Beneath The Billionaire

Chapter10

Ella adjusted the scarf wrapped tight around her neck as she turned onto a dimly lit street off Avenue Montane. The shadows stretched long against the cobbled path, and the quiet murmur of nightlife behind her faded into the distance. She walked with purpose, even though every step felt like it was taking her deeper into a life she no longer recognized.

Her bag was heavy at her side—not because of its contents, but because of what it meant. Inside was an envelope, thick with cash she couldn’t afford to lose, destined for a place that shouldn’t exist in her life. But it did. Because of one night. One stupid, impulsive, beautifully reckless night that had unraveled everything.

She reached the alley, barely wide enough for a scooter to squeeze through, and paused just beyond the edge of the streetlight. Her breath caught, misting the air. Her eyes darted to the window above the bakery’s back door—empty. The small metal bin beside it was exactly where they’d said it would be.

No cameras. No people. Just her, the envelope, and the echo of her shame.

Ella knelt by the bin, lifted the lid, and tucked the envelope inside, sliding it beneath a black garbage bag as instructed. Her fingers trembled as they brushed against the cool metal. She froze there for a moment, hand still half inside the bin, just listening. Nothing. Only the quiet hum of Manhattan at night and the hammering of her heart.

She stood, brushed off her coat, and didn’t look back. She never did. That was part of the rules—no hesitation, no lingering. Drop and go.

Back on the street, her steps grew quicker, more urgent. By the time she reached her car, parked two blocks away, her pulse had steadied, but the nausea hadn’t left her. It never did. Each time she made a drop, it felt like part of her was being carved out, piece by piece.

Inside the car, she sank into the driver’s seat and gripped the steering wheel with cold fingers. The dashboard light glowed a soft amber, casting eerie shadows across her face. She didn’t turn the engine on right away. Instead, she stared out the windshield, past the faint outline of parked scooters and shuttered storefronts, to the darker spaces in her mind.

She’d never meant to fall into this. The night in Venice had been a blur—an impulsive decision during a long weekend with friends she barely knew. A last-minute detour, a mysterious invitation, and a high-stakes poker game in a room that smelled like money and regret. She hadn’t played. Not really. But someone had placed a hand of cards in front of her for fun, and she’d laughed. Just for the photo, someone had said. And she, drunk on wine and the illusion of danger, had gone along.

Three weeks later, she received the first email. No text. Just attachments. Photos of her laughing at that table, leaning into someone she now knew had an international warrant on his name. Another image of her reaching for a drink beside a stack of cash, her smile careless and unaware. They weren’t scandalous—unless you knew who the people were. And of course, they did. The blackmailers knew everything.

The second message spelled it out clearly: We know who your family is. You don’t want this to reach the press. Get 50,000 dollars ready. You’ll hear from us next week.

Ella had deleted it. Then undeleted it. Then stared at it for hours.

She hadn’t slept that night.

At first, she told herself it was a mistake. Someone targeting the wrong person. But the emails kept coming. Each week, a new message. A new drop location. A new threat. And eventually, she paid. Because what choice did she have?

Her family couldn’t find out. Not her brother, not anyone. The Blakes had spent decades building their reputation—refined, untouchable, respected in every circle that mattered. One scandal, one hint of something illicit, and it wouldn’t just be her image on the line. It would be their entire legacy, their business credibility, everything they’d worked to protect. The headlines wouldn’t care about nuance. They’d tear the name apart. And Ella couldn’t let that happen. Not for a mistake she’d made.

At first, the money came from her savings. Then the vintage Cartier watch she never wore. A couple of antique handbags from a private auction. A bracelet gifted by her mother that she’d pretended was misplaced. She lied more easily now, even to herself.

But tonight had been different.

Tonight had been the last of it. Her account was empty. She had nothing left—nothing she could sell, at least, not without raising questions. She had avoided borrowing from friends. Refused to touch the emergency fund Sebastian had set up for her. She had too much pride for that.

And now, she didn’t know what came next.

Ella leaned back in the driver’s seat, her head thudding softly against the leather. Her throat burned. She hadn’t cried in weeks, but it bubbled beneath the surface now like a rising tide. The photo had never been leaked. The blackmailers had kept their promise—so far. But each drop only bought her time. And she was out of time.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, startling her. She grabbed it with too much urgency, swiping up to check the screen.

Received. We’ll be in touch.

Ella stared at the message, a bitter laugh catching in her throat. It wasn’t even threatening anymore. They knew she was too deep.

Knew she had no way out. They spoke to her like someone they owned.

She didn’t know how much longer she could live like this.

As she drove home, the street lights blurred into streaks through her windshield, and her mind spun with silent calculations. She would need to find another source of money. Fast. And pray they didn’t raise the price. Pray they didn’t change the game.

Because if they asked for anything more than money, she didn’t know what she’d do.

But she had a terrible feeling that was exactly where this was going.