THE UNDERESTIMATED BILLIONAIRE TYCOON

I'll Tear Your Skin Off

Blake stepped forward. "Excuse us."

Madam Mary moved directly into his path, heels planted like she owned the hallway. "Stop right there. Did I say you could go?"

The command in her voice made Emma's jaw tighten. She'd heard that tone before—from investors who thought bankruptcy made her their servant, from landlords demanding rent she couldn't pay, from people who mistook desperation for weakness.

Blake's expression stayed neutral. "We're done here. If you'll move—"

"I asked you a question, Blake." Madam Mary's smile was all teeth, no warmth. "What are you doing in this hotel?"

"That's no longer your concern." Blake's voice was flat, final. "I've already discussed divorce with Lillian. Where I go, what I do—none of it has anything to do with your family anymore."

Madam Mary's laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. "Oh, so that's how it is? You think a piece of paper means you can disrespect your elders? I don't care if you're divorced—I'm still older than you, and it's perfectly natural for me to care about where the younger generation spends their time." She paused, letting her gaze crawl over Emma like something unclean. "Unless there's a reason you don't want me knowing. Some dirty little secret you're hiding?"

The two women behind her tittered, hands covering their mouths in mock scandal.

Madam Mary's smile widened. "So this is your mistress? My God, Blake, I knew you had no standards, but I didn't realize you had no taste either."

Heat flooded Emma's face. The words landed like a slap, public and humiliating.

Blake's jaw clenched. "Show some respect."

Madam Mary bent forward, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. The sound was ugly, performative, designed to wound. "Respect? You want me to show you respect?" She straightened, wiping her eyes with exaggerated amusement. "A vampire who's been living off my daughter for three years, sucking her dry while she built an empire, and you still have the nerve to lecture me about respect?"

Mrs. Patterson and Mrs. Wellington joined in, their laughter cascading like broken glass.

"I heard he couldn't even hold down a real job," Mrs. Patterson stage-whispered.

"And now he's already got a replacement lined up," Mrs. Wellington added, eyeing Emma with open contempt. "Probably ran through Lillian's money and needs a new meal ticket."

Emma's hands curled into fists. She'd stood in boardrooms with hostile investors, faced down creditors demanding payment, endured the humiliation of bankruptcy—but this was different. This was Blake being torn apart for kindness, for helping her when no one else would.

"Stop." Emma's voice cut through the laughter. "Just stop."

The hallway went quiet.

Madam Mary turned to her slowly, like a predator who'd just noticed new prey. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

"Show some respect," Emma said, forcing her voice steady. "I don't know what your relationship with him is, but Blake is a good man. He deserves better than this."

For a moment, Madam Mary just stared. Then her expression twisted into something vicious.

"Shut your mouth." The words came out low, venomous. "Who the hell do you think you are, butting into family business? I'm teaching a worthless junior a lesson—this has nothing to do with you!"

Emma's pulse hammered in her throat. She should back down. Should apologize. Should remember that this wasn't her fight.

But Blake had saved her life. Had offered her shelter when she had nothing. Had looked at her like she was worth something when the rest of the world had turned its back.

"I think there's been some misunderstanding," Emma tried, keeping her voice calm, reasonable. "Whatever happened between you and Blake, I'm sure if you just talked—"

"Talked?" Madam Mary laughed again, cold and cutting. "Oh, I see what's happening here." Her smile turned predatory, knowing. "You two have already slept together, haven't you? And he gave you money—probably quite a bit of it, knowing him. Always so generous with other people's resources."

Emma opened her mouth to deny it, but Madam Mary was already moving.

She shoved Emma hard, two hands against her shoulders. Emma stumbled backward, hit the wall.

"Shameless slut!" Madam Mary's voice climbed to a shriek. "How much did he give you? How much of my family's money are you carrying around? Hand it over! All of it! That's my daughter's money—you have no right to it!"

Blake stepped between them before Madam Mary could shove Emma again. His hand caught Emma's elbow, steadied her.

"Don't make a scene," Blake said, voice tight with controlled anger. "There's nothing inappropriate between us. I was helping her find housing. That's all."

Madam Mary snorted. "Nothing inappropriate, and yet you brought your little whore to a luxury hotel? What, you thought I wouldn't find out?"

"He brought me to look at an apartment," Emma said, hating how her voice shook. "That's the only reason we're here."

Madam Mary froze. Blinked. Then burst into laughter so loud it echoed down the hallway.

"An apartment?" She looked at Emma with something between pity and glee. "Oh, sweetheart, he really did trick you, didn't he?" She turned to her friends, gesturing at Emma like she was evidence in a trial. "Can you believe this? She actually thinks he brought her here to show her an apartment!"

Mrs. Patterson shook her head, smiling. "The poor thing."

"Honey, let me explain something to you," Madam Mary said, voice dripping with false sympathy. "Blake is a kicked-out loser. A nobody. He couldn't afford a closet in this building, let alone an apartment. He was probably planning to scam you—get you up here, take advantage of you, maybe steal whatever money you have left."

Emma felt the words like physical blows. She looked at Blake, searching his face for denial, for anger, for something.

His expression was carefully blank. Unreadable.

"Actually," Madam Mary continued, warming to her subject, "since we're here, let me show you what a real apartment looks like. My new son-in-law—Carter, a wonderful man, nothing like this parasite—just bought the penthouse in this very building as our wedding gift. Forty million dollars. That's the kind of man my daughter deserves. Not some—"

"We're leaving." Blake's voice cut through her monologue like a knife. He looked at Emma, jerked his head toward the elevator. "Come on."

Emma wanted to argue. Wanted to defend him. Wanted to demand that Madam Mary take back every vicious word.

But Blake's eyes were telling her to drop it. To walk away.

She followed him into the elevator.

"That's right, run away!" Madam Mary's voice chased them, triumphant and cruel. "You got lucky this time, you little brat! But mark my words—next time I see you sniffing around, I'll tear your skin off! Both of you!"

The elevator doors closed on her laughter.