To Love a Voss

Chapter 1

The night my world ended didn’t come with thunder.

It came with whispers.

They slithered through the Harrington ballroom like smoke — soft at first, almost polite, until they thickened into a suffocating cloud of pity and scandal.

I can still hear the brittle sound of crystal shattering under someone’s careless hand.

I can still see my father’s jaw clench as he reads the message on his phone, the light from the screen casting shadows under his eyes.

And I can still feel the precise moment the air shifted — heavy with a truth none of us dared to name.

Our empire was gone.

Overnight.

One deal, one signature, one betrayal… and the Harrington name went from revered to ruined.

I didn’t cry in front of them.

Not my mother, who sat perfectly still, staring through the glittering chandeliers like she could wake herself from this nightmare.

Not my father, whose voice was hoarse when he finally said, “You don’t know who you can trust anymore, Dawn.”

It wasn’t until I slipped out the back doors into the biting winter air that I let my chest cave in.

The night sky was sharp and merciless. I pressed my hands to my mouth to keep the sobs from echoing down the driveway, tasting salt and cold all at once.

Every light in our house lit up, but I’d never felt more in the dark.

The next morning was quieter than any I can remember. Not the comfortable kind of calm — the suffocating kind.

The house staff moved silently, their eyes averted. My mother stayed in her robe until noon, staring at a cup of untouched tea.

I made the mistake of turning on the news.

Harrington Holdings Plunges Overnight. Sources Say Inside Betrayal.

They even used my father’s old college photo. He looked younger, smiling — a man with no idea how fast the ground could vanish beneath his feet.

Two years later, the glittering world I was born into exists only in memory — a ghost I can’t quite exorcise.

Now I stand in a cramped PR office on the twenty‑first floor of a building that smells faintly of burned coffee and stress. The only whispers here are the ones my boss mutters when she thinks I can’t hear.

My desk is barely big enough for my laptop, a stack of press releases, and the cheap, framed photo of my parents that I keep face-down most days.

Around me, the hum of keyboards and the faint clink of coffee mugs fills the air.

I check my email — five new “urgent” tasks, all from Miranda.

Every one of them could have been sent to the intern she refuses to hire.

Prestige PR isn’t glamorous. It’s long hours, impossible deadlines, and clients who think “ASAP” means yesterday.

And Miranda Cole? She’s the kind of woman who turns power into a weapon.

“Dawn.”

Her voice slices through the air like a paper cut.

I glance up from the press release I’m editing to find her leaning against the doorway of my cubicle. French‑manicured nails curl around a paper cup. She doesn’t smile — she never does.

“You’re going to the gala tonight,” she says flatly.

I blink. “I… what?”

“My invite came last minute, and I have better things to do. Prestige needs to be represented, and you’re… presentable enough.” Her gaze drags over me like she’s already imagining replacing me with someone shinier.

Right. Her weekend getaway with her married lover is obviously more important than her actual job.

The words sink in slowly, like venom.

The gala.

Not just any gala — that kind of gala. More politics than party.

The kind where my old life lingers in champagne flutes and carefully manufactured smiles.

The kind where the name Harrington will still draw stares — the wrong kind.

“I have work to—”

“This is work,” she cuts in, eyes narrowing. “Unless you’d rather clear your desk in the morning.”

It’s not a choice. Not when rent is due. Not when my family still leans on me.

I swallow my pride, nod once, and she smiles like she’s just won something.

As she leaves, I hear the soft snickers from the design team behind me.

“She’s sending her?” one of them whispers.

“Guess she’s desperate.”

I ignore them, but my cheeks burn. It’s not the first time someone’s hinted I don’t belong here — and not just because I started at Prestige after our scandal.

By the time I leave the office, the city sky has turned the colour of deep bruises. Streetlights cast a golden glow against the glassy, wet pavement. The invitation in my coat pocket burns like a live coal.

I tell myself it’s just one night. Smile, shake hands, survive.

“You know you could just tell her no, right?” Tasha’s voice is tight with concern as she matches my stride toward the train.

“Sure,” I murmur, dry as winter wind. “And you’d be my sugar mommy then?”

She glares at me. “I’m serious. You can’t keep letting her push you around like this.”

“I can’t keep my apartment without this job,” I remind her.

She huffs, muttering under her breath about boundaries and dignity, but her words blur as an uninvited thought slips in.

The Voss family is always at the Winter Gala.

Whether I like it or not, their name still tastes like the first hint of my family’s ruin.

And tonight… I’m about to walk straight into their world.

When I get home that night, the apartment is dim except for the flicker of the TV.

My mother is curled into one end of the couch, wrapped in a blanket, her gaze fixed on some mindless cooking show she isn’t really watching.

“You’re late,” she says softly. It’s not an accusation — just tired.

I glance at the stack of unopened bills on the coffee table and bite back the urge to tell her about the gala. The Harringtons don’t belong in that world anymore.

“Work ran long,” I say instead, hanging my coat.

In the kitchen, I open the fridge — three takeout containers, a half-empty bottle of wine, and milk that’s two days past its expiration date. I grab water and lean against the counter, staring at the dark window. My reflection looks older than twenty‑five.

Later, I scroll through my phone in bed, trying not to think about what I’m walking into tomorrow.

But the news app betrays me — a headline catches my eye: Voss Corporation Secures Multi‑Billion Contract.

Damien Voss, in a tailored suit, stares back at me from the photo, jaw set, eyes like stone.

Beside him, his younger brother Julian smiles like the world is his playground.

Even through a screen, I feel the same prickle I did the night our empire fell.

I drop my phone onto the pillow, shut my eyes, and tell myself it’s just another job.

But the truth hums low in my chest: walking into that gala tomorrow might mean walking into the lion’s den.

And as if the universe wants to prove me right, my phone buzzes in my hand.

Unknown number.

One new message:

See you at the gala, Harrington.

No name. No emoji. Just the echo of a threat… and a promise