บททั้งหมดของ Ruthless Temptation: บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 40

Emma’s POV “He’s not good enough for you, Emma. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.” My father’s voice echoed through the marble-floored study of our estate, his words sharp and final like the slam of a judge’s gavel. The fire crackled behind him, casting long shadows on the walls as if even the room disapproved of what I’d become.I stood across from him, arms folded tightly against my chest, trying to keep my face neutral even as rage simmered just below the surface. It wasn’t the first time we’d had this fight, and it wouldn’t be the last—but something about this evening made it feel final. Like a choice had to be made.“Then maybe your definition of ‘good enough’ is what’s broken,” I replied coldly, my voice steady despite the way my hands trembled with restraint.His eyes narrowed. “He’s not one of us. You know that. You were raised for more than this… dalliance.”I clenched my jaw, trying not to scream. “He’s better t

Killian’s POVI hated the way the walls of her childhood home made me feel. Too tall. Too rough around the edges. Like a cracked stone among polished marble. The Lancaster estate was the kind of place I used to walk past as a kid and wonder what kind of people lived behind the wrought-iron gates. Now, I was walking inside with polished shoes, wearing a custom-fitted suit Emma had insisted I get.And yet—I still felt like an impostor.I tried to smile as Emma introduced me to her extended family during her cousin’s engagement party, but the greetings were stiff, the handshakes too quick. Most looked at me like they were trying to place a face they’d only heard about in whispers. Others didn’t even hide their disappointment.“He’s handsome,” one older aunt whispered to another, “but you can tell he’s not one of us.”That one hit harder than it should’ve. Not one of us.No matter what suit I wore or title I held, I would always be less in their eyes. T

Killian’s POV It was a Saturday afternoon, but the tension felt like Monday morning before a boardroom war. Emma’s family estate wasn’t just big—it was a statement. Sweeping lawns, glass walls, fountains that served no purpose other than to say: We’re richer than you’ll ever be. And today… it was full of them. Uncles in tailored suits discussing markets I’d only recently learned to pronounce. Aunts dripping in pearls, judging my shoes before I even stepped onto the marble floors. Cousins who treated private jets like Ubers. I wasn’t just underdressed. I was underborn. Emma looped her arm through mine as we entered the atrium, her warm smile grounding me. “You okay?” I nodded. “Just wondering if I should’ve brought a Latin dictionary to understand half these conversations.” She chuckled and leaned into me. “You’re doing fine. They’re just p

Emma’s POV The wedding was three weeks away. Three weeks of flower arrangements, seating charts, dress fittings, and chaos. But none of it compared to the storm brewing in my father’s eyes every time Killian walked into the room. “I still don’t understand,” he muttered over scotch one evening, swirling the amber liquid like it held answers. “Why him, Emma? Of all the men in your world…” “My world,” I repeated coldly. “Funny how you’re so quick to define it—like I had no part in building it myself.” “You know what I mean.” “No,” I said, leaning forward, eyes locked. “I don’t. So say it. Say what you really mean, Dad.” He clenched his jaw. “He’s not one of us. He never will be.” I smiled—sharp, unyielding. “Then maybe that’s the best thing about him.” Killian’s POV I wasn’t supposed to hear it. But I did.

Killian’s POV The backlash was immediate. The media didn’t just take the bait—they devoured it. News cycles dissected every word, every look, every photo Emma and I had taken together since graduation. Old classmates came out of nowhere, offering embellished stories for a taste of attention. “Sleeping her way to the top,” they called her. “Social-climbing scholarship boy,” they labeled me. It was disgusting. Dehumanizing. But the worst part wasn’t what they said about me. I’d grown used to people underestimating me. No—what gutted me was watching them try to rip her apart. Emma, who had fought twice as hard to prove she was more than just her last name. Emma, who never took the easy way out. She didn’t cry. She didn’t crack. But I saw it in her eyes at night—when her makeup was wiped off and her voice was quiet—that it hurt. So I made a vo