My Property, and You Dare to Touch It

PROLOGUE

For ten years, I chased Lachlan Bancroft.

And for ten years, he never loved me.

He didn't just break my heart.

He shattered it, then personally handed me over to the people who would grind the pieces to dust.

All to appease his conniving stepssister.

A single, whispered order to the warden "Take good care of Ms. Wakefield" was my death sentence.

I almost didn't make it out of there alive.

That's when I finally woke up.

The obsession, the delusion, the decade of my life I had sacrificed at his altar I let it all burn.

I called off the engagement, just like he always wanted.

But then, he trapped me against a door, his voice a low, vicious snarl.

"Who gave you permission to call off the engagement?"

As his lips descended toward mine, I found my voice.

It was barely a whisper, but it sliced through his rage like a shard of ice.

"If you dare kiss me," I said, my eyes holding his, "Killian Rowe will see it. And he will destroy you."

The next second, a hand shot out from behind him, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him back.

Killian Rowe stood there, a lazy, chilling smile playing on his lips.

"My property," he said, his voice deceptively soft. "And you dare touch it?"

01

The day I walked out of the Port Sterling State Correctional Facility, a pack of reporters swarmed me like vultures to a fresh kill.

Their camera flashes were blinding, a stark, painful contrast to the perpetual twilight of my cell.

I could hear their hushed, pitying whispers.

"God, is that really her? Audra Wakefield? She looks& broken."

"Hardly the brilliant heiress we used to see at every gala. What happened in there?"

"You didn't hear? She almost clipped Lachlan Bancroft's stepsister with her car. Drunk driving. Lachlan himself made sure she was 'taken care of'. You know what that means."

"Taken care of."

Lachlan's two-faced kindness.

I owed my survival to it.

Every cold night on the concrete floor, every jeering laugh from the other inmates, every time I was shoved against a wall for looking the wrong way it was all thanks to Lachlan's "care."

For a decade, being Lachlan Bancroft's fianc?e had been my entire identity.

I was reckless, arrogant, a force of nature who feared nothing and no one.

Except him ignoring my calls.

But those months inside had stripped all of that away, sanded me down to the bone.

They had also given me a horrifying clarity.

In Lachlan Bancroft's world, I wasn't even a priority.

I was collateral damage.

The only person who mattered, the only one he truly protected, was his precious stepsister, the one his father's second wife brought into the family.

A microphone was shoved in my face, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Ms. Wakefield! Do you have anything to say about the incident? Any remorse for driving drunk and nearly killing Genevieve Bancroft?"

A cold snort cut through the media frenzy.

I didn't have to look.

I could feel his presence like a drop in temperature.

Lachlan Bancroft was here.

Of all the things he had to manage with his multi-billion dollar empire, Bancroft Holdings, he'd found the time to come and witness my humiliation.

How& flattering.

A bitter smile touched my lips. I looked straight into the camera, my voice raspy from disuse but steady.

"I'll say it again. I wasn't drunk driving."

Beside him, Genevieve flinched. A flicker of pure venom crossed her eyes before she expertly masked it with a look of saintly pity.

"I've already forgiven Audra," she said, her voice trembling beautifully for the cameras. "Please, everyone, don't press her on this anymore. Thank you."

Such a perfect, innocent performance.

And with those words, she cemented my guilt in the public eye.

I glanced at Lachlan. His face was a mask of indifference, his brow furrowed as he sized me up.

He was probably disgusted.

Disgusted that even after his "lesson," I was still so defiant, so unwilling to repent.

He must be so disappointed in me.

I used to live in fear of that disappointment.

Now, I didn't give a damn.

Without another glance, I turned and pushed through the crowd.

The next second, his hand clamped around my wrist.

His grip was like iron. His brow was knitted in that familiar, condescending way, his eyes filled with the same old disgust.

"Audra," he commanded, his voice low and firm. "Apologize."

Apologize?

For what?

For being drugged at a club? For being too drunk to realize the driver-for-hire I called was paid off? For waking up behind the wheel of my own car, with his stepsister conveniently sprawled on the pavement in front of it?

For being his fool for ten years?

He didn't trust me.

He never had.

He, the man I loved since I was a girl, had personally thrown me to the wolves.

A sharp, hot sting pricked the back of my eyes.

I ripped my wrist from his grasp.

Two words escaped my lips, each one a nail in the coffin of the girl I used to be.

"Dream on."

02

Lachlan s black sedan shadowed me all the way back to the Wakefield Estate.

Good.

There were things that needed to be said, and it was better to say them with witnesses.

My parents, who had aged a decade in the last three months, rushed to embrace me. Their relief was a physical thing, a wave of warmth that almost made my knees buckle.

But my eyes were on Lachlan, who had followed me inside, standing in our foyer like he owned the place.

Perfect timing.

I walked past my parents, my steps measured and calm.

From a velvet-lined box in my dresser, I took out the Bancroft heirloom bracelet the Victorian-era sapphire piece, engraved with the family crest, that they d given me when I was thirteen.

