Chapter 4 The First Storm

The storm rolled in like a living thing-thunder cracking low across the skyline, the wind pressing hard against the Blackwood Estate's endless windows. Ivy lay awake, tangled in silk sheets that smelled like lavender and tension. The digital clock glared 2:13 a.m. in red, like it was mocking her.

Sleep was impossible.

Her mind was a warzone of fragments-Lucien's lips, the cryptic message on her phone, the two-way mirror. The longer she stayed in this place, the more it felt less like a home and more like a labyrinth. Every corridor echoed with the sound of watching.

She rose, pulled on a silk robe that clung to her like whispers, and padded barefoot down the hallway. The storm outside growled, throwing shadows across the walls. The mansion felt hollow-like a great, sleeping beast.

The library called to her again.

She turned the golden handle and stepped inside.

Warmth greeted her first-the fire was lit, low and alive in the hearth. Then came the scent of leather-bound books and aged scotch.

And then came Lucien's voice.

"You really don't listen well."

He sat in the corner, sprawled in an armchair, sleeves rolled up, collar open. A glass of whiskey hung loose between his fingers.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, not bothering to mask her irritation. "This place isn't exactly... welcoming."

He looked at her then, his gaze slow, taking in her disheveled hair, the robe cinched at her waist. His jaw ticked, just slightly.

"You should be used to cold things by now."

"Why is everything with you a test?" she asked, moving to the fire. "Why the games, the threats, the walls?"

He studied her for a long beat. "Because honesty is expensive. And I don't give anything away for free."

She turned toward him. "What happened to you, Lucien?"

The question hung in the air like fog.

He swirled the glass in his hand. "What happened is that I learned early what it meant to survive. That love is a lie people tell themselves when they're lonely. That everything has a price."

"And what's my price?" she asked.

He stood, slow and smooth, walking toward her with the storm crashing behind the windows. "You're not something I bought, Ivy. You're something I chose."

She shivered, but not from cold.

Their faces were close now, the fire throwing golden light across his sharp cheekbones.

"You say things like that," she murmured, "but you never mean them."

Lucien's hand came up, tracing the line of her jaw. "What if I do?"

She caught his wrist. Held it there. "Then prove it. Open up. Let me in. Because right now, I'm just a piece on your board."

His expression darkened. "That's the point. This is a game. It always has been."

"And what happens when the game ends?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he leaned down-and kissed her again.

But this kiss wasn't like the one at dinner.

This was slow. Controlled. Dangerous.

His mouth moved over hers with maddening patience, like he was claiming territory inch by inch. Her hands found his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt. She didn't know if she was pulling him closer or holding herself back.

His hands gripped her waist, sliding under the silk. Heat pulsed between them-tension that begged for release.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, she whispered, "Why do I feel like you're trying to make me forget something?"

He stared at her like she'd struck a nerve.

Because she had.

"You don't want to remember, Ivy," he said, voice low. "Not in this house."

That's when she knew.

There were skeletons here.

Not just in closets.

But in Lucien himself.

The next morning, Ivy sat at the breakfast table alone. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but her mind churned louder than ever.

She called her father.

It rang once. Twice. Then voicemail.

That wasn't like him.

She tried again.

Nothing.

Her stomach twisted. Something was wrong.

A maid entered with a tray of fresh fruit and tea.

"Do you know where Mr. Blackwood is?" Ivy asked, casually as she could.

The maid's eyes dropped. "He's at his private tower downtown. No one is to disturb him there."

No one?

Not even his wife?

Ivy waited until the maid left.

Then she took her keys and her courage-and left the mansion.

The Blackwood Tower downtown loomed like a cathedral of glass and ambition. Security didn't even blink when she arrived-they knew her face now. Knew she was the woman tied to his name.

But that didn't mean they welcomed her.

She found the top floor on instinct.

The elevator doors opened into silence.

And what she saw made her blood run cold.

Lucien stood in front of a table, surrounded by files. But what froze her was what he held in his hand.

A photograph.

Of her.

She walked in. "What the hell is this?"

He didn't look surprised to see her.

He turned slowly. "You shouldn't be here."

"Too late," she said. "Explain."

He placed the photo down.

It was her, taken two years ago. In Boston. She didn't even remember being there.

"Why do you have this?" Her voice cracked. "How long have you been watching me?"

Lucien didn't deny it.

"I researched you before the deal," he said. "I had to know everything. Who you were. What weaknesses your father had. What leverage we could use."

"We?" she demanded.

"I wasn't the only one interested in you, Ivy," he said, stepping closer. "And not everyone had noble intentions."

Her head spun. "So you were protecting me?"

"I was positioning you," he said coldly. "And protecting the investment."

Her palm itched to slap him again. But she was too stunned to move.

"You manipulated my entire life," she whispered.

He reached for her, but she stepped back.

"I need to think," she said. "I can't breathe here."

He didn't stop her.

He just said one thing as she left:

"You're safer with me than without me."

That night, Ivy stood in her bedroom staring at the walls. The storm outside had returned, full force. Thunder boomed like warning drums.

She opened her laptop.

And began digging.

Files. Business deals. Property ownerships.

Until she found it.

A small, quiet property in upstate New York. Paid for in cash. Owned by a shell corporation.

But the name on the paperwork?

Margot Blackwood.

Lucien's mother.

Dead for ten years.

Except the property taxes were paid this month.

Ivy's breath caught.

Maybe Lucien wasn't the only one hiding something.

Maybe the past wasn't as buried as he claimed.