Her Return Was Their Downfall.

Elena

"He is offering five percent of his company," my father snapped, slamming his hand hard on the table. "This is not for discussion. You're marrying him."

I stared at him, trying to hold back my tears. "He’s fifty-two, Dad. He’s been divorced three times, and everyone in Manhattan knows why his last wife spent two weeks in a hospital before packing her bags."

"Rumors," my mother cut in without looking up from her tablet. She was adjusting the seating chart for next week’s charity gala, her delicate fingers flicking across the glass. "Ex-wives are always bitter, darling. Besides, Arthur comes from old money. His family line is spotless."

"Spotless?" I let out a harsh, dry laugh. "He hits women, Mom. He uses his money to buy off the police every time he trashes a club in the Hamptons. You’re trading me to a monster!"

"Shut up!" My father yelled, standing up. "A monster? You should be thanking God someone of Arthur’s standing is even asking for you! Look at yourself—no talent, no business skills, nothing to offer this family except your compliance!"

"And what about Isabella?" The words burst out of me before I could filter them. "If Arthur had asked for Isabella, would you have smiled and said yes? Would you be telling her to be thankful?"

The air in the room instantly went frigid. Before I could even draw a breath, his hand flew across my face.

SLAP.

My head jerked to the side, my cheek exploding in a white-hot, throbbing heat. The metallic taste of blood hit the back of my throat.

"Don't you dare," my father whispered, voice trembling with terrifying rage. "Don't you ever bring Isabella’s name into this. Your sister is pure. She is the face of this family. She has grace, dignity, and a future. You are a mistake we have spent twenty-four years trying to refine, and clearly, we have failed."

I stood there, shocked, my hand hovering over my burning face. No matter how dismissive and indifferent my parents had been to me, they'd never hit me before.

Tears burned hotter, threatening to spill at the slightest movement.

"Go to your room. We will call you when Arthur arrives tomorrow."

My fingers tightened around the paper envelope in my hand. Inside was the acceptance letter from Parsons School of Design. The full scholarship I had slaved over in secret for two years. The ticket out of their shadow. My proof that I was worth something.

I wasn't expecting elaborate congratulations or warm affection from them, but at least I'd expected that they'd be proud of me.

Now, I couldn't even bring myself to show it to them. I turned around, grabbed my keys, and ran.

The rain outside drenched me in seconds, slanting against the windshield of my car as I tore through the streets of Manhattan. My eyes were blurry with tears, their words ringing in my head. A mistake. A failure.

It was a miracle I pulled up to the valet at the St. Regis in one piece. The keys went to the attendant while I walked into the dimly lit hotel bar.

Soaked dress and swollen eyes, with a big handprint on my face, I slumped into a leather barstool.

"Double scotch," I croaked. "Keep them coming until I tell you to stop."

One glass turned into three. Three turned into six. The burn down my throat was the only thing that temporarily dulled the suffocating weight in my chest. By midnight, the world was spinning in soft, blurry edges. I staggered away from the bar, clutching the wall of the elevator as it carried me up to my floor.

I fumbled with my key card, my hands trembling violently. The red light flashed. Red. Red. Finally, green.

I pushed the door open and stumbled into the dim room, the scent of expensive cedarwood and cold rain washing over me.

"I told you to leave the bottle at the door," a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the darkness.

I blinked, trying to focus my hazy vision. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, silhouetted against the glowing Manhattan skyline, was a man. He wore dark trousers, his white dress shirt unbuttoned to the waist, revealing the hard, chiseled contours of his chest and abdomen. A glass of crystal-clear water sat in his hand.

He turned, his dark eyes sharp, intense, and immediately locking onto mine. "Who are you?"

Instead of screaming or apologizing, a wild, reckless, hysterical bubble rose in my chest. He wasn't Arthur. He wasn't cold like my father. He looked like a storm, powerful and dangerous, and right now, I wanted the storm to wipe me clean.

"Someone who doesn't want to be alone tonight," I whispered, my voice trembling.

