Billionare's Ruthless Desire (Forever Yours #1)

Chapter 1

Elena

“Noon works perfectly,” Elena said, fumbling blindly across her nightstand for a notebook and a pen that actually worked. “And your client will definitely review the full proposal today?”

“As long as your presentation is satisfactory, yes.”

Elena pushed a messy tangle of golden-blonde hair out of her face, trying desperately not to sound like a golden retriever begging for a treat, and failing completely. “Thank you, Will. Really.”

William Harrington, her best friend since they were losing their baby teeth, gave a polite, thoroughly professional hum on the other end of the line. When Will put on his lawyer hat, he went from the guy who once ate a worm for five dollars to a certified shark.

“As I’ve mentioned before, Elena, my client values his privacy above all else. I’ll be attending the meeting at his place.”

Of course he would. The mysterious billionaire remained exactly that: a ghost in a tailored suit.

No matter how much Elena tried to bully, bribe, or sweet-talk her best friend, Will wouldn’t breach confidentiality.

Nobody knew the man's name. No photographs existed.

No interviews. There was just an absurd amount of money quietly appearing in struggling companies right before they miraculously turned around.

Half the financial world was obsessed with unmasking him.

Elena, frankly, did not care if the man turned out to be an eighty-year-old goblin living inside a cave in Switzerland. If he could save Waldorf Fashion House, she would personally mail him hand-rolled truffles every Christmas.

“I understand,” she said quickly. “We’ll be ready.”

The call ended. Elena clutched her phone to her chest, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, before burying her face in her pillow and letting out a muffled, ecstatic scream.

Finally.

Six months of chasing spineless investors, reworking pitch decks, and sitting through meetings where executives smiled politely while clearly deciding that Waldorf—the former crown jewel of American and European luxury fashion—was a sinking ship not worth saving.

And now, an actual billionaire had agreed to listen.

Elena scrambled out of bed so fast she tangled her legs in the sheets, nearly face-planting onto the hardwood floor. Beside her, Kyle shifted slightly, letting out a soft grunt, but didn’t wake.

Thank God. The last thing she needed right now was one of her husband's signature lectures on “maintaining emotional composure.” Today, she deserved the excitement.

Padding into the hallway barefoot, she rapidly texted her team to assemble by ten. This was it. Aunt Julie would be ecstatic.

Waldorf had been declining ever since Elena’s parents died, and though the board hated admitting it out loud, they were running out of time.

After Adrian and Eleanor Waldorf– her parents died, as her legal guardian, control of the business was temporarily transferred to Aunt Julia until Elena became an adult. At least, that had been the original plan.

Then Elena turned fifteen and detonated her own reputation spectacularly.

Even now, years later, she still cringed thinking about it.

A grieving teenager with too much money, too much freedom, and absolutely no idea how to survive losing both parents at once. She had started partying constantly. Sneaking into clubs. Drinking because it made everything quieter for a few hours.

Then came the raid.

One stupid night at a nightclub where drugs were found, police lights flashing outside the building while paparazzi swarmed like vultures.

The headlines had been brutal.

“Poor little billionaire orphan spirals out of control.”

“Underage daughter of the late fashion mogul involved in a drug scandal.”

After that, the board had decided making Elena the CEO of the company would damage its reputation.

Control remained with Aunt Julia.

Elena couldn’t even fully blame them for it.

She had been reckless back then. Angry at the world. Angry at herself. Angry that her parents died and left her alone with a collapsing life she didn’t know how to carry.

But she wasn’t fifteen anymore.

It took a decade of therapy, an Ivy League business degree, and working herself half to death in entry-level management to prove she was no longer that reckless teenager.

She had earned her second chance.

Stepping into the marble kitchen, she spotted the housekeeper.

“Good morning, Rosa. Could we do French toast today? And scrambled eggs for Kyle?”

“Of course, Mrs. Montgomery,” Rosa smiled, handing over a small manila envelope. “The doorman delivered this for you earlier.”

Elena blinked, taking it. It was light, lacking a return address or a stamp. Only To, Elena Waldorf was printed in precise lettering across the front. Not Elena Montgomery.

Strange. If it were business, it would be a three-inch-thick legal packet. This looked intimate. Anonymous.

"Thanks, Rosa," she murmured. With her mind buzzing at a million miles an hour over the noon meeting, she didn't have the bandwidth for mysteries. She tossed the envelope onto her bedroom dresser next to her jewelry tray and hopped into the shower, hoping the steam would wash away her nerves.

