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Claimed by the Billionaire's Hound
Chapter 7
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The scent of gunsmoke and ozone hung heavy in the vaulted hallway of Christianâs townhouse, but I barely registered it. My lungs burned. My hands, still clad in the crisp white cotton gloves of my French-maid uniform, trembled slightly as I looked down at the unconscious form of the mercenary bleeding out against the imported Italian wainscoting.
Orion stood sentinel beside me, his massive black Cane Corso frame vibrating with lingering adrenaline. A smear of dark bloodânot his ownâstaining his heavy leather collar.
Christian didnât holster his weapon immediately. He stood over the captive, his chest heaving beneath the immaculate fabric of his cream-colored three-piece suit. His dark eyes, usually cold and calculating, were ablaze with a terrifying, primal fury. He looked less like a Wall Street billionaire and more like a warlord whose own blood had turned the blade against him.
"Who?" Christianâs voice dropped into a low, lethal register that made the hairs on the back of my arms stand up.
The captive, a bruised man in tactical black, spat a glob of blood onto the marble floor. He wheezed out a laugh, his eyes flickering up toward Christian with malicious glee. "Save your breath, Vance. You think you built this empire alone? You're just the face. The architect... the man who actually drew the blueprints for your downfall... already owns your board."
Christianâs jaw tightened so hard I could hear the pop of muscle. "A name. Give me the name, or I swear to God this marble will be the last thing you ever see."
"Julian," the man rasped, his eyes rolling back slightly. "Julian Vance. Your own flesh and blood. And look who else he buried along the way..." The manâs gaze shifted past Christian, locking directly onto me with a sickening grin. "Ask the little waitress about the Hayes family. Ask her who signed the eviction orders on her father's drafting tables ten years ago."
The air left my lungs as if I'd been struck by a physical blow.
*Julian Vance.*
The name echoed off the high ceilings, striking the core of every nightmare I had buried since I was sixteen years old. The man who had orchestrated the hostile takeover of Hayes & Associates, destroying my fatherâs reputation, driving him to a silent, disgraced ruin, and leaving our family name in absolute tatters.
Christian whipped his head around, his intense gaze locking onto my face. The color had drained completely from my cheeks, leaving my skin stark against the dark fall of my hair.
"Clara," Christian said, his voice dropping all its defensive armor, replaced by a raw, searching urgency. He took a step toward me, ignoring the bleeding mercenary entirely. "What did he just say?"
"Julian," I whispered, the name tasting like ash and old copper on my tongue. My fingers curled into the fabric of my grey wool skirt. "Julian Vance is your business partner. Your cousin."
"My adoptive brother," Christian corrected, his jaw clenching. He closed the distance between us in two long strides, his warm hand gripping my bare forearm. The contrast between his iron-hard grip and the frantic beating of my pulse was electric. "Clara, look at me. What does he have to do with your family?"
"Everything," I choked out, the tears stinging the backs of my eyes refusing to fall. I swallowed hard, forcing the architectural precision of my mind to take over the panic threatening to swallow me whole. "Ten years ago, Hayes & Associates was poised to secure the municipal transit contracts. We were independent. We refused to bend to corporate conglomerates. Then, a massive financial scandal broke out overnight. False accounting charges. Embezzlement. My father was broken before he could even mount a defense."
I looked up into Christianâs dark, stormy eyes, watching the comprehension dawn across his sharp features.
"Julian," Christian said, the realization tasting like poison on his lips. "Julian handled our firmâs acquisitions back then. He was the one who brought me the Hayes portfolio, claiming the firm was already bankrupt from within."
"He engineered it," I said, my voice steadying, hardening into steel. "He steals blueprints. He destroys reputations. He ruins lives just to absorb the assets into your conglomerate's portfolio under the radar."
Orion let out a low, sympathetic rumble, pressing his heavy shoulder against my hip as if to anchor me to the earth. Christian looked down at the dog, then back up at me. The silence in the hallway was absolute, save for the ragged breathing of the mercenary on the floor.
Then, slowly, the expression on Christianâs face shifted. The fury didnât dissipate; it consolidated. It sharpened into something terrifyingly focused.
"He thinks he owns the board," Christian murmured, a dangerous, humorless smile touching the corner of his mouth. He reached out with his free hand, his thumb gently brushing against my cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "He thinks he can use my company to finish destroying your family's legacy. He made a fatal miscalculation."
"What are you saying?" I asked, my breath catching as his thumb traced the curve of my jaw.
"Iâm saying," Christian whispered, his voice thick with a dark, intoxicating promise, "that we are going to tear his entire empire down brick by brick. And we are going to start this weekend."
