The Billionaire’s Blood Debt: Ruined by My Enemy

Elowen’s POV

The silk of my Vera Wang gown felt like a second skin, cool and expensive against my flushed flesh. I caught my reflection in one of the gold-trimmed mirrors of the Plaza Hotel’s Grand Ballroom and smiled. For the first time in years, the St. Claire name meant something again. Tonight was my engagement gala, the night I was supposed to become Elowen Montgomery, the woman who saved her family’s legacy by marrying into the most powerful old-money dynasty in New York.

"You look breathtaking, Elowen," Thatcher whispered, sliding his hand around my waist.

I leaned into him, inhaling the scent of his cologne. "It feels like a dream, Thatcher. Thank you for everything."

He squeezed my hip, his eyes darting toward the massive LED screens flanking the stage. "Everything for my future wife. Now, are you ready for the tribute video? I spent weeks putting it together."

"I’m ready," I said, my heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and nerves.

The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the four hundred guests—the elite of Manhattan, the people who had looked down on my father after the scandal and were now back to kiss our feet. The music started, a soft, romantic piano melody.

The screens flickered to life. But it wasn't our childhood photos that appeared.

It was a bedroom. My bedroom.

The room went deathly silent. At first, I thought it was a mistake—a technical glitch. But then the moans started, piped through the high-end sound system so clearly it felt like they were in the room with us.

On the screen, a woman’s back was arched, her head thrown back in a state of pure, animalistic ecstasy. It was my younger sister, Bianca. And the man between her legs, his face buried in her chest as he groaned her name, wasn't some stranger.

It was Thatcher.

"Thatcher?" I whispered, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.

He went pale, his hand dropping from my waist as if I were made of lead. "Elowen, I... that’s not..."

The video zoomed in. Bianca’s hand reached out, grabbing the headboard—the custom-carved mahogany headboard I had picked out for our new home. She looked directly into the camera, a smirk of pure, poisonous triumph on her face.

"He loves me more, Elowen," she gasped on the recording. "He always has."

The screen went black.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Then, a single titter of laughter broke from the back of the room. It spread like a virus. Within seconds, the cream of New York society was laughing at me. The "St. Claire Princess" had been turned into a joke in front of the entire world.

I looked at Thatcher. He was backed away from me, his eyes wide with fear—not for me, but for his reputation.

"It was just one time, Elowen," he hissed, his voice low and frantic. "I was drunk. She came onto me."

"One time?" I looked at the screen, then back at him. My vision was blurring, my lungs refusing to take in air. "In our bed, Thatcher? With my sister?"

Bianca appeared from the wings of the stage, her dress perfectly pressed, not a hair out of place. She didn't look guilty. She looked like she’d won. "Don't be so dramatic, Elowen. We’re all adults here."

My father stepped forward, his face a mask of cold pragmatism. "Elowen, stand down. We have a merger to sign. This... this can be handled privately."

"Handled?" I choked out. "She’s my sister! He’s my fiancé!"

"He is the man who is keeping us out of bankruptcy," Arthur St. Claire snapped. "Apologize to Thatcher for making a scene and sit down."

The room spun. My own father was siding with the man who had just publicly humiliated me. I looked around the room, at the sneering faces and the flashing cell phone cameras. I was the joke of the century.

I turned around and walked.

I pushed through the heavy gold doors, my heels clicking like gunshots on the marble. I didn't stop at the coat check. I didn't stop for the paparazzi waiting outside. I walked straight into the freezing New York rain, the white silk of my dress instantly soaking through, turning translucent against my skin.

A black Maybach sat idling at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the neon lights of Fifth Avenue. I knew that car. Everyone in the city knew that car. It belonged to the man who had methodically dismantled my father’s company, piece by piece, until we were nothing.

Killian Blackwood.

The back window rolled down slowly. The light from the streetlamps hit his face—all sharp angles and cold, predatory eyes. He looked like a god carved from obsidian.

"Going somewhere, Little St. Claire?" his voice was a low, dark rumble that vibrated in my chest.

I stopped at the edge of the car, the water dripping from my hair. "You were there. You saw it."

Killian leaned back, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world. It was a masterpiece of humiliation.

Though I must say, I expected more fire from you."

"I want them dead, Killian," I whispered, my voice trembling with a rage so hot it felt like it would consume me. "I want them ruined. I want them crawling through the dirt."

He arched a dark eyebrow, his gaze raking over me, lingering on the way the wet silk clung to my breasts. "And why would I help you? I’m the one who put the dirt there in the first place."

"Because you hate them as much as I do," I stepped closer, my hand trembling as I touched the cold metal of the car. "And because I’ll do anything."

Killian went still. The air between us suddenly felt charged, heavy with a tension that made my skin prickle. "Anything is a dangerous word, Elowen. Especially when spoken to a man like me."

"I don't care," I said. "Name your price."

He stared at me for a long beat, his eyes tracking a raindrop as it slid down my neck. A slow, cruel smirk spread across his lips.

"Get in the car," he said.

I didn't hesitate. I pulled the door open and slid into the leather seat. The interior smelled of expensive tobacco and power. Killian didn't move away. He stayed right where he was, his large, powerful frame taking up half the cabin.

"The price is simple," Killian said, his voice dropping an octave. "You want revenge? You pay with your life. You move into my home. You work in my office. And when we are behind closed doors, you belong to me. Every inch. Every thought. Every breath."

"You want me to be your mistress?"

"Mistress implies a choice, Elowen," he reached out, his thumb catching my chin. His touch was electric, burning through my frozen skin. "I’m talking about total submission. I want to break the St. Claire pride until there is nothing left but your need to please me. Do you understand?"

I looked into his steel-blue eyes and saw the devil looking back. But then I thought of Thatcher’s face. I thought of Bianca’s smirk.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Good," Killian leaned in, his lips inches from my ear. "Then prove it. Prove you're desperate enough."

He reached down, his hand sliding up the soaked silk of my skirt, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. I gasped, my back arching as the heat of him collided with my cold flesh.

"Right now?" I breathed.

"I don't wait for what I’ve bought," Killian murmured, his hand moving higher. "The driver is focused on the road. The glass is soundproof. Show me how much you want them to burn, Elowen. Show me right now."

I leaned forward, my heart hammering against my ribs, and reached for the buckle of his belt.

"Don't make me wait, Little St. Claire," he growled.

I didn't.