جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 10

Three years ago, I signed my divorce papers with a trembling hand. Today, I watched Julian Thorne choke on his champagne. The Grand Astor Hotel glittered with chandeliers and hypocrisy. Every billionaire in the city had gathered for the "Philanthropy Gala," but no one here had ever donated a dime without a tax loophole. I stood near the balcony, a flute of sparkling water in my gloved hand, and I let my gaze drift to the man who had destroyed me. Julian hadn't changed. He was still tall, broad-shouldered, with that jaw that could cut glass and eyes the color of a winter storm. His charcoal suit probably cost more than my first car. He was laughing at something—no, smirking—at a blonde who clung to his arm like decorative seaweed. His new fiancée, the whispers said. A supermodel. Much more appropriate for a man of his stature. I remembered when I was that arm-candy. Elara Vance, the quiet librarian he'd plucked from obscurity, married in a courthouse, hidden in his pentho

I didn't go home to Damian that night. I sat in my car in the hospital parking lot, staring at Julian's text message: Meet me at the old penthouse. Bring the divorce papers. Let's talk about a truce. It was a trap. Of course it was a trap. But my mother was sleeping peacefully for the first time in months because Julian had paid for her morphine drip. I went. The penthouse looked exactly the same. Cold marble. Empty hallways. The bedroom where I'd cried myself to sleep a hundred times. Julian stood by the window, backlit by city lights. He looked almost handsome. "You came," he said again. "Don't sound so surprised. You held my mother hostage with a checkbook." He flinched. "That's not—I was trying to help." "You were trying to buy me." He turned. His eyes were wet. Fake, I told myself. All of it is fake. "I'll give you Kael Corp," he said suddenly. I blinked. "What?" "I've been building a hostile takeover bid for months. I have enough dirt on Damian to put h

Damian's penthouse felt different tonight. Warmer. Or maybe I was just colder on the inside. He handed me a glass of wine—red, expensive, the kind Julian used to drink while ignoring me at dinner—and sat across from me on the leather couch. The city glittered below us. Somewhere out there, Julian was planning his next move. "You want to tell me what really happened?" Damian asked. I took a long sip. "I walked into his trap. He offered me a deal. I recorded it. He sent thugs. I blackmailed him. The end." "That's the short version." "You want the long version?" I set down the glass. "He paid my mother's medical bills. Two million dollars. He's holding it over my head. And he offered to make me a billionaire if I betray you and marry him again." Damian didn't flinch. "And what did you say?" "I said no." "Before or after you recorded him?" "During." A slow smile spread across his face. "God, you're terrifying." "I learned from the best." We sat in silence for a m

Damian's family mansion sat on a hill overlooking the city like a throne overlooking peasants. White marble columns. A fountain with actual gold fish. Guards at every gate. I had dressed carefully—black silk dress, minimal jewelry, hair loose. Not too rich. Not too poor. Just dangerous enough. "Remember," Damian whispered as we walked up the steps, "my mother will try to make you cry. Don't." "Your mother doesn't scare me." "She should. She made my first three girlfriends move to different countries." We entered. The dining room was a cathedral of wealth. A table that seated twenty. Crystal chandeliers. Servants in white gloves. And at the head of the table, a woman who looked like she'd been carved from ice. Victoria Kael. She was beautiful in the way a frozen lake is beautiful—stunning, but one wrong step and you drown. Her silver hair was pinned perfectly. Her diamond necklace probably cost more than my mother's hospital. "Damian," she said, not standing. "You'r

I didn't go to Damian's penthouse. I went to the hospital. My mother was awake when I arrived—really awake, not the half-conscious haze of painkillers. Her eyes were clear. Her color was better. "Elara," she said, reaching for my hand. "You look terrible." "Thanks, Mom." "What happened? Is it Julian? Did he hurt you again?" I sat on the edge of her bed. "Mom… how long has Julian been paying for your treatment?" She looked away. "Mom." "Five years," she whispered. "He started paying five years ago. Before you even met him." The world tilted. "Before we met?" My voice cracked. "How is that possible?" Your father's death wasn't an accident, Elara. It was a car accident, I said. Your father's death wasn't an accident." My mother's voice was barely audible. "Julian's father arranged it. Your father was an accountant. He found something in Thorne Industries' books—something that would have sent the whole family to prison. So they killed him. And Julian… Julian was