All Chapters of His To Ruin: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

My face stung.My skin throbbed.But it was nothing compared to the hollow, ringing silence in my chest.I stood frozen, one hand cradling the side of my face where Victor had struck me. The room, once soft and warm, now felt foreign, like I’d been dropped into a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.He hit me.Victor Wolfe hit me.And not a shove. Not a drunken slap in the heat of some petty argument. A punch. A full, hard, violent blow that snapped my head to the side and made the floor tilt beneath me.I could still feel the weight of his hand. The sting hadn’t faded. But it was the look in his eyes that truly left me breathless.There was no remorse.No hesitation. No flicker of guilt or pain or shame.Only satisfaction.“You think that’s the worst of it?” His voice cut through the silence like a serrated blade. Victor stood over me, his body casting a shadow across the room, shoulders squared, eyes dark. “I’ll hit you again. And again. As many times as it takes.”I didn’t move.Couldn’t

The gates of the Wolfe estate loomed ahead, just as cold, just as imposing, as when I’d left.But something felt… off.There were no sirens. No gunfire. No alarms blaring. Just silence, too clean, too rehearsed. Like a lie dressed in velvet.The car rolled to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires. I stepped out into the crisp air, inhaled deeply, and instantly regretted it.The air was heavy.Not with smoke or blood, but with tension. Fear.Fear I hadn’t left behind after my last mission. Fear that had rooted itself into the bones of this house.I handed off my coat without a word and strode into the main foyer. The marble gleamed. The chandeliers sparkled. But beneath the wealth was something rotten.Two maids passed me, heads bowed too fast, eyes fixed to the floor. They didn’t greet me. Didn’t even breathe in my direction.Strange.I kept walking, boots thudding in perfect rhythm. The paintings lining the halls, those Robert had curated to reflect his “legacy”, felt like they w

The study smelled like leather, cigars, and quiet authority.Killian stepped inside without knocking. The heavy door shut behind him with a dull finality, swallowing the corridor’s light.Robert Wolfe sat behind the desk like a man carved into the foundation of the house itself, ageless, immovable, in control. A crystal tumbler of scotch sat untouched by his elbow. Papers, ledgers, and dossiers lay splayed before him like prey.He didn’t look up.“Back from Naples early,” he said, voice low and even. “I assume you’re here to report.”Killian didn’t sit. He never did.“There was a breach,” he said. “The port shipment. Two men dead, one critical. The rest is handled.”Robert’s gaze flicked upward. “Handled how?”Killian’s voice was flat. “You won’t hear about it again.”Robert closed the file in front of him with a soft snap.“And the cause?”“Someone got greedy. Their body won’t be found.”“Good.” A pause. “Clean work, as always.”Killian didn’t reply.Robert exhaled and leaned back, hi

The water scalded as it hit her skin. Silent maids moved around her like ghosts, scrubbing, rinsing, dressing her in something that smelled like roses and money. The bruises bloomed beneath their touch, raw and unhidden, but no one flinched. Not them. Not her.Her robe was gone. In its place, a pale lavender dress with capped sleeves and a cinched waist. Elegant. Controlled. The zipper dragged slowly up her spine like a seal being pressed into flesh.No one spoke.The final touches were clinical: a light gloss on her lips, a brush through her damp hair. Her wrists were red from heat, her face puffy but powdered. One of the maids handed her a pair of soft slippers.And then they left.Ivy stood alone in the bathroom, the sound of the faucet still dripping into silence.She stepped toward the mirror.The girl who stared back wasn’t her. Not the Ivy from her art studio floor in her house. Not the girl who once laughed with Killian in his cabin or whispered dreams of freedom under a Tuscan

Morning didn’t come with sound, only light, soft and golden through the linen curtains. It brushed her cheeks like a whisper, but Ivy didn’t stir. Her body woke before her mind, stretching without direction, her hands curling loosely over the sheets.She hadn’t dreamed. Or maybe she had, and the dreams were so quiet she mistook them for death.Her eyes opened. The ceiling above her was ivory with delicate carvings. A room meant to soothe.But Ivy had begun to understand something ugly, Even comfort could be a kind of violence.She sat up slowly.The breakfast tray was already placed near the window, steaming gently. Eggs. Toast. Fruit cut into perfect shapes. She hadn’t heard anyone come in.They moved around her now like she was something sacred, or untouchable.Her robe lay folded on the end of the bed. Next to it, a dress she hadn’t picked: pale yellow with thin straps and a fitted waist, the color of springtime and submission.She stared at it. Then she got up, undressed, and step