****

By 7:50 a.m., Elena was a weapon of corporate professionalism.

Her navy tailored suit fit like a glove, complemented by pearl earrings and nude heels. Her hair was slicked back into a bun so tight it would give her a migraine by lunchtime, but it screamed I have my life together.

When she walked back into the kitchen, Kyle was already at the table. Naturally, he looked immaculate. His grey suit was crisp, his blonde hair perfectly gelled, and the Financial Journal sat neatly folded beside his plate.

Elena paused. There was a time, early in their relationship, when she would have snuck up behind him, stolen a sip of his coffee, and kissed his cheek.

A time when she would have climbed onto the kitchen counter at seven in the morning, talking too loudly about some ridiculous impulse—like driving to the coast at midnight or learning the tango. Back then, her chaos amused him.

Now, he looked at her the way Wall Street analysts looked at an unstable market.

“You’re late,” Kyle said, not looking up from his phone.

Elena glanced at the clock. 7:52.

Seriously.

Kyle never needed a reason to criticize her.

Elena sat down anyway.

Because apparently, that was what marriage had become: continuing to move toward someone even after every instinct quietly screamed at you to stop.

She picked at her French toast, a heavy loneliness settling in her chest. They hadn't touched in months.

No lingering glances, no hands reaching across the mattress in the dark.

Part of her—the desperate, lonely part—had wondered if a baby would fix the widening empty spaces between them.

She wanted a loud house. Small shoes by the door. Something warm.

But talking to Kyle lately was like walking on thin ice.

Kyle finally lowered his phone, his eyes scanning her face before narrowing. “Are you seriously wearing pink gloss to the office?”

Elena froze, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. “It’s barely pink.”

“It’s still glossy. People notice the presentation, Elena. You represent the Montgomery family now. Why must everything with you be so... theatrical?”

Yesterday, it was her laughing too loudly at dinner. Last month, a red dress was "attention-seeking."

Look at how your aunt carries herself, he had told her recently. Maybe try learning from her for a change?

Elena forced herself to swallow her coffee. She loved Aunt Julie, but the woman smiled with all her teeth and absolutely none of her soul.

Kyle was seven years older than her, and she used to convince herself his constant critiques came from a place of maturity.

Now, she realized the terrifying truth: he didn't like the real her.

He never raised his voice; he just edited her.

One comment at a time, filing down her sharp edges until she was entirely compliant.

“It’s just lipstick, Kyle.”

“I’m aware.” He stood up, adjusting his cuffs, already mentally halfway out the door. “I’m leaving for Singapore tonight. My company is hosting a month-long management program. I told my assistant to forward you the schedule.”

Elena stared at him, numb. “Tonight? For a month?”

“Yes.” He checked his watch.

Their third wedding anniversary was this Sunday.

A hot flash of humiliation washed over her.

Kyle remembered everything else—sports scores from five years ago, the vintage of a wine they drank at a dinner party, the exact incorrect comment she’d made about a baseball player in front of his friends—but he couldn't remember the date he married his wife.

She waited for the realization to hit him. For him to pause and say, Wait, Sunday.

Nothing. He just kept scrolling.

If she reminded him, he’d reschedule, but only because Kyle cared about appearances the way priests cared about scripture. He would make her organize a hollow, perfect dinner party where he’d place a polite hand on her waist for the cameras while they died a little more inside behind closed doors.

No, she thought. I'm not rescuing him this time.

The baby idea suddenly felt ridiculous. A child wasn't glue for a broken marriage.

“You have that investor meeting today, right?”

Kyle asked, grabbing his briefcase. “Let your aunt handle the negotiations. You get too emotionally invested when people push back.”

Another tiny, perfect bruise left on her confidence.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Elena said softly.

Satisfied, Kyle leaned down, kissed the air somewhere near her cheek, and left. The heavy silence of the penthouse rushed back in the moment the front door clicked shut.

Elena stood up, smoothing the front of her navy blazer. She slipped on her oversized sunglasses and grabbed her keys.

If Kyle could forget their anniversary, she could stop trying to remember enough for both of them.

Somewhere in Manhattan, a nameless billionaire was waiting to decide if her family legacy lived or died.

Somehow, facing a mythical shark felt a hell of a lot easier than talking to her husband.