The Boy I Swore to hate

"If you tell me the contract is gone, I will burn this building down myself."

Amelia Hart didn’t care that every head in the design studio turned to face her. She didn’t care about the startled look on her assistant's face, or the fact that her knuckles were turning stark white around the edge of her tablet. Seven years of brutal, exhausting, sleep-deprived work had led to this single morning.

"Amelia, calm down," David, her managing partner, said, raising his hands in a soothing gesture as he closed the glass door to his office. "No one is burning anything down. The board at Blackwood Enterprises just finished reviewing the final shortlists."

"And?" Amelia stepped closer, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "The redevelopment contract for the Waterfront District. Did we get it or not?"

David let out a breath, a slow, wide smile breaking across his face. "We got it. The whole thing. Interior architecture, luxury concept designs, execution. It’s a forty-million-dollar deal, Amelia. We beat out every veteran firm in Blackwood Heights."

For a second, the room seemed to spin. High-society Blackwood Heights was a fortress built on old money, family legacies, and corrupt bloodlines. Growing up as a housekeeper's daughter on the fringe of that world, Amelia was never supposed to step inside its halls as a peer. But she had carved her way up from nothing, piece by piece, refusing to let her background define her.

"We did it," she whispered, a sudden wave of euphoria washing over her. "We actually did it."

"You did it," David corrected, handing her a sleek dark folder stamped with a silver seal. "Your modern, industrial-meets-classic concept was the only thing that caught their lead executive's eye. But you need to move fast. The official signing and project launch meeting is in twenty minutes at Blackwood Towers."

"Twenty minutes?" Amelia grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. "I can make it in ten."

She practically flew out of the office, her mind racing with the possibilities. This contract meant total financial security. It meant a permanent safety net for her mother, Rose, whose failing health had kept Amelia awake for countless nights worrying about rent and medical bills. This was her victory. She had survived Blackwood Heights, and now she was going to conquer it on her own terms.

Ten minutes later, Amelia was striding through the towering glass doors of Blackwood Towers. The lobby was a monument to excessive wealth—floors made of polished black marble, soaring ceilings, and security guards stationed like statues at every turn.

She stepped into the high-speed executive elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. Just as the doors began to slide shut, a junior associate in a tailored suit slipped inside, clutching a stack of files.

The associate glanced at Amelia's visitor badge and winced slightly. "First time presenting to the executive board?"

"First time signing," Amelia said smoothly, keeping her voice composed.

"Good luck," the associate muttered, shaking his head. "You're going to need it today. The board isn't running the show on this project anymore. The old man stepped down last night."

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. "Richard Blackwood stepped down?"

"Effective this morning. The heir returned from overseas over the weekend to take over as chief executive. He’s running the entire redevelopment personally." The associate shivered and adjusted his tie. "Word is, he’s an absolute monster. Demoted two vice presidents before breakfast and fired the head of logistics for being three minutes late to a briefing. Don't look him in the eye unless you have to."

The elevator chimed, announcing their arrival at the penthouse level. The doors slid open to reveal a carpeted hallway lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city.

Amelia pushed the associate's warning to the back of her mind. She wasn't an employee looking to keep her job; she was an independent lead contractor who had earned her place at the table through pure talent. No arrogant corporate heir was going to intimidate her.

She straightened her shoulders, smoothed down the lapels of her dark green blazer, and walked toward the double mahogany doors of the primary boardroom.

She grabbed the heavy silver handle, pushed the door open, and stepped into the room.

"Good morning," Amelia announced, her voice firm, clear, and ringing with absolute confidence. "I’m Amelia Hart, lead designer for—"

The words froze in her throat.

The long conference table was empty except for a single figure sitting at the far end, framed by the blinding morning light pouring through the windows behind him.

At the sound of her voice, the high-backed leather chair spun slowly around.

Amelia’s breath caught, the air suddenly pulled straight from her lungs.

A man sat there, leaning back with careless, terrifying authority. Broad shoulders filled out a dark, bespoke suit. His jawline was sharp, carved from marble, and his dark hair was styled with effortless precision. But it was his eyes that stopped her heart—piercing, icy gray, devoid of any warmth.

Seven years vanished in a single, agonizing second.

The polished boardroom disappeared, replaced by memories of cruel taunts, humiliated childhood tears, and the boy who had made it his personal mission to remind her that she was nothing more than the servant's daughter.

He was older. He was colder. But there was no mistaking him.

Adrian Blackwood looked up from his tablet, his icy gaze locking onto hers. A slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of his lips.

"Hello, Amelia," Adrian said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that sent a violent chill straight down her spine. "You're late."