The first time Elena Moore realized she was truly cornered was not when the bank rejected her loan application.
It was when the man behind the glass desk didn't even bother to look at her.
"I'm sorry, Miss Moore," the loan officer said, voice stiff with rehearsed sympathy. "Your account has been… acquired."
Elena blinked. "Acquired?"
The word sounded wrong. Cold. Corporate. Like something that happened to buildings and failing brands—not people.
"Yes. Your outstanding debt, including your father's remaining liabilities, has been purchased by another entity. Effective immediately."
Elena's fingers tightened around the strap of her worn handbag. "By who?"
The officer hesitated.
That pause was the first crack in her composure.
"I'm afraid I'm not authorized to disclose—"
"Who," Elena repeated, her voice low, steady, refusing to shake.
The man swallowed, glanced at his screen, then looked away as if ashamed.
"Blackwood Holdings."
The room seemed to tilt.
For a moment, Elena couldn't hear anything—not the hum of the air conditioner, not the distant phones ringing, not even her own breathing. One name echoed in her head like a gunshot.
Victor Blackwood.
Her father's enemy.
The witness who had testified against Moore Industries.
The man whose cold, precise words had destroyed everything her family built.
"No," she whispered.
"I'm sorry," the officer said again, softer this time. "You've been summoned for a formal meeting. Tomorrow. Ten a.m. Blackwood Tower."
Elena stood up so suddenly her chair screeched against the floor.
"I won't go," she said. "He can't—he has no right."
The officer's eyes held pity. "Miss Moore… he owns the debt now. Legally."
That night, Elena didn't sleep.
She sat at the small dining table in her apartment, stacks of unpaid bills spread before her like evidence of a crime she didn't remember committing. Her father's framed photograph leaned against the wall, his tired smile frozen in time.
"They won," she whispered to the empty room.
Five years ago, her father had walked into a courtroom a proud man and walked out a broken one. Three months later, his heart had given out. The newspapers called it stress. Elena called it murder.
And now the man responsible had her name in his hands again.
---
Blackwood Tower pierced the sky like a blade.
Elena stood at its base the next morning, craning her neck upward, feeling impossibly small. Everything about the building screamed power—glass, steel, silence. This was Victor Blackwood's world. She had no business here.
Yet here she was.
The elevator ride to the top floor was quiet. Too quiet.
When the doors slid open, a woman in a tailored suit was already waiting.
"Miss Moore," the assistant said crisply. "Mr. Blackwood is expecting you."
Elena's stomach clenched.
The office was vast and minimalistic—no clutter, no warmth. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city like it was something to be owned.
And behind the desk sat Victor Blackwood.
He looked exactly as she remembered.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. Sharp features carved from indifference. His dark eyes lifted slowly, landing on her with clinical precision—like a judge examining evidence.
For three seconds, he said nothing.
Then, coldly, "You're late."
Elena's nails dug into her palms. "Your assistant said ten."
"It's ten-oh-two."
Of course he noticed.
She straightened. "Why am I here?"
Victor leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. His gaze never softened.
"Because you owe me," he said.
Her chest burned. "You bought my father's debt."
"Yes."
"You destroyed him," she shot back. "Was that not enough?"
Something flickered in his eyes—too fast to name.
Then it vanished.
"Sit," he ordered.
Elena didn't.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and deliberate. Victor watched her like a predator assessing whether its prey was worth the effort.
Finally, he smiled.
It wasn't kind.
"I wondered," he said softly, "if you'd be as stubborn as he was."
Her heart pounded. "You hate me."
"I don't waste emotion on irrelevancies," Victor replied. "But you are… inconvenient."
He slid a folder across the desk.
"Your company is insolvent. Your personal assets are negligible. Your debt exceeds what you'll earn in a lifetime."
Elena didn't touch the folder.
"What do you want?" she asked.
Victor stood.
The air shifted instantly.
He walked around the desk, stopping directly in front of her. Too close. His presence was overwhelming—controlled, dominant, deliberate.
"I want efficiency," he said quietly. "And closure."
He tilted her chin up with one finger—not gently, not cruelly. Just enough to force her to meet his eyes.
"You will work for me," Victor continued. "Under my terms. Until your debt is paid."
Elena's breath shook. "That's not employment."
"No," he agreed. "It's ownership."
Her pulse roared in her ears.
She slapped his hand away.
"I would rather starve," she said, voice trembling with fury, "than belong to you."
Victor studied her for a long moment.
Then he smiled again.
"We'll see," he said.
Because both of them knew—
She had already walked into his cage.