บททั้งหมดของ I Married My Father’s Creditor : บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

"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 dow

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my knuckles hard against my forehead. The weight of Damien’s cold, absolute demands in his office was still suffocating me."I can't go, Jade," I said softly, my voice tight. "I... I just can't.""Ariana, what are you talking about? You need to get out of that house—""No, I won't be able to come," I cut her off, my tone rising as frustration flared in my chest. "I don't want to go out! I think I just want to be on my own tonight, okay?!""Babe, listen to me," Jade tried to push, her tone shifting to concern. "Sitting in that dark room by yourself isn't going to fix anything. Just come for an hour—""I said no! I don't want to come!" I yelled into the receiver, my breathing ragged. Silence fell over the line, and I immediately swallowed hard, rubbing my eyes. "Jade... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I shouted at you, baby girl. I really am. But... maybe some other time. You just go have fun, okay?"Before Jade could answer, a low, hesitant knock sounded at my do

Damien’s POVAriana was fast asleep by the time Bruce pulled the Maybach into the private garage beneath my penthouse.I sat in the quiet dark, looking at her. Part of me wanted to wake her up right then and remind her who she was dealing with. I had never met a woman as stubborn or reckless as Ariana Carter.Hours ago, I gave her clear rules: no parties, no unchaperoned events, and no surrounding herself with random men. The memory of other guys touching her made my hands clench into fists. The beatdown I gave that kid in the backyard wasn't enough. He was lucky she begged me to stop, or he wouldn't be walking today.The car stopped, and Bruce put it in park. I didn't bother trying to wake her up gently.I stepped out into the cold garage, opened her door, and lifted her over my shoulder like a light bag. As I carried her into the elevator, she mumbled nonsense against my back. I ignored it.I walked straight into the master bedroom and dropped her onto the middle of the large

After class, I didn't even bother taking the subway back to the penthouse. Bruce was already waiting at the campus curb in the black SUV, holding the rear door open with terrifying punctuality. I slid into the leather seat in silence, staring out the tinted glass as Manhattan blurred past us.When we pulled into the underground garage of Damien’s building, I expected Bruce to hand me over to the private elevator and go about his business. Instead, he followed me all the way up.The elevator doors chimed, opening into the cavernous, quiet luxury of the penthouse foyer. I froze.Stacked near the marble entrance were four large canvas duffel bags and a cardboard wardrobe box. My belongings. The faded stickers, the scuffed fabric, and the worn handles looked completely absurd resting against the polished tile.A sudden spike of anger flared in my chest. "I told him I wasn't moving in today," I snapped, turning around to glare at Bruce. "Take them back. I am not accepting this.""Mr.

Damien’s POV By 8:00 AM, my top-floor office smelled of burnt espresso, stale air, and sheer corporate panic. I stood at the massive glass window, staring down at the blur of Manhattan traffic while Miller, my Chief Operating Officer, practically wore a hole in my rug pacing behind me. Forty million dollars was on the line. Jean-Luc Moreau, our biggest European client, was ready to yank his contract for the Midtown Tower project because my design team had handed him another sterile box of cold glass and polished chrome. He wanted "soul." He wanted "texture." And right now, my firm was giving him a corporate graveyard. "How many do we have lined up?" I asked, keeping my voice flat to hide the low, grating headache building behind my eyes. "Six, sir," Miller stammered, frantically wiping sweat from his forehead. "HR pulled the top spatial and textile conceptualists in the city. The interviews start now." "Three minutes each," I turned around, dropping into my leather chair