CHAPTER FOUR — UNDER ONE ROOF
1262 Words
(Ariana’s POV)
I never imagined I’d one day be unpacking my life in someone else’s home — much less the home of the man single-handedly responsible for destroying everything I’d worked to build. And yet here I was, standing in the center of his impossibly expensive living room with a single suitcase and a backpack, the sad summary of my entire existence.
The penthouse looked like the kind of place that didn’t allow imperfection. Everything was polished, curated, intentional. The ceilings soared upward, white and smooth, with hidden lighting that poured warmth into the room without revealing its source. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire space, showing a glittering skyline that felt more like a painting than a reality.
I felt like a stain just standing in it.
My suitcase wheels clicked softly against the marble floor. Behind me, the heater hummed, and the fireplace crackled with low, controlled flames — nothing chaotic, nothing wild, nothing like the very thing happening inside my chest.
“Feel free to unpack,” Damian said behind me, his voice maddeningly calm, as if I weren’t standing here experiencing the worst identity crisis of my life.
I turned sharply. He was still near the window, standing with that perfectly contained posture of his — hands behind his back, chin slightly lifted, gaze fixed on me like I was part of some elaborate calculation.
“I’m not a guest here,” I said, trying to sound firm despite the tremor in my voice. “This is temporary. I’m not—this isn’t my home.”
“I’m aware,” he replied smoothly. “Temporary, but legally binding. Which makes you… my temporary resident.”
“Resident,” I repeated, glaring. “You do hear how ridiculous this sounds, right?”
That almost-smile tugged at his lips again — so faint I wasn’t sure it actually existed. “Not ridiculous. Practical.”
“Practical,” I muttered. “Right.”
He stepped closer — closing the distance with quiet, deliberate movements. Every step felt rehearsed, like he was moving on lines taped to the floor. “Your role,” he said with infuriating calm, “is to follow the contract. To withstand three weeks. To behave publicly when needed.”
“Behave,” I repeated, folding my arms. “Anything else, sir?”
His eyes flickered, just briefly, as though a spark of amusement threatened to break through. “Eat. Sleep. Don’t run away. The basics.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. Or scream. Or shove him through one of his perfect windows. Instead, I inhaled sharply and looked away.
“And what,” I said, “do I get in return?”
He didn’t hesitate. “The end of your debt. Your mother’s security. Your business restored.”
I swallowed. Hard.
Hearing it out loud made it feel real in a way that hurt.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable,” I snapped softly.
“I’m not asking you to be comfortable,” he said. “Only compliant.”
The word hit me like cold water. “Compliant?”
He didn’t blink. “Yes.”
I hated him in that moment. I hated how easily he said it. How casually he assumed compliance meant obedience. The dominance in his tone should have angered me — but for a second, something else stirred underneath. Something that annoyed me even more.
Heat.
Interest.
Curiosity.
I shoved the feeling down violently.
“Follow me,” he said.
I didn’t want to — but I did anyway.
The hallway he led me down was lined with enormous abstract paintings. The kind you stared at, pretending you understood them, while an art collector whispered the price into your ear and waited for you to faint.
“This is your room,” Damian said.
He opened the door.
Calling it a “room” felt insulting. It was an entire suite. A small apartment on its own. The colors were soft and neutral — taupe, ivory, warm gray — like the space was designed to calm someone who had lived through a storm.
My storm, apparently.
A king-sized bed sat in the center, covered in plush blankets I was terrified to touch. A wall of glass revealed the balcony, where snow fell in gentle drifts across the city. Everything looked expensive. Gentle. Thought-out.
It made my skin crawl.
“This is temporary,” I whispered to myself.
Damian raised a brow. “Repeated for emphasis?”
“Yes,” I said sharply. “Repeated for emphasis.”
He nodded once, as if making a mental note, then stepped back. “Dinner at seven. You’re expected to attend.”
Expected.
Of course I was.
Before I could respond, he was already leaving the room — closing the door behind him with the softest possible click. A click that still managed to sound like a lock.
The silence was suffocating.
I sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled shakily.
What was I doing?
What had I agreed to?
I had stepped into a life so far removed from my own that it felt almost like I’d been cast in a play I didn’t audition for — and the director was a man whose mere presence dismantled my thoughts.
I leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. The chandelier above glowed softly, casting gentle light around the room. Too gentle. The kind of gentle that made you let your guard down.
No. Not happening.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Chloe:
Are you safe? Where are you?? Call me. Please.
My heart clenched.
I typed back:
I’m okay. I’ll explain everything later.
I didn’t hit send.
I couldn’t.
Explaining meant admitting I was living with a billionaire stranger.
Explaining meant admitting I had agreed to a marriage contract.
And admitting… meant facing myself.
A knock snapped me out of my thoughts.
“Come in,” I called.
The door opened — but it wasn’t him.
It was a woman. Late thirties, maybe. Beautiful in a cold, polished way. Dark hair pulled into a sleek bun. A tailored black dress. Eyes sharp and assessing.
“Miss Cole,” she said. “I’m Sylvia. I manage Mr. Voss’s household. If you need anything, you let me know.”
Her tone wasn’t friendly.
It wasn’t hostile either.
Just… professional with a side of mild judgment.
“I—thank you,” I said.
“Dinner is at seven. Don’t be late.”
She turned and left.
The door clicked shut.
I stared at the empty space she left behind.
I wasn’t just living under Damian’s roof.
I was living inside a world built by him.
A world designed for control.
For structure.
For obedience.
I lay back on the bed, feeling the weight of everything settle onto my chest like thick snow.
Three weeks.
Three impossible weeks.
I wasn’t here to play house.
I wasn’t here to be intimidated.
And I sure as hell wasn’t here to fall into whatever psychological trap Damian Voss unknowingly set every time he looked at me like I was something he wanted to figure out.
He thought I would simply follow the rules.
He had no idea what he’d brought into his home.
Because I wasn’t just going to survive these three weeks.
I was going to use them.
And Damian Voss — with all his power, all his control, all his cold confidence — was about to learn exactly who he dragged into his perfect world.
And I wasn’t going down quietly.
Not even close.
- Writer
