus was almost physical—a possessive, undeniable claim.

“I’ll sign it,” she whispered, not conceding defeat, but accepting the terms of war. “But if I’m an asset, I expect to be treated like a partner, not a possession. And this marriage, Lucas—this debt—you will owe me for every single moment of it.”