Chapter 3 - Stepping Into the Lion's Den at Blackwood Manor
The morning sun had barely crested the skyline when Dr. Jonathan Hayes emerged from the surgical wing of St. Jude Memorial Hospital, pulling down his surgical mask.
"The autograft was a total success, Miss Santos," Dr. Hayes said, offering a rare, warm smile. "Diego’s vitals are remarkably stable. He’s already in the pediatric recovery suite. He’s going to live a full, normal, healthy life."
When I saw Diego through the glass—his small chest rising and falling rhythmically, the terrifying blue hue gone from his lips, replaced by a healthy, faint pink—I wept against the observation window until my ribs ached. Sebastian Blackwood had kept his word. Every single promise had been fulfilled before the sun was fully up.
Now, it was time for me to fulfill mine.
At two o'clock that afternoon, a sleek, armored black Maybach pulled up to the hospital’s private VIP exit. A stone-faced chauffeur opened the door, and I stepped inside.
Waiting on the leather seat was a wardrobe trunk and a jewelry box from Cartier.
"Put on the ring before we cross the estate gates," Sebastian’s voice came from the opposite seat. He had traded his tuxedo for a charcoal bespoke three-piece suit, a tailored wool overcoat resting beside him.
I opened the velvet box. Inside lay a flawless, five-carat emerald-cut diamond ring set in platinum. It caught the afternoon light, throwing dazzling prisms across the car's interior.
"It belonged to my grandmother," Sebastian noted quietly. "The matriarch of the Blackwood lineage. When Arthur and his daughter Victoria see this on your finger, they will know my intentions are absolute."
I slipped the heavy band onto my left ring finger. It was a surreal, chilling weight—a symbol of a grand illusion that would dictate my life for the next six months.
The Maybach wound through the exclusive, forested hills north of the city, eventually turning down a private, iron-gated driveway flanked by ancient weeping willows and armed security posts. Blackwood Manor loomed ahead like a Gothic fortress of limestone, slate, and stained glass, overlooking the roaring waves of the Atlantic coast.
As we stepped into the grand foyer, the atmosphere was suffocating. A massive crystal chandelier hung from a vaulted, frescoed ceiling, illuminating a grand sweeping staircase where three people stood waiting, their expressions dripping with cold contempt.
"Well, well," a sharp, venomous voice drawled from the staircase.
Arthur Blackwood descended first. In his late fifties, with slicked-back silver hair, cold reptilian eyes, and an impeccably tailored suit, he radiated calculated malice. Beside him walked his daughter, Victoria Vance—a high-society socialite dressed in an ivory Dior ensemble, her eyes narrowing as she glared at me like I was vermin tracked onto an antique Persian rug. Behind them stood Julian, Arthur’s thirty-year-old son, holding a glass of bourbon with an arrogant smirk.
"So this is the five-hundred-thousand-dollar spectacle," Arthur said, his voice mocking as he stopped at the base of the stairs. "You made quite a mockery of the family name last night, Sebastian. Bidding half a million dollars at a public companion auction for a nameless girl from the East District? The board of directors is already questioning your sanity."
"The board answers to me, Arthur," Sebastian replied, his voice dropping into that chilling, lethal cadence that brooked no opposition. He placed a warm, firm hand on the small of my back, drawing me gently yet possessively against his side. "And I suggest you mind your tongue. You are addressing my future wife."
Victoria gasped, her manicured hand flying to her throat. "Your wife? Sebastian, are you out of your mind? She’s an escort! A common girl off the auction block! You were supposed to announce our family alliance at the Spring Gala!"
"Victoria," Sebastian said, his gray eyes turning into chips of Arctic ice. "You were never going to be my wife. Not eight years ago, and certainly not today."
Arthur stepped forward, his gaze dropping to my left hand. When he saw the emerald-cut diamond resting on my finger, his face turned an ugly shade of mottled red.
"Grandmother’s heirloom..." Arthur hissed, his fists clenching at his sides. "You gave that gutter rat the Blackwood crest?"
Before Arthur could take another step, Sebastian moved. In a split second, he closed the distance, standing inches from his uncle. The sheer physical menace radiating from Sebastian caused the older man to instinctively flinch backward.
"Listen to me very carefully, Arthur," Sebastian whispered, his voice dangerously low, reverberating through the marble foyer. "Maria Santos is the future mistress of this house. If you, your daughter, or your drunken son disrespect her, look at her with contempt, or breathe a single insulting word in her presence again, I will strip your executive stipends, liquidate your corporate shares, and have you physically thrown off this property before sunset."
The foyer was dead silent. Victoria looked terrified, Julian swallowed hard, and Arthur stood trembling with impotent fury.
May you like
Sebastian turned back to me, his expression softening instantly into a look of tender reverence so convincing that my breath caught in my throat. He extended his arm to me.
"Come, my love," Sebastian said softly, loud enough for every servant and relative to hear. "Let me show you to our quarters."
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