The Billionaire’s Blood Debt: Ruined by My Enemy のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 61 - チャプター 70

Elowen’s POV To break the database freeze Laurence Croft had slapped on us, we had to prove the judge who canceled our marriage was paid off. If we could link Judge Miller's sudden court order directly to my father's hidden, bankrupt funds, the ruling would be legally void. Our marriage would be restored, the database freeze would dissolve, and Vane's fleet would be fully operational again. Arthur St. Claire had spent decades hiding money from his creditors in a web of offshore shell companies. He believed his Swiss reserves were completely untouchable, buried deep in private, untraceable bank accounts in Geneva. But he made a critical mistake when he transferred the bribe to Judge Miller's private trust. "Miller is a cautious man who spent his entire career protecting his reputation," I murmured, my eyes on the scrolling files. "He would never accept a direct wire transfer from a St. Claire account during an active audit. He needed a clean, hidden path that would look like a legit

Elowen’s POVThe leather seat of the Maybach felt cold against my thighs, the rhythmic, silent rotation of the wheels through the rain-swept streets of Manhattan doing nothing to calm the steady, erratic beating of my heart.I couldn't stop looking at my own hand, the heavy platinum band and the massive diamond catching the gray afternoon light, their cold brilliance mocking the sudden, suffocating silence of the cabin.The victory in the boardroom against Laurence Croft should have been a complete, clean triumph. We had locked their assets, dissolved their claims of a material breach, and secured the database keys.Yet, all I could see was the stark, freezing change in Killian’s expression the moment his phone had chirped.A man like Killian Blackwood didn't flinch. He was a corporate predator who treated federal investigations and hostile board takeovers like minor inconveniences. But in that single, silent second, his silver-blue eyes had turned to dead, unreadable shards of ice."

Elowen’s POV The rain from the night before had left the floor-to-ceiling glass of my office streaked with cold, gray moisture. The pale morning light cast sharp, geometric shadows across the polished concrete floor. The high, structured shoulders of my dark gray wool jacket felt tight against my back, forcing my spine straight. My hands rested flat on the edge of the mahogany desk, my fingers cold against the dark wood. On the blotter lay the older, printed ledger books I had requested from the basement archive earlier that morning. The pages were thick, the paper carrying the faint, dry scent of dust and old ink. I was running my fingers down the columns of names, but my mind was entirely detached from the active transport lists. The lists of cargo weights and port fees were just background noise today. My focus remained locked on the blank spaces in our history—on those two initials, K.P.

Elowen’s POV The morning light was thin and watery, casting long, pale lines across the dark mahogany of the study desk. It was a cold, silent daylight that did nothing to warm the room, highlighting the quiet dust floating in the air. The black ink on the heavy archival paper was dry, but the hand that had pressed the metal nib into the page had left deep, physical grooves in the fiber. The force behind the pen had been real, a heavy, downward pressure that had scarred the paper itself. My fingers traced those deep, ragged impressions, mapping the physical weight of the writer's hand. It was like reading a silent, tactile record of someone’s focused, unyielding intent. These maps of the early Manhattan harbor and the columns of handwritten names were older than any of the active files on my desk. They belonged to a period before the current corporate offices were even built, back when Vane G

Elowen's POV The heavy doors of the library corridor clicked shut behind us, and the noise of the ballroom disappeared at once, swallowed up like it had never existed. The quiet that took its place felt strange, almost too clean. The air here smelled of old leather, cold wood, and something floral and heavy underneath — lavender, worn like a habit rather than a perfume. Somewhere behind the doors, muffled now, the string quartet kept playing, as if nothing in the world had just shifted. The woman didn't run. She didn't raise her voice. She turned to face us slowly, the black of her gown catching the dim light along the hallway. Her eyes went to me first. Pale gray, and careful, moving over my white suit the way someone studies a thing they already feel sorry for. My arms prickled under my sleeves. I told myself it was the draft from the hallway. I didn't qu