THE VOSS DEAL

CHAPTER THREE: CITY HALL IN FEBRUARY

Snow fell in tiny, quiet flakes—like the city was trying to soften itself for once.

It was 9:00 a.m. on a Tuesday, and I was getting married in a black hoodie and ripped jeans.

A bride, but not the kind people dream about.

As promised, Lim Voss’s driver picked me up at 6 p.m. the night before. A black SUV idled outside my building like it belonged there—like I belonged somewhere better than a walk-up apartment with thin walls and overdue rent.

The driver didn’t say much. Just opened the door and drove me from Hell’s Kitchen to Tribeca like this was ordinary.

Eighty floors up, the city looked smaller. Quieter.

Like all my problems were down there, waiting.

The elevator doors opened.

And there he was.

Lim Voss stood outside his door, perfectly still, perfectly dressed, looking like the kind of man who never got surprised—only disappointed.

He opened the door and walked in first.

Then he stepped aside and let me enter.

Not “welcome.”

Not “good morning.”

Just a silent permission.

He glanced down the hall. “Guest room. Sleep. Driver comes by eight.”

I watched him for a second, searching for something human in his face.

Nothing.

“Good morning to you too,” I muttered, more for myself than for him.

My room was too nice to be temporary.

Chocolate wallpaper. Cream curtains. A bed so big it felt like a different life.

The bathroom had everything laid out—towels, toiletries, even a fresh toothbrush—as if he’d planned for me the way he planned for meetings and markets and control.

I stood under the shower longer than necessary, letting the water beat down on my skin like it could erase the last forty-eight hours.

Then I put on something soft and slept.

I woke at 7:00 a.m. to an alarm that didn’t care about my mood.

Today I was getting married.

I dressed quickly, not because I wanted to look good, but because I didn’t want to give anyone a reason to pity me.

City Hall was bright in the worst way—fluorescent lights, buzzing overhead. The air smelled like old coffee and worn paper.

Three couples stood in line ahead of us. Nervous smiles, clasped hands, whispers that sounded like promises.

I stood beside Lim, and the contrast made me want to laugh.

He wore a black suit, no tie. His jacket looked sharp enough to cut through excuses.

He didn’t look like someone about to get married.

He looked like someone about to sign a merger.

I tugged at my hoodie, irritation rising.

“You could’ve told me to wear something nicer,” I said quietly. “Husband.”

“You look fine,” he replied, eyes still on his phone.

Then he passed me the form.

“Sign here, wife.”

The word landed heavier than it should’ve.

Wife.

My hand tightened around the pen as I signed my name.

Ink. Paper. A line crossed.

And just like that, my life became a legal arrangement.

The officiant’s voice was flat, practiced.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

No ring.

No kiss.

No pause that made it feel real.

Just a stamp, and a woman behind a desk already reaching for the next file.

Outside, snow hit my face and melted immediately, cold water sliding down my cheek like the city’s version of sympathy.

The driver opened the door. “Home, Mr. Voss?”

Lim didn’t look at me. “Home.”

The Tribeca penthouse was all glass and silence.

My footsteps echoed like I was the only person alive in it.

Lim led me to my room, then set a black box on the duvet as if he’d placed it there a hundred times before.

“Open it.”

I hesitated. Then lifted the lid.

A platinum band sat inside. Simple. Heavy. Expensive in a way that felt unreal.

Beside it, a garment bag.

I unzipped it and froze.

A floor-length gown.

Black. Elegant. Severe.

Like it didn’t belong to a celebration—it belonged to a warning.

“Gala is Friday,” Lim said. “Voss Foundation. You’ll wear this.”

I kept my voice calm. “That wasn’t in the contract, Mr. Voss.”

His gray eyes finally met mine, colder than the snow outside.

“Consider it a uniform, Mrs. Voss.”

Mrs. Voss.

The name didn’t feel like mine. It felt like a role I’d been assigned.

My phone buzzed.

A receipt notification.

Payment confirmed: Mom’s medical bills—PAID IN FULL.

Then another message—an image.

My mom smiling, laughing with a nurse, alive in a way she hadn’t sounded on the phone.

Something in my chest loosened.

For one second, I let myself breathe.

Lim turned and walked out, closing the door behind him like he was shutting a vault.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the ring, the gown, the quiet.

“This isn’t so bad,” I whispered, trying to convince myself.

At 3:12 a.m., I woke to a sound that didn’t belong.

Not loud—just… wrong.

A soft shift in the distance. A quiet thud.

I got up, moved to the door, and listened.

A thin line of light spilled from down the hall.

His office.

My pulse picked up.

My mind ran ahead of me, filling the silence with possibilities I didn’t want.

I backed away from the door and climbed into bed again, pulling the covers up like they could protect me from what I didn’t understand.

The ring on the nightstand caught the moonlight, bright and still.

A symbol.

A trap.

A promise.

I stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned.

What did I sign up for?