CHAPTER ONE
The ballroom was a cage of gold and glass, and Ivy St. Claire was the bird Killian Blackwood had bought to decorate it.
As the orchestra played a hauntingly beautiful waltz, Ivy felt the weight of the Blackwood Diamond at her throat. It was heavy, cold, and felt remarkably like a noose. Every time she moved, the emerald silk of her gown hissed against the marble floor, a constant reminder of the luxury she hadn't earned.
Killian's hand was a steady, warm pressure against the small of her back. To the five hundred people watching them, he was a man in love. Only Ivy knew the truth. This wasn't a romance; it was a transaction.
Six months ago, Ivy had been a different woman. She had been a struggling cellist, working three jobs to keep her mother in the private wing of a hospital she couldn't afford. She remembered the day she had walked into Blackwood Enterprises, not as a guest, but as a desperate woman looking for a miracle.
She had been told Killian Blackwood didn't see people; he saw assets. She had waited in his lobby for ten hours, refusing to leave until the security guards threatened to call the police. That was when the elevator doors had opened, and the King of New York had stepped out.
He hadn't looked at her with pity. He had looked at her like a problem to be solved.
"You have ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn't have you arrested for trespassing," he had said, his voice like the low growl of a predator.
"I have a gift," she had whispered, her voice trembling but her eyes defiant. "I can play any piece of music ever written after hearing it once. And I have a debt that is going to kill my mother. I will work for you for twenty years if you just pay for her surgery."
Killian had paused. He had looked at her worn-out shoes, her frayed coat, and then finally, her face. He hadn't offered her a job as a musician. He had offered her a contract of marriage.
"I don't need a cellist, Ivy," he had replied, his gaze chillingly clinical. "I need a wife. My father's will stipulates that I must be married to a woman of 'reproachable character' by my thirty-second birthday to retain control of the board. You are desperate, you have no scandals, and you owe me. Sign the papers, and your mother lives."
The memory of that cold, sterile office made the heat of the ballroom feel even more oppressive. Ivy had signed her life away in exchange for a heart surgeon and a penthouse suite. She had thought she was saving her family, but standing here tonight, she realized she had simply traded one kind of poverty for another.
"You're drifting again," Killian's voice broke through her thoughts. He pulled her slightly closer, his scent—sandalwood and expensive bourbon—enveloping her. "The cameras are on the left. Look like you're enjoying my company, Ivy. It's what I pay you for."
"Is that all I am to you, Killian?" she asked, her voice tight. "A line item in your budget? A tactical move against your father?"
Killian's eyes, usually as dark and unreadable as the midnight sea, flickered for a brief second. "You knew the terms when you signed the contract. Don't start looking for a soul in a business arrangement."
He turned her expertly on the dance floor, but the movement brought them face-to-face with the one person Ivy dreaded most.
Genevieve Sterling stood at the edge of the floor, looking like a silver blade in her metallic gown. Beside her was Julian Vane, the man who had been Killian's shadow until he was caught embezzling from the firm. Now, they were a united front of resentment.
"Killian, darling," Genevieve purred, stepping forward as the music slowed. "You really must stop hiding your little project in the corner. We were just discussing how… remarkable it is that a girl from the suburbs could learn to walk in heels so quickly."
Killian's expression didn't change, but Ivy felt the muscles in his arm turn to steel. "Genevieve. I see you've found someone whose reputation matches your own. I assume Julian is here to remind everyone why I fired him?"
Julian's smile was thin and dangerous. "I'm here to witness the fall, Killian. Even a kingdom built on stone can be toppled if the foundation is rotten. And your foundation…" He looked Ivy up and down with a sickening familiarity. "...is looking a bit fragile tonight."
"We're leaving," Killian said, his voice a low command that brooked no argument.
He didn't wait for a response. He gripped Ivy's hand and led her toward the exit, ignoring the whispers that followed in their wake. They burst through the heavy oak doors and into the cool night air where his black Maybach was already idling at the curb.
The silence inside the car was deafening. Killian stared out the window, his jaw tight. Ivy watched the city lights blur into streaks of neon gold, her mind racing.
"What is the Red Ledger, Killian?" she asked suddenly.
The car seemed to grow colder. Killian didn't move, but his silence was different now. It was heavy, weighted with something that felt remarkably like guilt.
"Where did you hear that name?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
"Genevieve. She told me to ask you why you really chose me," Ivy said, her heart beginning to thud against her ribs. "She said I was a debt repayment. But I'm the one who owed you. Why did she say it like you were the one paying someone off?"
Killian finally turned to look at her. The streetlights flickered across his face, revealing a flash of something raw and haunted in his eyes.
"There are things about your father's death that you don't know, Ivy," he said, his voice cracking the silence like a whip. "Things that were buried long before I ever met you."
Ivy felt the air leave her lungs. Her father had died in a hit-and-run ten years ago—a case that had never been solved. "What does my father have to do with Blackwood Enterprises?"
Killian decided to speak no more…