I dropped my purse, walked across the room, and reached up, wrapping my arms around his neck. He stiffened, his body going rigid under my touch.

"You're drunk," he growled, his hands coming up to grip my waist, intending to push me back. "You have the wrong room, lady."

"Please," I sobbed quietly, pressing my cheek against his warm chest, listening to the heavy, steady thud of his heart. "Just... please. Just for tonight. Let me forget."

His hands paused on my waist. For a long, breathless second, neither of us moved. Then, with a low, ragged exhale, his grip tightened, pulling me flush against his body as his lips crashed down on mine.

He was slow, gentle, and sweet, always asking for permission every second, until he slid into me so carefully as I wrapped my legs around him.

It was bright when I opened my eyes again, a blinding ray of sunlight cutting across my face through the window.

My head throbbing, I groaned, feeling the heavy, luxurious silk sheets against my bare skin, and then—the solid, heavy arm draped over my waist.

My breath hitched.

Slowly, turning my head, I froze. A sharp jawline, shadowed with dark stubble, a face so handsome it could have been personally sculpted by God himself.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. What have I done?

As if making them angry wasn't enough, Mom and Dad were going to kill me if they found out I had given away my virtue to a complete stranger the night before I was supposed to meet Arthur.

Turning away in panic, I slowly lifted his heavy arm off my waist and slid out of the bed. My clothes were a disaster—wet and crumpled. How was I supposed to go home looking like this? I put them on quickly either way, grabbed my shoes, and ran out without looking back.

A two-hour stop at a boutique, and I looked nothing like the woman who'd just given herself to a man she didn't even know.

When I walked through the front doors an hour later, I was prepared for the execution: my father waiting with his leather belt or a rod in hand, or my mother screaming about how I was a total disgrace and a blemish to the family.

Instead, the mansion was echoing with sweet, light laughter.

Clinking champagne flutes echoed from the living room. Freshly cut white roses—Isabella’s favorite—were being arranged in crystal vases along the corridor by buzzing maids.

I stood frozen in the doorway of the living room, my heart hammering against my ribs.

My mother was sitting on the sofa, a soft, beaming smile on her face as she stroked Isabella’s perfectly curled blonde hair. My father stood by the fireplace, holding a glass of vintage scotch, his face flushed with a rare, genuine pride I had never once seen directed at me.

"Oh, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence," Isabella cooed, her voice dripping with sweet toxicity as her bright blue eyes swept over me. "Where were you, Elena? Out crying in your car all night?"

"Elena," my father said, but his voice lacked its usual harsh sharpness. It was dismissive, almost cheerful. "Go upstairs. We have no time for your tantrums today."

I swallowed hard. "What's going on?"

My mother let out a delicate laugh, pressing a pristine linen napkin to her lips. "As if you care. But try not to ruin the atmosphere with your scowl. Today is a historic day for this family."

"A historic day?" I repeated, looking between their radiant faces. "What about... what about Arthur?"

"Arthur?" Isabella snorted, tossing her head back. "Forget that old toad. Dad canceled the agreement an hour ago."

I blinked, stunned. "He... he canceled it?"

"Of course he did," Isabella said, standing up and smoothing down her white silk dress. She looked breathtaking, immaculate, like a princess preparing for her coronation. "Why settle for a small fish when the crown jewel of New York just walked into our lives?"

"Isabella," my mother chided gently, though her eyes were shining with vanity. "Let your father announce it properly."

My father took a slow sip of his drink, a permanent grin on his face. "An offer was made early this morning. The merger of the century. The Vale family will be aligning with the largest conglomerate in the country."

My brow furrowed. "Who?"

"You wouldn't know who he is anyway, Elena," Isabella said softly, taking a sip of her champagne. "You don't operate in those circles. All you need to know is that he is the sole heir to the Blackwood empire. The most powerful man in America."

She sighed with joy, giggling at the thought of whoever she was talking about. "Aeron Blackwood," Isabella exclaimed, her voice laced with pride. "And he is my fiancé."