Chapter 7 The Truth Doesn't Bleed, It Burns

I didn't sleep.

Not because I couldn't.

Because I wouldn't.

I sat on the floor of my room, back against the cold wall, files from the lockbox scattered around me like pieces of a puzzle I never asked to solve. The silence was heavy. Almost reverent. Like even the mansion knew I'd uncovered something sacred-and unforgivable.

Project Geneva.

My name. My son. My entire life-documented. Monitored. Strategically engaged.

Damon Blackwood had known who I was before he ever touched me. He'd profiled me. Selected me. I'd spent years believing our story began by chance.

Now I knew it was built on calculation.

And lies.

I should've cried.

I didn't.

Rage makes tears irrelevant.

By sunrise, I still hadn't moved.

Not until Micah stirred in his sleep beside me, curled like a cat in the oversized bed he'd quickly claimed as his own. His tiny fingers twitched, his lashes fluttered.

Innocent.

Unaware.

My throat clenched with guilt. My little boy was the product of something far more complicated than I ever imagined. He deserved truth. But how could I give him that when I wasn't even sure I could survive it?

I found Damon in the garden.

No suit today. Just dark slacks and a slate-gray Henley rolled at the sleeves. He looked too human. Too calm for a man who'd manipulated fate.

He was sitting on a stone bench, one hand loosely curled around a coffee mug, the other gripping the edge of a newspaper he clearly wasn't reading.

He looked up when he saw me.

Expression unreadable.

"You found the file," he said quietly.

I didn't stop walking until I stood directly in front of him. Then I threw the manila folder at his chest.

Pages spilled across the table and onto the gravel.

"Say something," I whispered.

"I was going to tell you."

"When?" I snapped. "Before or after the wedding you never planned?"

Silence.

"I want the truth," I said. "All of it. No games. No riddles. Why me, Damon?"

He picked up one of the pages slowly-my employment history-and held it like it weighed more than he could carry.

"I didn't choose you," he said. "The system did."

"You mean Project Geneva."

He nodded. "It was a compatibility initiative. Legal. Clean. Quiet. Designed to help legacy families build... stable futures. Heirs. Partnerships without public mess."

"Contracts instead of love."

His jaw tensed. "It wasn't supposed to involve emotions. Until you."

I folded my arms. "So the night we met was staged?"

He looked up at me.

"No. That night... wasn't in the plan. I was supposed to meet someone else. At the bar."

My stomach flipped.

"I saw you instead," he continued, voice lower now. "You were waiting for a job interview. Eating alone. You looked so damn angry at the world."

"I was."

He smiled faintly. "And I liked that."

Flashback

The bar had been dim, warm with golden lights and shadows that made everyone look better than they were. I remember sitting at the far end, nursing a cheap cocktail and flipping through interview questions on my cracked phone screen.

He sat beside me like he belonged there. Quiet. Magnetic.

"You planning world domination," he asked, "or just trying to survive it?"

I'd laughed without meaning to.

That was the first lie.

The first thread.

And now I knew the fabric behind it.

Back in the garden, Damon continued.

"After that night, I canceled the project. Scrapped every profile. Shut it down."

"But you kept mine," I said.

He didn't deny it.

"I couldn't let it go," he murmured. "You were supposed to be a profile. You became the only thing that ever felt real."

I turned away before he could see the emotion flicker in my face.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered. "Because you still took away my right to choose."

"I know."

"And you still wanted control. Even after I left."

"Yes."

His honesty hit harder than lies ever could.

We didn't speak after that.

I walked away.

Back through the pristine halls of the Blackwood estate, past art that probably cost more than my old neighborhood, and into the room that no longer felt like a guest suite.

It felt like a trap.

I sat beside Micah, watching him play with wooden blocks.

My son. Mine.

But not entirely.

Not anymore.

It hit the internet by noon.

I was brushing Micah's hair when my phone buzzed once.

Gossip Realm Exclusive:

Who's the secret heir to Damon Blackwood's fortune?

I froze.

One photo. Blurry, distant.

But the red jacket was unmistakable.

Micah. In the garden. With the rabbit.

Taken from inside the estate.

My blood went cold.

I burst into Damon's office, phone in hand.

He was already on a call. "Shut it down. I don't care what it costs. Trace the leak."

I slammed the door behind me.

"Someone took that photo from inside this house."

He ended the call.

His face darkened. "I know."

"Who has access?"

He opened a drawer, pulled out a black file labeled SECURITY ACCESS – INTERNAL.

"Only three people had unrestricted camera access this week," he said. "Me. Mrs. Voclain. And Heather."

"The nanny?" I gasped.

"She passed every clearance. Private agency. Perfect record."

"So did I," I hissed. "And you still followed me for years."

We found Heather's room empty.

Her closet stripped. Drawers cleared.

Her phone still charging beside the bed.

And a flash drive in the back of the desktop computer.

Damon plugged it into his laptop in the hall. I stood over his shoulder.

Photos.

Dozens.

Micah. Me. Together. Apart. Some of me asleep. Some in the garden. One in the bathtub, blurry but intimate enough to make me nauseous.

And at the end:

An email.

Subject line: Blackwood's Bastard Son

Attached: Four images.

Asking price: $600,000. Sent to a media outlet.

My breath caught in my throat.

"She was documenting us," I whispered.

Damon stood slowly, his face a mask of fury.

"She's not just gone," he said. "She was never here for the job."

That night, the house was eerily quiet.

Guards posted at every entry point. Windows secured. Damon had half the estate's surveillance upgraded before midnight.

Still, I didn't sleep.

Instead, I stared at the ceiling, Micah curled beside me, his tiny breaths soft against my arm.

Then a knock.

Damon.

I opened the door without a word.

He stepped inside, his posture rigid but his eyes uncertain.

"You should be asleep."

I shook my head. "How many more enemies do you have, Damon?"

He looked away.

Too many, apparently.

He paced to the window, hands clenched.

"I can't let them destroy you."

I watched him closely. "Then stop giving them power."

He turned to me slowly, then crossed the room in three strides and pulled something from his pocket.

A velvet box.

Not a ring. Not yet.

Inside: a silver signet engraved with the Blackwood crest.

"My father gave this to me the day he died. I've never offered it to anyone."

My heart thudded.

"What is this?"

His voice was quiet-but absolute.

"Marry me, Liana. Not for love. Not yet. For war."