An hour later, the lower level of the townhouse had been secured by Christianâs private security detail, and the captive had vanished into the night to a destination far less hospitable than a hospital.
We sat in the dimly lit expanse of Christianâs private study. The leather chairs smelled of aged bourbon and cedarwood. Spread out across the mahogany desk were not just financial dossiers, but architectural schematics of the upcoming Manhattan Winter Galaâthe very event where Julian Vance was scheduled to announce his bid for the primary CEO seat of Vance Global.
"He's using the gala as his coronation," Christian said, leaning over the desk, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the subtle, dark ink of his forearm tattoos. He pointed a silver pen at the schematics of the grand ballroom at the Plaza. "Julian loves spectacle. He loves public humiliation. He thinks heâs untouchable because he holds the majority of the non-voting shares."
I leaned in beside him, tracing the blueprint lines with the tip of my gloved finger. My mind, trained by my father to see the hidden structural flaws in any design, immediately locked onto the mechanical layout of the ballroom.
"He's vulnerable here," I said, my voice dropping into a cool, analytical register. "Look at the AV staging grid. Julian relies entirely on a centralized digital presentation to showcase his hostile takeover metrics to the board members. If someone were to access the sub-panel beneath the main stage..."
"They could overwrite his presentation with the original forensic audits of Hayes & Associates," Christian finished for me, his head snapping up to look at me, a brilliant, fierce spark of admiration burning in his eyes. He caught my hand on the blueprint, his fingers intertwining with mine. "You didn't just inherit your father's architectural genius, did you, Clara? You inherited his mind for tactical execution."
"My father taught me how to read a building," I said softly, refusing to look away from his intense gaze. "And Julian taught me how monsters operate in the dark. I want him exposed in front of every elite investor, every board member, and every socialite in New York. I want his reputation shredded the exact way he shredded my father's."
Christianâs grip on my hand tightened until it ached in the best possible way. He didn't offer pity. He didn't offer to shield me or coddle me. He offered me a weapon and a battlefield.
"Done," Christian said, his voice dropping an octave, rich with absolute authority. "Julian wants a war for the throne? We'll give him a massacre. But if we're going to walk into the lions' den on Saturday night and tear him apart in plain sight, you aren't going as my employee, Clara. You aren't going in that maid's uniform."
I blinked, surprised. "Then how am I going?"
Christian stood up slowly, walking over to a tall, secure mahogany cabinet built into the library wall. He punched a digital code into the biometric lock with a sharp *clack*, and the heavy wooden door swung open to reveal a velvet-lined interior.
Inside rested a long, matte-black garment bag.
Christian unzipped it with deliberate slowness, sliding the dark fabric aside. My breath caught in my throat.
It was a masterpiece of haute couture. A gown spun from midnight-black silk velvet that caught the amber light of the study like liquid obsidian. The bodice was structured with invisible, architectural boning that mirrored the precise lines of a classic corset, dipping into a daring, elegant neckline. It wasn't just a dress; it was armor designed by someone who understood how to command a room without saying a single word.
"Try it on," Christian commanded softly, lifting the hanger out of the closet.
I shook my head, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest. "Christian, IâI'm a handler. I'm your canine behavioral specialist. I can't just walk into high society on your arm wearing..."
"You are Clara Hayes," Christian interrupted, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, until the scent of his sandalwood cologne entirely consumed my senses. "The rightful heir to a legacy that man tried to bury. And tonight, you are walking by my side as my equal."
He set the dress down carefully across the edge of the desk, but he didn't step back. Instead, his hand reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, heavy velvet box.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Christian popped the lid open with his thumb. Resting inside the black velvet was a necklace composed of clustered, flawless white diamonds that seemed to capture every shadow and light in the room, culminating in a striking, drop-cut sapphire the exact shade of my hazel eyes.
"Christian..." I breathed out, stepping back until the edge of the mahogany desk pressed against my lower back.
"Quiet," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly caress.
He lifted the heavy diamond necklace from the box. I felt the chill of the metal and stones against my skin as he stepped behind me, lifting my dark hair and letting it cascade over my shoulders. His fingers brushed lightly against the nape of my neck, sending a violent, electric shiver racing down my spine. The clasp clicked softly into place, securing the priceless weight right over my collarbone.
Christian leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below my ear, his breath hot against my neck.
"Let them look," Christian whispered, his hands resting heavily on my hips, pulling me flush against his hard frame. "Let Julian look. I am going to destroy anyone, and anything, that ever dared to make you bleed."