My Ex Tried Destroying Me Before Learning I’m Rich

The glass behind Dylan began to vibrate.

At first, it was just a low hum. Then the floor rattled beneath my cheek. The glasses on the nightstand clinked together.

Dylan frowned. He lowered his phone. "What the hell is that?"

Etta walked to the window. Suddenly, a blinding white beam cut through the dark. Searchlights swept across the penthouse, so bright they turned the bedroom white. The roar of heavy rotor blades tore through the night sky.

Three black helicopters hovered outside, right against the balcony glass.

Before Dylan could speak, the penthouse doors blew open with a deafening crash.

Black-clad tactical men flooded the room. Lasers painted Dylan’s chest in crimson dots. The two Chapman bodyguards tried to reach for their holsters, but they didn't stand a chance. Gun butts struck flesh. Bone cracked. Within ninety seconds, both guards were pinned to the marble, groaning in pools of their own blood.

Etta shrieked, backing into a corner. Dylan froze. His face drained of all color. His phone slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

Heavy, steady footsteps crossed the threshold.

A tall man in a dark cashmere coat walked into the room. He didn't run. He didn't look at the guns.

It was my father.

Garrett Ellis looked down at me. For a second, his iron mask cracked. His jaw tightened until the tendons showed. He stripped off his coat and knelt on the bloody tiles.

"I'm here, sweetheart," he whispered. His voice was hoarse. "I've got you."

He wrapped me in his coat, lifting me into his arms like I weighed nothing. His hand supported my neck, careful of my bruised skin.

Then he turned to Dylan.

Dylan was trembling from head to toe. He backed up until his spine hit the wall. "M-Mr. Ellis... wait, there's been a mistake—"

Dad stopped. His gaze was dead and cold.

"You've just declared war on the wrong family," Dad said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the whole room like thunder. "I will bury everything that carries the Chapman name."

Dad carried me out. The freezing wind slapped my face as we reached the roof. He pulled me into the helicopter, and the world went black again.

***

I woke up to the smell of rubbing alcohol.

Soft light filtered through sheer curtains. I was in the Ellis family's private medical suite. Bandages bound my cracked ribs tightly. My face felt swollen, and my lip throbbed with a dull ache.

Dad was sitting on a chair beside the bed. His eyes were bloodshot. His knuckles were pale as he rubbed the worn leather strap of my mother’s watch.

When he saw my eyes open, he leaned forward. "Serenity."

I lay there, staring at the white ceiling.

Everything came rushing back. The champagne. The candles. Dylan’s laugh while I lay naked on the floor. Etta’s fingers ripping Mom's pendant from my neck. The thousands of strangers watching through Dylan's screen. Alma getting dragged out into the snow for trying to save me.

I didn't cry. My eyes stayed completely dry.

The girl who made coffee for Dylan Chapman, the girl who hoped he would love her for who she was—she died on that marble floor. In her place, something ice-cold had taken root.

"Dad," I said. My voice was raspy, but steady.

"Don't talk, Serenity. You need to rest—"

"Give me a secure phone," I cut in. I turned my head to meet his gaze. "A laptop. And the directory for Ellis Corporation's partners."

Dad looked at me for a long moment. He didn't argue. He nodded slowly. "Julian," he called out.

Julian Cross stepped forward from the doorway, setting a sleek encrypted phone and a silver laptop on my bedside table.

I pushed myself up. Pain flared in my ribs, but I didn't flinch.

Over the next forty-eight hours, I stayed in that bed and picked up the phone.

I called the suppliers I had quietly introduced to Chapman Industries. I called the private equity lenders I had nudged to approve Dylan's bridge loans. I called the shipping companies, the concrete providers, the tech contractors.

"Mr. Vance," I said into the receiver, my tone polite and calm. "This is Serenity Ellis. Cancel the steel supply contract for Chapman Industries. Yes. Today."

"Tom," I said on the next call. "Pull the mezzanine financing for their Midtown project. Default the terms immediately."

Deal by deal, I pulled every thread I had woven to keep Dylan's family afloat. Over two hundred million dollars in contracts vanished into thin air overnight.

On Monday morning, Wall Street opened.

Chapman Industries’ stock went into a freefall. The red line crashed through every support level. Within three hours, the share price plunged forty percent. Trading was halted twice. The Chapman name was drowning in red ink.

At the exact same time, the police moved.

Ellis Corporation’s top legal team had filed emergency federal injunctions and criminal complaints. They tracked down every digital server hosting Dylan’s livestream footage, scrubbing it while handing pure evidence of the crime to the authorities.

Around noon, three NYPD squad cars pulled up to Chapman Industries headquarters.

Dylan was dragged out of his father's office in broad daylight. Handcuffs glinted around his wrists. Dozens of press cameras flashed as officers shoved his head down into the back of a police cruiser. He was charged with unlawful restraint and distributing non-consensual intimate images.

I watched the news clip on my laptop from the hospital bed.

Dylan looked terrified on the screen, his polished hair messy, his eyes darting wildly.

I closed the laptop with a quiet click.

This was only the beginning. He hadn't even begun to pay.