A symbol of a promise. A symbol of a future that had turned out to be a lie.

I walked back downstairs and held it out to him.

His hands, shoved deep in his pockets, clenched into fists. His jaw tightened.

"Audra," he warned, his voice a low growl. "Don't you dare."

Ten years of love. Ten years of disgust.

My heart had been a stubborn, foolish flame that refused to be extinguished.

But the fire was out now.

All that was left was ash.

I looked him straight in the eye, my voice clear and steady, each word a perfectly polished stone dropped into a silent pool.

"Lachlan Bancroft," I said. "We're calling off the engagement."

A cold, humorless laugh escaped him. His eyes were filled with impatience, with the weary annoyance of a king dealing with a petulant child.

"What is this, another one of your games? Audra, I don't have time for this."

"It's not a game."

I turned to go back upstairs, the conversation, as far as I was concerned, was over.

In a flash, he was there, blocking my path.

He slammed his hand against the wall beside my head, trapping me.

His face was inches from mine, his voice a vicious snarl.

"Who gave you permission to call off the engagement?"

He still thought he was in control.

He still thought he owned me.

"Do you have any idea what you are now?" he hissed, his gaze raking over my worn-out clothes, my pale face. "Who do you think will want a woman who's been in prison? A fallen heiress with a criminal record?"

There it was.

The casual cruelty. The need to belittle me, to grind me under his heel.

As if my worth was something he bestowed and could just as easily take away.

He needed me to be broken. He needed me to be nothing without him.

Because for so long, that was the only way our dynamic worked.

He wouldn't call it off, of course not. That would mean admitting defeat. It would be an insult to his massive ego to be rejected by me, the pathetic, disgraced girl he'd thrown away.

For our entire lives, he was the one who did the rejecting.

I held his gaze, my own reflecting nothing but a calm, empty clarity.

"Lachlan," I said, my voice soft but unyielding. "I must have been blind."

His jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grind. He spun on his heel, his parting shot echoing in the silent hall.

"You'll regret this, Audra. I'll make sure of it."

03

Lachlan Bancroft was a man of his word.

The interview footage from outside the prison, featuring my haggard face and defiant words, was plastered everywhere within hours.

The narrative was clear: Audra Wakefield, the reckless, unrepentant heiress.

He framed it as a tragedy, a story of a good family dealing with a daughter who had lost her way.

Then, the attack on my family's company began.

He used the scandal he created as leverage.

Helia Dynamics was suddenly toxic.

Long-term contracts were canceled overnight.

Suppliers who had worked with my father for decades suddenly refused to take his calls, willing to pay breach-of-contract penalties just to cut ties.

Our stock plummeted.

I knew what he was doing.

It was a power play, a siege.

He was starving me out, trying to force me back to him on my hands and knees.

He wanted me to crawl back, to beg for his forgiveness, to become his loyal little lapdog once more, so he could trample all over my dignity whenever he pleased.

He wanted to prove to the world that someone like me didn't deserve love or success.

That I was nothing without his approval.

But I didn't break.

I didn't go back.

I fought.

I spent my days and nights in meetings, on the phone, begging, pleading, swallowing my pride again and again.

I watched my parents grow older, their faces etched with worry. They never once blamed me, even as the empire they had built crumbled around us because of my past.

Their unwavering faith was a knife in my gut.

They didn't deserve this. The thousands of employees at Helia Dynamics didn't deserve this.

This was my fault. All of it.

My hair started falling out in clumps from the stress.

Then, he called. An unknown number.

"Audra," Lachlan s voice was smooth, confident, victorious. "Just admit you were wrong. One little apology, and I can make all of this go away."

I hung up.

Days turned into a week of failures. I attended a networking event at some soulless hotel ballroom, a last-ditch effort to find an investor who wasn't under Lachlan's thumb.

It was useless.

I ended up on a deserted balcony, smoking one cigarette after another, the city lights blurring through a haze of nicotine and despair.

I had just crushed out the last one when I turned to leave and collided with a wall of a man.

Killian Rowe.

In Port Sterling, he was a ghost, a legend.

A name whispered in boardrooms with a mixture of terror and awe.

He was the man no one could afford to cross.

And in that moment, seeing the most powerful man in the city standing right in front of me, a desperate, insane idea took root.

It was a drowning woman's last grasp for a piece of driftwood.

I stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Mr. Rowe," I began, my voice surprisingly steady. "Can I have five minutes of your time?"

His eyes, dark and unreadable, drifted from my outstretched hand to my face.

I expected dismissal. A cold sneer.

Instead, after a silence that stretched for an eternity, he spoke.

A single word that would change everything.

"Fine."

04

I hadn't expected Killian Rowe to take me back to his penthouse.

The place was vast, minimalist, all glass and steel overlooking the glittering expanse of Port Sterling. It was the kind of view that screamed power.

