All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Blood Debt: Ruined by My Enemy: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Elowen’s POVThe small, silver drive sitting in the center of the glass table looked entirely harmless. But the threat behind it was a death sentence."An accomplice," I whispered, the word dry and chalky on my tongue.I looked at my father, my chest tightening as the brutal, devastating truth washed over me. He wasn't trying to save me from a monster. He didn't care about my freedom, and he never had. He was using the threat of my prison sentence to blackmail the rival who had crushed his empire. To Arthur St. Claire, I was just a pawn to be traded or a sacrifice to be made."It’s a very clean legal trap, Mr. Blackwood," Henderson said, his voice dripping with professional smugness as he tapped his gold pen against the table. "If you finalize this contract, Miss St. Claire goes down for corporate espionage. And you go down with her for harboring a federal felon. We walk out of here with the Montgomery assets, or we walk into the FBI field office."Thatcher leaned forward, a sick, vic

Elowen’s POVThe metallic chirp of the lock had echoed like a gunshot in the dark, but the word Killian had left behind was the real weapon.Engagement.I hadn't slept a single wink. I had spent the remaining hours of the night pacing the cold floorboards of the suite, my body still exhausted from the physical toll of the previous days, but my mind racing too fast to quiet down. An engagement wasn't a corporate takeover. It wasn't a hostile acquisition. It was a public, permanent binding of our names—the exact opposite of the quiet, transactional debt I had signed up for.The second the door clicked open at dawn, I didn't wait for Celeste or the styling team. I threw the door wide and marched down the long corridor, my bare feet silent on the dark marble.I found Killian in his glass-walled study, standing by the window with a cup of black coffee. He had already discarded his sleeping clothes, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the d

Elowen’s POVThe deafening roar of a hundred voices trying to scream over one another filled the auditorium. The rapid-fire clicking of the camera shutters sounded like a swarm of locusts descending on the room, their disorienting strobe flashes turning the panic in my chest into a blinding, white-hot haze."Secure the doors." Killian’s voice didn't rise, yet it cut through the din like a blade.Marcus moved with silent, brutal efficiency, signaling three security guards who intercepted Thatcher before he could take another step down the center aisle. Thatcher thrashed against their grip, his wrinkled suit twisting as they pinned his arms behind his back."She’s lying, I tell you!" Thatcher shrieked, his voice cracking as blood dripped from his swollen nose onto his collar. "The contract is a fraud! Blackwood is a criminal!""Get him out of here," Marcus commanded, his face a hard, unreadable mask as they dragged Thatcher toward the side exit.The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off

Elowen’s POVThe storm outside the old ferry terminal was a violent, screaming beast, but inside the cavernous warehouse, the silence was far more terrifying. The air was thick with the scent of rotting, weathered oak, stagnant brine, and the metallic tang of wet rust.Killian’s hand was a heavy, reassuring weight on my shoulder, guiding me forward into the dim light. Ahead of us, the yellow glare of a portable halogen work light illuminated a makeshift staging area.My heart stopped.Leo’s medical transport bed sat in the middle of the concrete floor, the backup respirator pulsing a faint, slow amber light. He looked incredibly small, his face pale and waxen beneath the clear plastic oxygen mask. His chest rose in shallow, erratic jerks.Standing right beside the bed, his hand resting directly on the backup respirator’s main power switch, was Thatcher. His bandaged nose was stark white against his flushed, sweaty skin, his eyes wide and unhinged.And sitting at a rusted metal folding

Elowen’s POVWith only forty-eight hours left until our forced Saturday wedding, the penthouse had been converted into a high-fashion staging ground. Thursday morning light cut sharply through the glass walls as the heavy, white silk of my final fitting gown pooled around my bare feet like fresh snow on a frozen grave.I stood on a low, circular pedestal in the center of the living area, my arms raised slightly as three seamstresses in dark gray uniforms hovered around me like silent crows. The material was heavy, an Italian double-faced satin that felt cold against my skin, clinging to the curve of my hips and dropping into a dramatic, architectural train that swept across the dark slate flooring.It wasn't just a wedding dress. It was a masterpiece of custom-tailored confinement."Don't breathe so deeply, mademoiselle," the head designer, a stern Frenchwoman named Madame Laurent, murmured as she pulled a row of silk-covered pins from her wristband. "The bodice is structured to lift