The first time I saw Adrian Blackwood, he was standing beside my father’s grave.
I knew his face before I knew his name.
Everyone in town did.
The Blackwoods owned half of Westbridge, including the hotel, the old theater, three restaurants, and the company that had employed my father for almost twenty years.
They were the kind of family whose name appeared in newspapers even when they had done nothing worth reporting.
Adrian was the eldest son.
The heir.
The golden boy.
And, according to my father’s last words, the one person I was never supposed to trust.
I had been thirteen when my father died.
He had been in the hospital for three days.
On the last night, when the room was almost completely dark, he had taken my hand and whispered something I had never forgotten.
“Stay away from the Blackwoods.” I had asked him why.
He had only closed his eyes.
“Especially Adrian.” Six years later, I finally understood why.
Or at least, I thought I did.
Adrian stood beneath the rain, wearing a black coat that looked far too expensive for a cemetery.
He wasn’t crying.
He wasn’t even looking at the grave.
He was looking at me.
And somehow, that was worse.
I tightened my grip around the umbrella.
“What are you doing here?” He didn’t answer immediately.
His eyes moved toward the name carved into the stone.
Daniel Bennett.
My father.
Then he looked back at me.
“I came to pay my respects.” “You didn’t know him.” “I knew him better than you think.” Something inside me tightened.
“You shouldn’t be here.” His expression changed slightly.
Not anger.
Something closer to regret.
“I know.” “Then leave.” He looked at me for another second.
Then he turned around.
He took three steps.
Stopped.
And said without looking back, “Your father didn’t die because of an accident.” My entire body went cold.
“What did you say?” Adrian turned.
“The police report was wrong.” I walked toward him.
“You’re lying.” “I wish I were.” “You expect me to believe you?” “No.” “Then why tell me?” He looked at my father’s grave.
“Because you’re about to start asking questions.” “And?” “And the answers will put you in danger.” I laughed bitterly.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” “No.” His voice was quiet.
“It’s supposed to keep you alive.” Then he walked away.
I watched him disappear between the graves.
I wanted to hate him.
It should have been easy.
He was a Blackwood.
My father’s last warning had made that clear.
But there was something in his voice.
Something that made me wonder whether he had come to the cemetery for my father…
or for me.
Three days later, I arrived at Westbridge University.
My scholarship covered everything.
Tuition.
Housing.
Books.
It was the only reason I could afford to attend.
I had promised myself that I would focus on school.
No family drama.
No Blackwoods.
No questions about my father’s death.
Just a new beginning.
That plan lasted approximately seven minutes.
I was standing outside the administration building when a black car stopped directly in front of me.
The door opened.
Adrian stepped out.
I stared at him.
He stared at me.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he looked at the envelope in my hand.
“You got it.” I frowned.
“Got what?” “The scholarship.” I looked down.
The envelope had the university seal on it.
“Yes.” His expression became unreadable.
“You shouldn’t have accepted it.” My stomach dropped.
“What?” “Your scholarship.” “You’re telling me I shouldn’t accept free tuition?” “Yes.” I almost laughed.
“Why?” “Because it came from my family.” I looked at him.
“No, it came from the university.” “Look at the donor name.” I opened the envelope.
At the bottom of the letter was a small line.
Blackwood Foundation.
My hands went cold.
“You knew?” “Yes.” “Did you arrange this?” “No.” “Then why are you warning me?” “Because my father did.” I stared at him.
“What does your father have to do with my scholarship?” Adrian stepped closer.
“My father knows who you are.” “I know who I am.” “You don’t know what he thinks you are.” I felt anger rising.
“You’re making absolutely no sense.” “I know.” “Then stop talking in riddles.” He looked at me.
For the first time, I noticed how tired he looked.
Not arrogant.
Not cold.
Just tired.
“Your father left something behind,” he said.
My heart stopped.
“What?” “A file.” “What file?” “I don’t know.” “Then how do you know it exists?” “Because my father has been looking for it for six years.” I couldn’t speak.
Six years.
Since my father’s death.
Adrian stepped back.
“Don’t tell anyone I warned you.” I stared at him.
“Why?” “Because if my father finds out I told you, he’ll know you have it.” “I don’t have anything.” Adrian’s eyes stayed on mine.
“Yes, you do.” “What?” “The file.” “I don’t have a file.” He looked almost surprised.
Then his expression changed.
“You really don’t know.” “Know what?” He took one step toward me.
“Your father hid it before he died.” A cold feeling spread through me.
“Where?” Adrian didn’t answer.
“Adrian.” He looked toward the university entrance.
Then back at me.
“I don’t know where he hid it.” “Then why are you so sure I have it?” “Because my father believes you do.” I swallowed.
“And if he believes that?” Adrian’s voice dropped.
“Then he won’t stop looking.” A group of students passed behind us.
Adrian stepped away.
“Stay away from my family, Sophia.” I stared at him.
“You’re the one who came looking for me.” “I know.” He opened the car door.
Before getting inside, he looked at me one last time.
“And that’s exactly why you should be worried.” The car disappeared down the street.
I stood there, holding the scholarship letter.
My father’s name suddenly felt heavier than it had in years.
I went back to my dorm that evening.
I opened every drawer.
Nothing.
I searched the closet.
Nothing.
I checked the old suitcase my father had given me.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
A wooden box.
It had been in our attic since before my father died.
I had never opened it.
I had never even asked what was inside.
I climbed the stairs.
Dust covered everything.
The box was exactly where I remembered it.
I carried it downstairs.
There was no lock.
Just a small brass clasp.
I opened it.
Inside were old photographs.
A watch.
Several letters.
And one black envelope.
My hands began to shake.
There was a name written across it.
Not mine.
Not my father’s.
One name.
ADRIAN BLACKWOOD.
I stopped breathing.
Slowly, I turned the envelope over.
On the back, in my father’s handwriting, were six words.
“If he comes back, don’t trust him.” I stared at the sentence.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
“Hello?” Silence.
Then a man’s voice whispered, “Sophia…” I froze.
I knew that voice.
I had heard it once.
Six years ago.
The night my father died.
The line went dead.
And from somewhere outside my apartment, I heard three slow knocks on the door.