I Married My Father’s Creditor

Chapter 9

Ariana’s POV

A middle-aged head housekeeper stepped out from the secondary hallway, offering me a warm, gentle smile that instantly softened the cold tension in the air. Without a word, she picked up two of my worn canvas bags with a welcoming nod and motioned for me to follow.

She led me down the east wing, pushing open a set of heavy double doors.

"This is your private suite, Miss Carter," she said kindly, her voice soft and polite. "Mr. Voss instructed that no one enters without your permission—including staff. Dinner is served at seven sharp."

She set the bags down, offered another friendly smile, and walked out, closing the door behind her with a quiet, expensive click.

I turned around, and my breath hitched.

Calling it a "room" was an insult. It was a sprawling, ultra-modern private apartment within the penthouse. A floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooked the Manhattan skyline, flooding the room with the amber light of the setting sun. There was a king-sized bed wrapped in dark charcoal silk sheets, a private lounge with plush velvet furniture, and a walk-in closet larger than my entire old bedroom. Attached was a private studio space featuring a massive drafting table, professional mannequin dress forms, and cutting mats—clearly tailored for my fashion studies.

It was breathtaking, luxurious, and completely suffocating. It was a golden cage built by a billionaire who held my family trapped in his debt.

I spent the next hour pacing the floor, unpacking my modest clothes, and putting them away alongside the pristine designer outfits Damien’s team had stocked in the wardrobe. Surrendering to his control felt like swallowing poison, but thinking of Whitney back in our small apartment kept my feet planted on the floor.

At 6:55 PM, a firm knock echoed against my suite door.

"Dinner is served, Miss Carter," a muffled voice called out from the hallway.

I took a long, deep breath, smoothing down my white joggers. If I was trapped in this contract, I wasn't going to spend it cowering in my room. I was going to fight for every inch of my autonomy.

I walked down the grand hallway to the formal dining room. The room was dominated by a massive, twenty-foot black marble table. Damien was already seated at the head, dressed down slightly in a crisp black dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, a glass of dark scotch in his hand as he reviewed files on a slim tablet.

I pulled out a chair at the far end of the table, as far away from him as humanly possible, and sat down.

Damien didn't look up from his screen. "Sit closer."

"I can hear you just fine from here," I replied flatly.

He set the tablet down with a soft, dangerous tap against the stone. His gray eyes locked onto mine across the long expanse of marble.

"I said, sit closer, Ariana."

The temperature in the room dropped instantly. I gritted my teeth, realizing that picking a petty fight over seating was a battle not worth losing right now. I stood up, dragged my chair three spots closer to his left, and sat back down, crossing my arms over my chest.

A butler quietly served two plates of seared rack of lamb and roasted vegetables, poured bottled water into my crystal glass, and vanished into the shadows.

"We need to establish how this household operates," Damien said, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "Starting tomorrow, Bruce will drive you to and from NYU. You will not take public transportation. You will not leave campus grounds without informing him. And you will refrain from attending unchaperoned events."

"I have a life, Damien," I countered, leaning forward. "I have classes, group projects, and late-night studio hours. I can't have a giant bodyguard breathing down my neck while I'm trying to pin fabric!"

"You carry my name now," he said smoothly, cutting a piece of meat with terrifying precision. "Whether you like it or not, my enemies know who you are. Bruce stays."

"Fine," I snapped, swallowing my frustration. "Bruce can stand outside the studio doors. But I have conditions of my own. My fashion design degree remains untouched. You do not buy my professors, you do not pay for my grades, and you do not interfere with my career. Second, you leave my family alone. And third..." I paused, my pulse hammering against my ribs. "You keep your hands to yourself. No more 'punishments.' No more forced kisses."

Damien stared at me for a long, heavy moment. His face was a stone mask, utterly impossible to read.

"Your education is yours," he said quietly. "Your family is safe. But as for your third condition..." He tilted his head slightly, his dark gaze dropping to my lips. "You signed a marriage contract, Ariana. Do not demand boundaries you surrendered the moment your mother took on my debt."

Goosebumps pricked across my skin. Before I could hurl an insult back at him, Damien reached into the inner pocket of his dark suit jacket and pulled out a sleek, heavy matte-black titanium card, sliding it across the stone until it rested by my plate.

"An unrestricted Amex Black Card," Damien stated flatly. "Use it for your studio supplies, your clothes, your sister—whatever you want. Walking around looking like a charity case reflects poorly on me."

"I don't want your money—"

"It isn't a gift, Ariana. It's an expectation," he cut me off coldly. "Spend it."

Before I could push it back, his private phone on the table vibrated aggressively.

Damien glanced down at the screen. His jaw tightened instantly, a flash of genuine, lethal dark rage breaking through his calm composure. He tapped the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

"Speak," he commanded.

"Sir, we have a disaster at the commercial real estate headquarters," his Chief Operating Officer's voice bled loudly through the receiver, panicked and fast. "The lead architectural firm for the flagship Midtown Tower just pulled out after Marcus Vance bought out their firm. Worse, the European billionaire client just rejected the entire interior concept. He called the modern glass aesthetic 'soulless trash.' If we don't bring in an elite lead textile and spatial concept designer to completely redesign the interior aesthetic by weekend, he’s tearing up the forty-million-dollar contract."

Damien stood up from the table so fast his heavy leather chair screeched violently against the marble floor.

"Assemble the board at the executive headquarters," Damien ordered, his voice dropping into a chilling, deathly register. "And tell HR to launch an emergency talent search across the city for a lead conceptual designer immediately. Fire anyone who offers me standard corporate designs."

He cut the call, shoved the phone into his pocket, and turned his dark, icy eyes back to me.

"Stay in your wing," he commanded flatly. "I have a fire to put out at the office."

He turned and strode out of the dining room at a fast pace, leaving me alone with the heavy black card resting beside my plate.

I sat frozen at the table, his final corporate command echoing in my head. A lead textile and spatial designer? A complete interior aesthetic overhaul?

That was exactly what my senior thesis in fashion design and material architecture focused on. Voss Enterprises was desperately hunting for a groundbreaking designer by sunrise—and the solution was sitting right inside his own penthouse.