HIS BLOODY OATH

Chapter One: The Return of the Ghost

Ten years.

That's how long it took Ares Clinton to crawl back from the ashes of betrayal.

The city skyline bled gold under the setting sun as his black Bentley glided through the streets of Ravenport. Sleek, powerful, and silent just like him. As they neared the heart of the city, the view twisted into a mockery of what used to be home. Glass towers pierced the sky, bearing names he hadn't spoken in a decade. Names he had burned into memory like a curse.

One in particular: BLACKWOODS ENTERPRISES .

"They never saw you coming," Julian said from the driver's seat, smirking as he slowed at a red light. "You really are a ghost."

Ares didn't look at him. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on the towering structure ahead Blackwoods' headquarters. The building gleamed like justice wrapped in sin.

"Ghosts haunt the living," he replied, voice a quiet threat. "And I'm not here to scare them."

He was here to destroy them.

Every lie. Every name. Every bloodstained dollar. He would rip their empire apart brick by brick.

Julian slid a file across the console. "Here. Her name's Elena Blackwoods. Twenty-three. A Law student. Recently returned from Italy. Daddy's favorite. Smart, quiet, heavily protected. Her schedule's in there."

Ares finally looked down at the file, flipping it open.

There she was.

A candid photo. Hair dark as ink, eyes the color of stormy skies. She had the kind of beauty that could calm or kill soft lips, clever gaze, an elegance that didn't belong in the world she came from.

"She doesn't know anything," Julian added. "She was just a kid when it happened."

"She's still a Blackwoods," Ares said flatly.

But something twisted in his chest as he studied her picture. There was innocence in her gaze. And something else, something familiar. A strange pull he couldn't explain.

He shoved the file shut.

"She's the key," he murmured. "And the beginning of their end."

Elena Blackwoods tapped her fingers nervously against the armrest of the leather chair in her father's office. The floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in cold light, but it felt like a cage.

Something was wrong.

Her father had called her in without explanation. That alone was unusual. Harold Blackwoods didn't waste time on sentiment. And now, she waited like a schoolgirl, unsure of why her chest was tight and her thoughts restless.

The door opened.

A man stepped in. Tall. Broad shoulders. An Armani suit cut to perfection. Dark hair slicked back, a scar etched faintly near his jawline like a forgotten battle.

He didn't smile.

He didn't need to.

His presence was a weapon.

"Ah," her father said, standing. "Elena, this is Mr. Ares Clinton. He'll be consulting with us on the Whitmore project."

Her heart thudded.

Clinton?

The name rang in her mind like a bell.

But it was his eyes that stunned her.

They were sharp, glacial piercing through her like she was made of glass. There was something in them. Not just calculation, but... recognition?

Why did he feel familiar?

She stood slowly, offering her hand. "It's nice to meet you."

Ares's fingers brushed hers. Cold. Controlled.

"Pleasure," he said, voice low and unreadable.

Their touch lasted a second too long.

And in that second, something cracked beneath the surface. Heat. A flicker of something buried. Then gone.

Elena withdrew her hand, masking her confusion behind a polite smile.

Her father continued talking, droning on about numbers and mergers. But she barely heard him. All she could think about was that name.

Clinton.

She'd read it before. In old news articles. Whispers of a scandal that nearly ruined her family's empire. A name swallowed by silence.

And now it stood in front of her.

Breathing.

Alive.

Why now?

Later that evening, Ares leaned against the balcony of his penthouse suite, city lights flickering below like dying stars. He poured a glass of bourbon, but didn't drink.

His mind replayed the moment their hands touched.

Elena Blackwoods.

Sweet. Naive. With eyes too kind for the blood she carried in her veins.

He hated that she didn't flinch when she met him. That she didn't look guilty. That she reminded him of the world before everything burned.

"She's not what I expected," he muttered.

Julian, lounging on the couch behind him, raised a brow. "You're not going soft, are you?"

Ares shot him a look. "She's a pawn. Nothing more."

"Keep telling yourself that," Julian said with a shrug.

Ares looked back out over the city. His grip on the glass tightened until it cracked.

She felt like something more.

That made her dangerous.

The next morning...

Elena walked into Blackwoods HQ earlier than usual, hoping to clear her head. But as soon as she stepped into the elevator, her breath caught.

He was already there.

Ares stood near the back, arms folded, phone in hand. Impossibly composed.

"Miss Blackwoods," he greeted, as the doors closed behind her.

She nodded. "Mr. Clinton."

Silence stretched between them.

The elevator hummed as it ascended. Thirty floors of tension.

She glanced at him.

His jaw clenched. His eyes forward. But she could feel his awareness of her.

"I did some reading last night," she said finally.

He turned slightly, one brow raised.

"About your family. The Clintons. My father never mentioned he knew them."

Ares didn't blink. "Did he mention why he stopped?"

She faltered. "No. Just silence."

"Silence is often guilt in disguise," he replied.

The elevator dinged.

Before she could respond, the doors opened and he was gone, his footsteps vanishing down the marble hallway.

Elena stood frozen.

What did he mean by that?

That night...

Ares walked through the rusted gates of the Clinton family estate. Overgrown vines wrapped around the columns, and shattered windows stared like hollow eyes. The mansion had been left to rot.

Just like them.

Inside, he lit a single candle and walked to the old study. Dust coated the bookshelves, but he knew exactly where to look.

Behind a row of books, he pulled out an aged, bloodstained envelope.

He opened it.

Inside was a photo.

His father, smiling. His mother, radiant.

And a man in the background Harold Blackwoods.

Standing behind them with a glass raised.

Smiling like a friend.

Ares crushed the photo in his hand.

This wasn't revenge.

This was justice.

Elena sat in her bedroom, flipping through an old album when a torn photograph slipped from between the pages.

It was faded, almost unreadable.

But there, tucked in the corner, was a boy.

Dark hair. Familiar eyes.

Ares?

Her heart pounded.

Why would his photo be in her family album?