CHAPTER TWO — THE CAR WITH NO EXIT
1454 Words
(Ariana’s POV)
Snow had thickened by the time I closed my booth—fat, slow flakes tumbling from the sky like careless confetti. They gathered on my sleeves, melted into my hair, clung to my lashes until the world looked like a watercolor painting bleeding at the edges. It would have been beautiful if my life wasn’t unraveling thread by thread.
I wrapped my coat tighter around myself as I stepped out onto the street. The cold bit into my cheeks, sharp enough to sting, sharp enough to make me feel awake even when everything inside me felt numb.
I didn’t expect him to actually send a car.
I didn’t expect anything from someone like him.
People like Damian Voss lived in a world where consequences were optional and apologies were decorative. Men like him didn’t follow through on calling small, insignificant people like me.
But as I reached the curb, the world seemed to suddenly inhale — a sleek black SUV rolled to a stop at my feet, its engine whisper-quiet despite its size. It looked out of place in a street full of food vendors, tourists, and twinkling holiday lights.
It looked like something out of a movie—the kind where powerful men hid dangerous intentions behind polished windows.
The back door clicked open on its own.
A man stepped out.
He was tall. Broad. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit despite the cold. His expression was blank—professional in a way that made him feel less like a person and more like a wall built to keep emotions out.
“Miss Cole?” he asked, his voice even and clipped.
I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“This way, please.”
His tone was polite, but it wasn’t a request.
I stared at the open door. Every instinct in me tightened. Every cell whispered warnings I couldn’t ignore.
This was a mistake.
A trap.
A story that ended badly.
But beneath all that fear, something heavier pressed against my ribs:
You don’t have a choice.
My mother’s face.
Our house.
The unpaid bills waiting like hungry mouths.
The deadline coming faster than winter.
My throat felt tight as I stepped toward the car… then climbed in.
The door shut behind me with a soft, final thud — the sound of options closing.
Inside, the car was warm. Not comforting warm, but controlled warm, the kind you set with a digital panel that regulated air with cold precision. It smelled faintly of leather and something sharp — winter pine mixed with something masculine and clean.
“Seatbelt,” the driver said gently.
I clicked it into place with stiff fingers.
The SUV moved, gliding into the snowy street with a grace no vehicle its size should have. Outside, New York glowed with quiet festive beauty—strings of lights hung between lamp posts, store windows painted with faux snowflakes, couples holding hands, children pointing at holiday decorations.
It should have eased the knot in my chest.
But it didn’t.
My phone sat heavy in my lap, screen dark. I could text Chloe. I could call someone. I could send my location.
But what would I even say?
Hey, sis. I’m on my way to meet the billionaire who ruined our lives. If I disappear, it’s his fault. Merry Christmas.
A humorless breath escaped me.
The driver glanced at me through the rear-view mirror. “Don’t worry. You’re safe.”
“Am I?” I whispered, not expecting him to answer.
He didn’t.
He didn’t try again.
He simply drove.
Skyscrapers rose around us like glittering giants, holiday lights reflecting off the glass. My fingers curled into the hem of my coat until my knuckles whitened.
Then the car took a turn I didn’t expect—toward Central Park South.
Rich territory.
Cold territory.
“Where are you taking me exactly?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“To Mr. Voss’s residence.”
Residence.
Not office.
Not public place.
His home.
My breath hitched. “Why?”
“He asked to speak with you in private.”
Private.
That word made every part of me tense.
“I didn’t agree to go to his home,” I said quietly.
The man didn’t turn. “Mr. Voss doesn’t appreciate delays. He said you would understand when you arrived.”
Understand what?
What kind of man summoned strangers to his penthouse like chess pieces?
I pressed my lips tightly together, staring at the snow-blurred city passing by outside. Fear sat on my chest like a weight.
And yet…
there was something else there too.
Curiosity.
A terrible, reluctant need to know what he wanted from me so desperately.
The car turned into a private drive lined with dark SUVs and uniformed doormen. Holiday wreaths hung from the pillars, elegant and understated. The building towered above, its glass and steel disappearing into the gray sky.
A doorman stepped forward almost instantly, pulling the door open for me with a polite nod.
“Miss Cole,” he greeted as if he’d spoken my name a thousand times.
I stepped out on legs that didn’t feel entirely connected to me.
The driver joined me. “This way.”
Inside, the lobby was a cathedral of wealth — marble floors that gleamed like porcelain ice, a chandelier dripping crystals like frozen stars, soft lighting that made everything look expensive and untouched.
A woman at the desk pressed a glowing button. “Penthouse. He’s expecting her.”
Expecting me.
The words shouldn’t have sent a chill down my spine, but they did.
The driver escorted me to a silver elevator that looked more like a vault door. He gestured for me to enter.
I stepped in.
He didn’t.
The doors slid shut, and I was alone.
The quiet hum of the elevator filled my ears as the numbers climbed—18, 22, 30, 41, 57—until the panel blinked:
PENTHOUSE
The doors opened into a private entryway. No hall. No neighbors. Just one tall black door at the end, sleek and silent, with a gold security scanner that blinked green.
I barely took a step before the lock clicked on its own.
The door swung open.
Warm light spilled into the space, revealing a penthouse that didn’t look real. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the room, revealing all of New York glittering beneath a blanket of snow. A grand piano sat near the glass, a low fire crackled in a sleek fireplace, and everything was quiet—luxuriously, intentionally quiet.
And then, I saw him.
Damian Voss.
He stood by the windows, facing the city. His hands rested in the pockets of his tailored trousers. The glow from the city lights framed him in faint gold, outlining the sharp angles of his jaw and the stillness of his posture.
He didn’t turn right away.
He didn’t hurry.
He didn’t acknowledge me until he chose to.
Then, slowly, he turned.
His eyes met mine—dark, steady, unreadable. A gaze that didn’t just land on you but evaluated you.
“Miss Cole,” he said in a voice low and even. “Come in.”
I stepped forward because I couldn’t seem to do anything else.
The door closed behind me with a whisper.
He studied me for a moment that stretched too long, his expression unreadable but focused entirely on me. Then he took a step closer.
“You came,” he said. “Good.”
My jaw clenched. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Everyone has a choice,” he replied softly. “Some just choose the lesser disaster.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it filled the room.
I held my coat tighter. “Why am I here?”
He took a slow breath, stepping forward with a measured calm that felt intentional. “Because I’m going to make you a proposition,” he said.
“A very serious one.”
My stomach tightened. “A proposition?”
His gaze didn’t break from mine.
“Yes,” he said. “I need a wife. Temporarily. And I want it to be you.”
The world stopped.
“What?” I breathed.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t soften.
“Marry me,” Damian said again. “You’ll be compensated generously. Enough to clear every financial burden weighing on you right now.”
My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.
He knew.
He knew everything.
Snow kept falling behind him, silent and soft, while my entire life tilted on its axis.
I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t speak.
All I could do was stare at the man who had ruined my life…
And was now asking to claim it.
- Writer