I watched his back as he walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. He had to be at least six-foot-three, a solid silhouette of muscle and authority.

Next to him, my five-foot-five frame felt fragile, insignificant.

A sudden wave of regret washed over me. What was I thinking?

This man was infamous for his ruthlessness. Cold-blooded. Unsentimental.

Why would he possibly have any reason to help me?

"You wanted to talk," he said, turning around. "So talk."

He held a half-smoked cigarette between two long fingers. The smoke curled around his face, momentarily obscuring his sharp, handsome features. His eyes were like deep water, bottomless and cold.

The sheer force of his presence was suffocating. I felt an instinctual urge to retreat, but I forced myself to stand my ground.

I had nothing left to lose.

"I need your help," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Save me."

"Save you?" A corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk that held no humor. It was pure, predatory amusement. "I'm not in the charity business, Ms. Wakefield. I don't make investments that don't pay dividends."

I spent the next thirty minutes delivering the most impassioned pitch of my life.

I laid out the potential of Helia Dynamics, the undervalued assets, the innovative tech in our pipeline. I mapped out a clear path to profitability, a strategy that would triple his investment in five years.

He listened without interruption, his expression unreadable.

When I finished, my throat was dry and my hands were clammy.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, then crushed it out in a heavy crystal ashtray.

"Your company is moderately interesting," he said, his voice a low purr. "But I have to admit& I'm more interested in you."

Before I could process his words, he closed the distance between us.

He tilted my chin up with his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to meet his intense gaze.

His face was so close I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.

Just as I thought he was going to kiss me, he leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"Become mine," he whispered, his voice sending a shiver down my spine. "And I'll help you get your revenge. How does that sound?"

05

The world tilted on its axis.

It felt like drowning, a disorienting plunge into deep, turbulent waters.

The sleek, modern light fixture overhead swayed with each imagined wave, its bright glare blurring into a hazy, hypnotic pulse.

I clung to him, the solid mast in a storm, trying to keep my head above water.

But the relentless, powerful waves crashed over me again and again, leaving me breathless, shattered.

The storm finally broke.

The ship reached its harbor, the lighthouse beam steady and constant.

The rocking ceased.

A low, husky laugh vibrated through his chest. "That's all you've got?"

My last ounce of strength gave out.

I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I don't know how long I slept.

When I woke, the morning light was streaming through the windows.

My phone, lying on the bedside table, was lit up with notifications.

Dozens of missed calls from Lachlan.

I was about to block his number when his name flashed across the screen again.

As my finger hovered over the decline button, a large, warm hand covered mine.

Long, elegant fingers guided my thumb to the green icon, accepting the call.

Lachlan's voice, tight with fury, erupted from the speaker.

"Audra? Did you leave with Killian Rowe? Where the hell are you? Is this your idea of revenge? You have twenty minutes. Get back here. Now."

Before I could form a response, Killian took the phone from my hand.

He leaned back against the headboard, pulling me with him, his voice a lazy, amused drawl.

"Problem, Bancroft? Is there a rule that says Audra Wakefield can't leave with me?"

The other end of the line went dead silent.

I held my breath, trapped in the circle of his arms.

After a long moment, Lachlan's voice returned, a low, guttural roar of suppressed rage.

"Rowe. I'm warning you. Don't touch Audra."

Killian's lips curved into a dangerous smile.

He looked down at me, then spoke into the phone, his words dripping with possessive arrogance.

"She's my girlfriend now. Who the hell are you?"

He ended the call.

With a flick of his thumb, he blocked Lachlan's number.

"So much noise, so early in the morning," he murmured, tossing my phone aside. "Tacky."

I slowly pulled the duvet up, trying to make myself as small as possible.

Suddenly, the blanket was ripped away. Killian loomed over me, a playfully wicked glint in his eyes.

"What's this? Playing stranger now?"

I shook my head, my hair fanning out on the pillow.

"Then who am I?" he challenged.

"Killian Rowe."

He raised an eyebrow. "Hmm?"

Clearly, that wasn't the right answer.

I tried again, my voice small. "Mr. Rowe?"

"Mister?" He feigned a look of deep offense.

I sighed in defeat. "Sir?"

He pinched my cheek, a hint of genuine annoyance in his tone. "Listen carefully. I'm your boyfriend."

"..."

I decided the wisest course of action was to get dressed and leave.

This was a transaction, nothing more.

Maintaining a professional distance was one of the few shreds of dignity I had left.

As I started to sit up, a strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against his hot, bare chest.

His breath tickled the back of my neck.

"It hurt, didn't it?" he whispered, his voice a low, lazy rasp. "I got you something for the pain."

A jolt of heat shot through me as memories of the night flooded my mind.

"I... I can do it myself."

He held out a small tube of ointment.

I read the label and wanted the earth to swallow me whole.

Its purpose was to soothe swelling and pain. Its area of application was& intimate.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I heard his low, teasing chuckle. "Don't know how to use it? I don't mind helping."

The absolute degenerate.

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