Bound to the Billionaire's Revenge

Chapter 4

Shadows of Betrayal

The next week passed in a haze of spreadsheets, silent car rides and nights spent staring at the ceiling of a bedroom that wasn’t hers.

Ava learned the shape of Lucian’s days. He woke at five, ran ten miles on the treadmill overlooking Central Park, showered and left for the office before she’d even poured coffee. He returned after midnight, tie loosened, eyes bloodshot from numbers and vendettas. He never touched her again after that kiss just watched her like a wolf deciding when the sheep was fattened enough.

She hated the waiting.

One afternoon, while reorganizing the physical archives he insisted she familiarize herself with busywork, she found a locked drawer in the credenza behind her desk. The key was taped under the bottom, like he wanted her to find it.

Inside, a thick file labeled simply BLACKWELL 2019

Her hands shook as she opened it.

Articles. Board minutes. Emails.

Headlines from the week after she vanished.

BLACKWELL HEIR IMPLICATED IN $3M EMBEZZLEMENT

BOARD DEMANDS RESIGNATION

LUCIAN BLACKWELL FIGHTS FOR CONTROL

Then she turned the page and the story flipped.

BLACKWELL EXPOSES MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR FRAUD RING

THREE BOARD MEMBERS ARRESTED

YOUNGEST CEO IN COMPANY HISTORY RETAINS CONTROL BY 51% VOTE

There were photos: Lucian in handcuffs being led out of the building. Then, three months later, Lucian in the same suit, same building, shaking hands with federal prosecutors while the men who’d tried to bury him were marched out in orange jumpsuits.

He hadn’t just survived her betrayal.

He’d weaponized it.

Guilt hit her so hard she had to sit on the floor, papers scattered around her like fallen leaves. She’d spent five years believing she’d ruined him. Instead, she’d handed him the perfect excuse to purge the vipers who’d been bleeding the company dry for decades.

She was still sitting there when he found her hours later.

Curiosity satisfied? His voice was mild, but the way he filled the doorway made the room shrink.

Ava looked up, tears drying on her cheeks. You used what I did. You turned it into the best thing that ever happened to me? He stepped inside, closed the door. Yes. Congratulations, Ava. Your knife in my back was the sharpest gift I ever received.

She stood on shaky legs. I thought I destroyed you.

You did, he said quietly. Just not the way you think.

Silence pulsed between them, heavy and complicated.

Then he held out a garment bag. Get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.

The gala was for the Children’s Hospital Foundation ironic, given the leverage he held over her father’s care. The venue was the Met, all marble and chandeliers and people who smiled with too many teeth.

Lucian kept her on his arm the entire night. Not like a date. Like a trophy. His hand rested at the small of her back, fingers splayed possessively, thumb stroking the bare skin above her dress every time someone looked too long.

The dress was liquid silver, backless, slit to mid-thigh. Every step flashed leg, every breath threatened to spill her from the plunging neckline. She felt naked. She felt powerful. She hated that she felt both.

Halfway through dinner, a woman approached their table tall, blonde, legs for days, dripping diamonds. Victoria Langford. Ava recognized her from old society pages. Lucian’s girlfriend right after Ava disappeared.

Lucian, darling, Victoria purred, leaning down to air kiss both his cheeks. Her perfume was cloying. You didn’t tell me you were bringing company.

Lucian’s smile was razor-thin. Victoria. This is Ava Harper. My fiancée.

The word landed like a bomb.

Victoria’s eyes flicked to Ava’s left hand bare then to Lucian’s face, searching. How modern.

Ava’s stomach flipped. Fiancée?

Victoria lingered, touching Lucian’s shoulder, laughing too loud at something he said. Every brush of her manicured fingers felt like acid on Ava’s skin.

Lucian’s hand slid lower on Ava’s back, pressing her into his side. Excuse us, he said abruptly, standing. We have a prior commitment.

He didn’t let go of her until they were in the back of the limo, partition up, city lights streaking past.

Then the leash snapped.

He yanked her across the leather seat and into his lap, mouth crashing down on hers with five years of pent-up violence. She tasted champagne and fury. His hands were everywhere tearing at the slit in her dress, shoving it up her thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise.

You let her touch you think you’re replaceable? he growled against her throat, teeth scraping. You think I’d touch her after I’ve had you?

Ava’s head fell back as he sucked a mark just below her jaw. You said this was revenge.

It is. He ripped the delicate strap of her dress, silver fabric pooled at her waist. And revenge tastes like you screaming my name.

The limo stopped. She didn’t even register they were home until he carried her through the private elevator, her legs wrapped around his waist, dress hanging in tatters.

Inside the bedroom he threw her on the bed and literally threw her. She bounced once, gasping and he was on her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other tore away what was left of the gown.

No tenderness. No patience.

He spread her thighs with his knee, eyes wild. Tell me to stop.

She should have. God, she should have.

Instead she arched up, nails raking down his shirt, popping buttons. Don’t you dare.

Clothes disappeared in a frenzy. Skin on skin after half a decade felt like lightning. He drove into her in one brutal thrust, no condom, no warning and she cried out at the stretch, the burn, the impossible fullness.

It wasn’t making love. It was war.

Every thrust punished. Every moan she gave him was interest collected. He set a ruthless pace, hips slamming into hers, headboard cracking against the wall. She met him stroke for stroke, biting his shoulder, clawing his back, tears streaking into her hair because it hurt and it didn’t and she’d missed this, missed him so violently she couldn’t breathe.

When she came it was sudden and shattering, her body clamping down on his vision whiting out. He followed seconds later, burying his face in her neck, groaning her name like it hurt him.

They stayed locked together, panting, sweat cooling on their skin.

After a long moment he rolled off her, staring at the ceiling.

Ava’s voice was hoarse. You said fiancée.

He didn’t look at her. I say a lot of things.

She turned toward him, heart raw. Was any of tonight real?

His profile was stone. The orgasm was real. The rest…He finally met her eyes, something fractured flickering there before he shuttered it. Don’t fall in love with me again, Ava. I’ll only break you worse this time.

He got up, walked naked to the bathroom, and shut the door.

Ava pulled the sheet over herself and listened to the shower run, wondering how many times a heart could shatter before there was nothing left to feel.