The next morning, I woke up in Adrian Blackwood’s mansion.
Not married yet.
Not technically.
The legal paperwork had been submitted the previous afternoon, but the final registration wasn’t complete.
I wasn’t sure why that distinction made me feel better.
Or worse.
I walked downstairs.
The mansion was quiet.
Too quiet.
I found Adrian in the dining room.
He was reading something on a tablet.
He looked up.
“Good morning.”
“Is it?”
“I suppose that’s subjective.”
I sat across from him.
“I met your father last night.”
His expression didn’t change.
“I know.”
“He hates my family.”
“Yes.”
“He said we destroyed yours.”
Adrian put the tablet down.
“He was angry.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“No.”
I waited.
He didn’t continue.
“You’re very good at doing that.”
“At what?”
“Answering without actually answering.”
He almost smiled.
“I’ve had practice.”
Breakfast arrived.
I stared at the food.
“I don’t eat this much in the morning.”
“You barely ate yesterday.”
“You noticed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re important to me.”
The words caught me off guard.
He seemed to realize it too.
His expression hardened slightly.
“Because you’re my responsibility for the next year.”
I looked down.
“That sounds more like you.”
He didn’t respond.
After breakfast, he left for work.
I decided to explore the mansion.
I found a library.
Then a music room.
Then a hallway I hadn’t seen the night before.
There were old photographs along the wall.
Blackwood family portraits.
Business events.
Charity galas.
Adrian as a child.
Marcus when he was younger.
And then I saw something that made me stop.
A photograph of my father.
I stepped closer.
Victor Carter.
Standing beside Marcus Blackwood.
They were shaking hands.
Between them stood a woman.
Elegant.
Dark hair.
A warm smile.
I recognized her immediately.
Isabelle Blackwood.
Adrian’s mother.
My mother had mentioned her once.
Years ago.
But she’d never explained why.
I touched the frame.
“Why were you here?”
“Because our families were friends.”
I turned.
Adrian stood behind me.
I hadn’t heard him approach.
“You knew this was here.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my father knew your parents.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.”
I turned back toward the photograph.
“My mother knew your mother.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
His silence was answer enough.
I faced him.
“You’re hiding something again.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re consistent.”
His eyes moved to the photograph.
“My mother died when I was young.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked at me.
There was something in his face I hadn’t seen before.
Pain.
Brief.
Buried immediately.
“She was the only person in this family who believed everyone could be forgiven.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“She sounds kind.”
“She was.”
“What happened?”
“An accident.”
The answer was too quick.
I noticed.
“You don’t believe it was an accident.”
His eyes met mine.
“Neither does your mother.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
He said nothing.
“Adrian.”
He walked toward the photograph.
His fingers touched the frame.
“Your mother knew mine.”
“How?”
“They worked together.”
“On what?”
He looked at me.
“That story is one you don’t want to hear.”
“Try me.”
He shook his head.
“Not yet.”
I stepped closer.
“You keep telling me that.”
“Because it’s true.”
I looked down at my bracelet.
The thin silver band caught the light.
Adrian’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
His eyes fixed on my wrist.
“You still have that.”
I touched the bracelet.
“My mother gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Before everything collapsed.”
He stared at it.
“Take it off.”
My hand immediately covered the bracelet.
“Why?”
“Because it could be dangerous.”
The words came too quickly.
He realized his mistake.
I narrowed my eyes.
“How?”
He looked away.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You absolutely should have.”
“Forget it.”
“No.”
I stepped in front of him.
“You know something about this bracelet.”
He didn’t answer.
“Adrian.”
He looked at me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said quietly:
“It means more than you think.”
“What does it mean?”
His gaze dropped to the silver symbol engraved inside.
Something flickered across his face.
Recognition.
Fear.
Maybe both.
“I’ll tell you.”
“When?”
“When the time is right.”
I laughed.
“You know, for a billionaire, you have a terrible relationship with direct answers.”
This time, he actually smiled.
Very slightly.
Then he walked away.
I watched him disappear down the hallway.
My fingers closed around the bracelet.
For the first time, I wondered whether my mother had given it to me for a reason.
And whether Adrian Blackwood had known that reason all along.