Chapter 1 The call at 9:47 p.m.

The call came at 9:47 p.m.

Ariella Quinn almost didn't answer it.

Her phone buzzed against the wooden bedside table, the vibration sharp in the quiet room. She glanced at the screen without much interest, already annoyed.

Unknown number.

She turned back to her laptop.

The spreadsheet stared back at her-rows of figures that refused to cooperate. Rent overdue. A lawyer's invoice she didn't remember agreeing to. Her mother's medical bills. Every number felt heavier than the last, like proof that no matter how hard she tried, the ground beneath her feet kept giving way.

The phone buzzed again.

Ariella exhaled slowly.

If she ignored it, maybe it would go away. Most things did eventually. Or they came back louder.

The third buzz decided it.

She picked up the phone. "Hello?"

There was silence.

Not the awkward kind. Not static.

The kind that felt intentional.

Her spine stiffened.

"Ms. Quinn," a man's voice said at last. Calm. Professional. Carefully neutral. "Good evening."

"Who is this?" Ariella asked.

"A representative from Blackwood Group."

The room seemed to shrink.

"No," she said immediately. "You have the wrong number."

"I don't," the man replied. "And this call is not a mistake."

Her fingers tightened around the phone. "I don't do business with Blackwood."

"We're aware of your position."

That made her pause.

"This isn't a business call," the voice continued smoothly. "It concerns your family."

Her heartbeat skipped.

"My family is none of your concern," Ariella said, though her voice betrayed her.

There was a faint pause, like the man on the other end was deciding how much to say.

"Your mother's name is Eleanor Quinn," he said. "And her accounts were flagged this afternoon."

Ariella stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor.

"What did you say?"

"You'll get the full explanation tomorrow," the man replied. "Ten a.m. Blackwood Tower."

"I'm not coming."

"You may want to reconsider."

"I said no."

Another pause. This one heavier.

"If you don't show up," the voice said evenly, "the situation becomes... difficult."

Her throat went dry. "Are you threatening me?"

"No, Ms. Quinn. I'm informing you."

The line went dead.

Ariella stared at her phone long after the screen went dark.

Of all the names in the world.

Blackwood.

She hadn't spoken that name aloud in years. Hadn't needed to. It existed like a scar-present even when ignored. The company that had swallowed smaller firms whole. The name that surfaced in every article that mentioned the collapse of her father's business. The name whispered whenever someone decided her family wasn't worth trusting anymore.

She didn't sleep that night.

Blackwood Tower looked exactly like it did on television.

Cold glass. Sharp angles. A building that didn't just rise-it loomed. Ariella stood across the street for a long moment, staring up at it, wondering how something so polished could feel so hostile.

Then she crossed the road.

Inside, everything smelled like money and restraint. Marble floors. Muted colors. People moving with purpose, not curiosity. She gave her name at the reception desk, half-expecting a delay.

There was none.

"Ms. Quinn," the receptionist said after a quick glance at the screen. "You're expected."

Expected.

The word followed her as she was led to the elevator. No small talk. No waiting. The doors closed with a soft, final sound, and the numbers climbed faster than she was comfortable with.

Thirty-five.

Forty-two.

Forty-eight.

When the elevator opened, the floor was silent.

One office stood at the end of the corridor, its doors already open.

She stepped inside.

The room was vast and deliberately intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city below like something owned, not admired. Dark furniture. Clean lines. No personal touches.

A man stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, gazing out at the skyline.

She knew who he was before he turned.

Lucien Blackwood.

He didn't rush. He didn't acknowledge her immediately. He simply stood there, unbothered by her presence, as though she was an inevitability rather than a guest.

When he finally turned, his gaze settled on her-sharp, unreadable, assessing.

"You came," he said.

Ariella lifted her chin. "You mentioned my mother."

Lucien studied her for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away. Then he walked back to his desk and picked up a thin folder.

"You have a problem," he said calmly.

Her chest tightened. "What kind of problem?"

"The kind that doesn't disappear when you ignore it."

He placed the folder on the desk between them and slid it forward.

Ariella didn't touch it.

"What is this?" she asked.

"A solution."

She let out a short, humorless laugh. "From you?"

Lucien's gaze remained steady. "Whether you like it or not."

Her anger flared. "Your company destroyed my family."

"Yes," he said simply.

The admission stunned her.

"You ruined our reputation," she continued, voice shaking. "You made people afraid to be associated with us."

"I prevented greater damage," Lucien replied. "Damage you're not fully aware of."

"You don't get to decide that."

His eyes darkened slightly. "I already did."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Ariella's hand hovered over the folder. She didn't want to open it. Didn't want to confirm the dread curling in her stomach.

"And what do you want?" she asked quietly.

Lucien leaned back, studying her like a chess piece he'd already moved.

"Your cooperation."

Her pulse spiked. "Doing what?"

"Staying where I can protect you."

She laughed again, sharper this time. "From you?"

"From what's coming," he corrected.

Her fingers finally touched the folder.

The paper inside felt heavier than it should have.

"Why me?" she asked, not looking up.

Lucien didn't answer immediately.

When he did, his voice was low. Controlled.

"That's not information you're ready for."

Ariella swallowed.

Whatever this was-whatever waited inside that folder-she knew one thing with terrifying certainty.

Her life had already been altered the moment her phone rang at 9:47 p.m.

And nothing would ever return to what it had been before.