Billionaire's Contracted Bride: Daddy Don't Bully Mommy

"—Let's raise our glasses to the heart of our project, my best friend and future partner, Ilara Vance!"

The crisp clink of champagne glasses was swallowed by laughter and music. Ilara stood in the center of the banquet hall, a gentle spotlight falling on her. She wore a champagne‑colored gown, her smile bright, her eyes searching the crowd for a familiar figure—her fiancé, Kevin. Tonight, she not only wanted to celebrate the project's success, but also planned to announce their engagement in front of everyone. The ring box lay in her small clutch like a secret she couldn't wait to share.

"Ilara, that speech was fantastic!" Her best friend Lena pushed through the crowd and linked her arm affectionately, her cheeks flushed with wine. "You're the undisputed queen tonight."

"Thank you, Lena. None of this would have been possible without you and the team." Ilara squeezed her hand warmly. "Have you seen Kevin? I haven't spotted him for a while."

"Oh, Kevin," Lena blinked, a flash of something Ilara didn't notice at the time crossing her eyes. "I think I saw him heading toward the terrace. Said he needed some fresh air. Maybe he had a little too much to drink."

"I'll go find him." Ilara smiled at Lena, gathered her skirt, and threaded through the lively crowd toward the glass terrace on the side of the hall. The night breeze was cool, dispersing the indoor heat. The terrace was dimly lit, only the neon lights of the distant city and a faint glow from inside.

As she approached, she heard familiar laughter—Kevin's. And a woman's coquettish whisper, just as familiar, making her pause.

“…She really thinks she got ahead on her own merit? How cute.” It was Lena's voice, but the tone was one Ilara had never heard—vicious.

“Shh, keep it down.” Kevin’s voice carried a smile, but not a hint of reproach. “A useful tool is a useful tool. After tonight, once the patent is in hand and the funding is secured, who cares what she thinks?”

“And you promised me the COO position…”

“Of course, babe. Once the project is fully transferred to my name, the company will be ours. Ilara? With all that debt, what trouble can she make?”

Ilara stood in the shadows. Her clutch fell to the polished marble floor with a loud slap. The sound startled the two figures embracing on the terrace. They sprang apart like startled rabbits, turning around, their faces still wearing the smug, scheming expressions they hadn't had time to hide.

Kevin's expression shifted from shock to panic in an instant. “I‑Ilara? What are you…”

Lena, after a moment of stiffness, lifted her chin instead, a sweet—but now unbearably sharp—smile returning to her face. Her arm tightened possessively around Kevin's waist. “Oh, busted. Looks like your ‘surprise’ came early, darling.”

Ilara looked at them. At the glaring lipstick mark on Kevin's neck. At the undisguised triumph and mockery in Lena's eyes. The world went silent, replaced by the roar of blood rushing to her head. In her palm, the ring she had meant to exchange was icy cold.

She didn't speak. She turned and stumbled away from the terrace, fleeing the nauseating sham of it all. Behind her came Kevin’s anxious calls and Lena’s spoiled attempts to stop him, but she could no longer hear them clearly.

At midnight, Ilara returned to the company alone. The tears on her face had dried, leaving only a stinging, numbing rawness. She needed to confirm—to grasp at a last straw. She swiped her emergency access card through the locked glass door. The empty office area was deathly silent.

She went to her office door and swiped her card again.

A red light flashed, accompanied by an insistent beep beep.

“Access denied.”

Her heart sank. She rushed to a computer in the common area and entered her highest‑level credentials.

“Account frozen. Contact system administrator.”

Cold sweat soaked her back. She ran into the server room, found the backup server that only she knew the back door to, and with trembling fingers typed a complex series of commands. The screen lit up, data scrolling against a dark background.

She searched for her project. The patent number. The records of ownership changes…

Each entry coiled around her neck like a cold viper.

“Patent ‘Neural Interface Core Algorithm V3.0’: Ownership transferred to Kevin James Personal Studio. Transfer date: Today, 3:14 PM. Authorizer: Ilara Vance (electronic signature verified).”

“Vance Technology LLC: Current total debt – 12,700,000 credits. Primary creditor – Summit Capital. Legal representative: Ilara Vance.”

“Asset freeze application submitted by: Kevin James. Reason: Legal representative suspected of commercial fraud and misuse of company resources.”

