Owned By The Billionaire Enforcer

Lia Hart's lungs burned as she ran. The night was alive with sirens in the distance, dogs barking, and the sound of her own heartbeat pounding like war drums in her ears. The soles of her cheap flats slapped against the wet pavement, slick from the spring rain. Bloodsomeone else’s, not hers was drying on her sleeve. Her hands trembled as she pulled her hoodie lower over her head and ducked into a narrow alleyway behind an old liquor store. She had seen too much. That man—her stepfather—was dead now. His head twisted unnaturally on the carpeted floor of their apartment. The blood pooling under his skull had spread in a slow, thick circle around the remote control. She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t had time. The moment the killer looked up from the body and saw her standing there, Lia had bolted. That had been an hour ago. She didn't know how she was still alive. She paused in the alley, bent over with her hands on her knees, trying not to collapse. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The city didn’t care—cars moved, lights flashed, people laughed in bars. Somewhere out there, a man had been murdered in his own home, and Lia Hart was now the only witness. Or maybe the next target. She had to hide. She had to think. Her eyes caught a shadowed side street and an iron gate rusted halfway open. Beyond it sat an abandoned chapel. The cross above the crumbling roof was snapped in half, but the heavy wooden doors were intact. Lia slipped through the gate. Inside, dust covered every pew. The air was thick and musty, but dry. Better than the streets. Better than being seen. She walked quietly down the aisle, her breath held, until she reached the altar. Behind it, a narrow door led to a sacristy room—just big enough for one person to hide. She closed the door and sank to the floor. Only then did the tears come. Silent. Hot. Her hands shook as she pulled her knees to her chest. Everything had happened so fast. The fight. The gun. The snap. And then… that face. Cold. Sharp jaw. Black coat. Gloves. He hadn’t flinched after killing someone. But his eyes… they had locked with hers for a second. And they weren’t empty. They were calculating. Now he was looking for her. And Lia knew—he’d find her. It was only a matter of time. Damon Knight adjusted his coat as he stepped back into his black Aston Martin, parked casually outside the apartment complex. The body had already been reported anonymously. He had wiped everything clean. As always. No witnesses, no mess. Except one. She had been standing there—barefoot, hoodie halfway on, a paper bag in her hand. Her brown eyes had gone wide like a deer’s. She didn’t scream. She ran. Smart girl. Stupid girl. He didn’t like loose ends. From the passenger seat, Marcus looked over. "Want me to send the dogs out?" Damon shook his head. "No. I’ll find her myself." "She’s just a kid. Probably hiding in some bus station bathroom." "She saw my face." "And? You’ve put bullets in men for less." Damon’s jaw clenched. "She’s not just a witness. She’s a liability. And if they find out I let her live, I become one too." Marcus was quiet. Damon leaned back in his seat, the city lights glinting off his leather gloves. "Scan the CCTV around the liquor district. She didn’t vanish. She’s somewhere." And he would find her. Lia didn’t sleep. Every sound made her flinch. Rats skittered in the walls. Rain pelted the stained glass. At one point, she thought she heard footsteps outside the chapel, but when she peeked through the door, there was no one there. Her stomach growled. Her throat was dry. But she didn’t dare move. Not yet. By morning, her legs ached. The street outside was quieter, but she knew the danger hadn’t passed. She crept to the chapel doors and slowly pushed them open. That’s when she saw him. A man standing in the aisle, facing the altar. He didn’t turn around. Just stood there, tall and unmoving, like a statue made of shadow. Her voice caught in her throat. He spoke before she could run. "You’re late, Lia." Her blood turned to ice. Damon Knight turned around slowly, his coat falling perfectly into place. His eyes met hers—cold, focused, but not cruel. Not yet. "You should’ve kept running." She stepped back, heart in her throat. "Don’t," he said softly. She froze. Damon walked toward her slowly. "I didn’t come to kill you. Not yet." "Why?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Because I don’t kill ghosts," he said. "And if you walk out that door, that’s what you’ll become." Lia didn’t understand. "They’ll find you," he said. "And when they do, they’ll make you disappear in pieces. Not clean. Not like I would." Her breath hitched. "So I’m giving you a choice," Damon said. "Come with me… or take your chances." She looked at him, at the chapel, at the broken door behind her. And she made her choice.