Chapter 2 The House of Ice

Ivy had seen cold houses before-homes owned by soulless billionaires with white-marble kitchens and rooms too big for laughter. But Blackwood Estate made those look like cottages.

The iron gates creaked open like the jaws of some ancient beast, and the black Bentley pulled silently into the circular drive. As she stepped out, her breath caught-not from beauty, but from the stark, brutal grandeur of the place.

Stone, steel, and glass. Brutalist elegance. Windows like razor cuts in the architecture, and shadows clinging to every edge. The mansion stretched like a fallen cathedral-magnificent, soulless, unwelcoming.

The butler didn't smile. He bowed with practiced coldness and took her luggage wordlessly. A maid, slight and ghostly in gray, gestured for her to follow.

The air inside was still. Museum-still. No scent of food. No warmth from fireplaces. No sound of family or staff chatter. The only thing she heard was the faint click of her heels on imported stone.

"Mr. Blackwood is not in," the maid said, leading her through a corridor that felt like it belonged in a prison more than a home. "You will be shown your quarters."

"Quarters," Ivy echoed, dryly. "Not my bedroom?"

The maid paused as if uncertain how to respond. "Mr. Blackwood prefers precise language."

Of course he did.

They passed rooms filled with expensive silence: a wine cellar guarded by a biometric lock; a gallery lined with black-and-white portraits-none of which bore any family resemblance. Lucien's legacy was visible in the form of power, not people. His world was built on control.

The bedroom they stopped at was too clean. Too staged. It looked like a model suite from a high-end hotel brochure-perfection without personality.

A letter lay on the silk-sheeted pillow.

Dinner at eight. Wear something appropriate. -L

The finality of the signature made her stomach twist.

No "Welcome." No "Glad you made it." Just a directive. Just an order from her future husband.

She crumpled the note in her fist, tempted to throw it at the massive fireplace. But the room was so sterile, she feared even a spark might offend its clinical perfection.

Her phone buzzed.

Dad: You made it? Is he treating you okay?

Her throat tightened.

She typed back: Safe. No bruises. Yet.

A pause.

Dad: Ivy, please don't pick fights with him. I know he's... difficult. But this deal-it saves everything.

She stared at the message. At the desperate love in her father's words. At the emotional debt that brought her to this house of ice.

Then she deleted her reply and tossed the phone onto the bed.

By the time she descended the curved staircase for dinner, Ivy had transformed.

The crimson evening gown she chose hugged her like armor. Not just for vanity-this dress had a message. You don't own me. You can cage me, but you cannot erase me.

Lucien was already seated at the head of the long dining table, back straight, fingers steepled under his chin as he watched her walk the length of the room.

No compliment. No rise of an eyebrow. Just that ever-patient, hawk-like stare.

"You're early," he said.

"I prefer to control my entrances," she replied smoothly, settling into the chair opposite him.

Dinner was silver-covered plates of cuisine she barely recognized: roasted sea bass in lemon foam, truffle risotto, beet-glazed carrots arranged like edible art.

Lucien began eating without ceremony. He didn't glance at her. Didn't pour her wine.

Ivy broke the silence.

"Do you always eat like this?"

His knife scraped lightly against the plate. "Efficiently?"

"Alone."

His gaze lifted now. Slowly. "What makes you think I'm alone?"

She lifted her wine glass, took a sip. "Because this place doesn't feel like a home. It feels like a mausoleum."

A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Not offense. Not emotion. Something else. Memory, maybe. Ghosts, stirred from sleep.

"This house was built for legacy," he said, placing his fork down. "Not comfort."

Ivy leaned forward, letting the candlelight catch on her necklace. "And you think I'm part of that legacy? A prop for your empire?"

Lucien's smile was thin and glacial. "You are the perfect prop, Ivy. Ivy Sinclair. The fragile heiress who knows how to smile for the cameras."

Her hand tightened around the glass.

He continued, "And in return, your father's company survives. Your workers get paid. You remain relevant. I'm giving you a kingdom."

"You're building a cage."

Their eyes locked across the distance. A slow, simmering war of wills.

Finally, Lucien rose. "You may find that the bars of your cage are made of gold. And you'll find worse prisons than privilege."

He started to walk away.

"Lucien," she said suddenly.

He paused, head turned slightly.

"Why do it this way?" she asked. "You could've bought the company without marrying me. Hell, you could've destroyed it and picked up the pieces. Why this marriage?"

Lucien didn't answer right away.

Then: "Because I don't just collect broken things. I rebuild them in my image."

And he left the room.

Later, in her new room-no, her assigned space-Ivy paced.

Everything about this situation screamed danger. Not the physical kind. The emotional kind. The kind that left scars no one could see. She felt like she'd wandered into a war zone where the bombs weren't loud-they were slow, psychological, and exquisitely designed.

She opened a drawer in the nightstand and found a blank journal. The pages smelled new. Untouched.

She grabbed a pen and wrote in jagged ink:

Day One: The House has no heart. And I fear that I'll lose mine if I stay too long.

Then she heard it.

A soft noise.

She stilled.

There it was again-barely audible. A quiet click. The sound of a door not quite closed.

She turned, heart thudding. Opened her bedroom door and stepped out into the hall.

The corridor stretched like a shadowed artery, lightless, quiet. But the air felt disturbed, like something had just moved through it. She looked left, then right.

Then a voice came from the darkness behind her.

"I told you to lock your door."

She spun.

Lucien stood at the far end of the hallway, no longer in his dinner jacket. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up.

She didn't speak.

"I don't like curiosity," he said, stepping toward her. "It makes people reckless."

"I heard something," she said.

"I know," he replied.

Their eyes held.

Then Ivy took a breath. "What's down that wing?"

Lucien's expression darkened.

"That wing is locked for a reason."

A beat passed.

Then another.

Ivy crossed her arms. "What are you hiding, Lucien?"

He stepped close-too close.

"I'm hiding everything, Ivy."

And before she could speak, he turned and vanished into the darkness.