The screen's glow illuminated Ilara's bloodless face. She stared at the scanned copies of documents she herself had signed—documents that had once represented trust and authorization—now serving as evidence pinning her to a pillar of shame. Kevin had exploited her trust in her “fiancé.” While she was fully absorbed in the project, he had made her sign those seemingly routine papers. The debt was real; the massive early‑stage R&D costs had all been incurred under her name as the company's representative. But the fruits had long been quietly transferred away.

She slumped into the cold chair, her stomach churning violently. Not sadness—just a pure, overwhelming chill. She was finished.

At three in the morning, Ilara drifted like a ghost to her adoptive parents’ villa on the outskirts of the city. It was her last refuge, though it had never truly felt like “home.” She was adopted; she had known from childhood that she had to be good, to excel, to repay their kindness.

The living room light was still on. Her adoptive father, Howard Vance, sat on his usual sofa, a glass of whiskey before him, his expression stern. Her adoptive mother, Eleanor, sat beside him, twisting a handkerchief in her hands, her eyes red.

When they saw Ilara come in, dazed and broken, Eleanor rose at once, her face creased with practiced worry. “Darling, you’re finally back! We heard what happened at the gala, and about the company… Oh, my poor child.”

“Father, Mother…” Ilara's voice was hoarse, unrecognizable. “Kevin and Lena betrayed me. The company is gone. And I’m in debt…”

“We already know.” Howard cut her off, his voice low and cold. He tossed a crumpled evening newspaper onto the coffee table. The front page showed a blurry but imposing profile of a man, with a sensational headline: “Lone Wolf or Monster? Digging into the Secret Business Empire and Ruthless Tactics of Blackwood Heir Damian Blackwood.”

“Look at the mess you’ve caused!” Howard’s voice was tight with suppressed anger. “The Vance family’s reputation is nearly ruined! A twelve‑million‑credit debt! And those ugly rumors!”

“Father, I was framed! Those documents—Kevin tricked me into signing them…” Ilara tried to explain, a last thread of hope in her voice.

“Signed is signed! The law only cares about results!” Howard’s voice suddenly boomed. “This is no time for tears or protests! We have a disaster in front of us, and we need to solve it!”

Eleanor sat beside Ilara, taking her cold hand in a deliberately soft, coaxing tone. “Ilara, listen to me. Now is not the time to be stubborn. The family business has been struggling lately. This debt… we simply can’t handle it. But we have found a way—a way to save you and to help the family.”

Ilara slowly lifted her head and looked into her adoptive mother’s eyes—eyes that seemed gentle but were shrewd.

Howard picked up the thread, his tone brooking no argument: “The Blackwood family in Asgard—you know of them. Their heir, Damian Blackwood, is looking for a suitable marriage alliance. We’ve been in contact with their family lawyer. If you agree to marry Damian Blackwood, the Blackwood family will pay off this debt and inject capital to save the Vance business.”

“Marry… Damian Blackwood?” Ilara murmured, her gaze falling on the newspaper’s sensational headline. “That man… rumored to be cold‑blooded, even said to be…”

“Rumors are just rumors!” Howard snapped. “What matters is that he can solve all our problems! Ilara, we’ve raised you all these years, given you the best education—not so you could drag this family into the mud! This is your chance to repay our kindness, and your only way to save yourself!”

“But… Mother, Father, that’s my marriage, my whole life…” Ilara’s voice faltered.

“Your whole life?” Eleanor patted her hand, but her tone held no warmth. “Be realistic, child. In your situation—drowned in debt, your reputation ruined—what better option do you have? Marry Damian Blackwood, and at least you’ll have security, and you can help the family. We are doing this for your own good.”

For your own good.

Ilara looked at the two people she had called “Mother” and “Father” for over twenty years. They didn’t care about her pain or her injustice—only about the “trouble” she had caused and the family’s interests. She remembered striving for top grades as a child just to earn a word of praise. She remembered handing over most of her income to the family after she started working. She remembered always believing that if she worked hard enough, she might earn a little love, a little recognition.

How ridiculous.

She no longer argued. No more tears. The tears had long dried, and the sharp pain in her chest was slowly numbing, freezing into a barren, dead wasteland.

Slowly, very slowly, she pulled her hand back from Eleanor’s grasp. Then she lifted her head, her gaze drifting past her adoptive mother’s feigned worry, past her adoptive father’s cold authority, and finally settling somewhere in the void.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

The motion was as light as a falling feather, yet it crushed the more than twenty years of her life.