CHAPTER 4

ALEXANDER

I stood at the window of my office, hands clasped behind my back, watching the city spread out beneath me like a kingdom I'd conquered. From fifty-eight floors up, Boston looked orderly, controlled,each street and building precisely where it should be. Just the way I preferred my world.

The intercom on my desk buzzed precisely at 2:55 PM.

"Mr. Blackwood," my assistant's voice was carefully neutral. "Ms. Caldwell is here to see you."

Five minutes early. Interesting.

"Send her up in exactly five minutes," I replied.

A small power play, perhaps, but in negotiations, every detail mattered. And make no mistake,despite the contract being ironclad, Isabella Caldwell was still negotiating. She simply didn't realize yet how little leverage she had.

I moved to my desk, arranging myself in the leather chair that had been selected specifically for its imposing height. The contract sat centered on the polished surface, the blue leather binding a stark contrast against the black desktop. Beside it, the ring box remained closed. She would see it immediately upon entering.

At precisely 3:00 PM, there was a knock at my door.

"Enter."

The door opened, and Isabella Caldwell walked into my office with the kind of quiet dignity I hadn't expected. Gone was the paint-stained dress from yesterday. In its place, she wore a simple but elegantly tailored black dress that spoke of understated wealth,perhaps one of the last vestiges of her family's fading fortune. Her honey-brown hair was swept into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck, emphasizing the graceful line of her throat and the delicate structure of her face.

But it was her eyes that caught my attention,amber and clear, meeting mine directly without a hint of fear or submission. She had composed herself since yesterday. Found her armor.

I did not rise from my chair.

"Isabella," I said, testing her name on my tongue. "Right on time."

"It's Izzy," she corrected, her voice cool and controlled. "Only my father calls me Isabella."

A small rebellion. Setting boundaries already. I allowed one eyebrow to lift slightly.

"Izzy, then. Please, sit."

She crossed the room and took the chair opposite my desk, her movements fluid and self-possessed. No hesitation. No trembling. She was, I realized, far more formidable than the reports and surveillance had suggested.

"Do you have an answer for me?" I asked, though we both knew what it would be.

Those amber eyes narrowed slightly. "Before I give you my answer, I want to know exactly what I'm agreeing to."

"The contract is quite explicit." I gestured to the document between us.

"The legal terms, perhaps. But we both know this isn't really about business." She leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. "You want to hurt my father by taking me. Fine. But I want to understand what my life will look like once I say yes. Will I be a prisoner? A showpiece? What, exactly, does being Mrs. Alexander Blackwood entail beyond the legal framework?"

Direct. Intelligent. Unexpectedly pragmatic. I found myself oddly pleased by her approach, though I kept my expression impassive.

"A fair question." I steepled my fingers, studying her. "You will be my wife in every sense that matters publicly. You will live in my home, accompany me to necessary social events, present a united front to the world. You will want for nothing material. Your artistic pursuits may continue,I have no interest in stifling your career."

"And privately?"

The question hung between us, laden with implications. Her cheeks colored slightly, but she didn't look away.

"Privately, we will establish boundaries that serve our arrangement," I said carefully. "I'm not a monster, Izzy, despite what your father may have told you. I don't expect you in my bed unless you choose to be there."

Something flickered in her eyes,relief, perhaps, or disappointment? Impossible to tell.

"And my mother's care?"

"Will continue unchanged. In fact, I've already arranged for her to be moved to the executive care floor at Meadowbrook. She'll have a private suite with a garden view and twenty-four-hour specialized attention."

I saw the first crack in her composure then,a slight trembling of her lower lip that she quickly controlled.

"That wasn't necessary. Not yet. Not before I agreed."

"Consider it a demonstration of good faith."

Her laugh was short and bitter. "There's nothing faithful about any of this."

I inclined my head, acknowledging the point. "Perhaps not. But you'll find I keep my word, once given."

She looked around my office then, taking in the minimalist design, the complete absence of personal touches or photographs. The wall of windows showing my dominion over the city.

"How long?" she asked suddenly.

"How long what?"

"How long does this marriage need to last before you consider your revenge complete? A year? Five? Ten?" She met my gaze again, unflinching. "I'd like to know the expected duration of my sentence."

Her bluntness was refreshing, if misguided. "This isn't a temporary arrangement, Izzy. Marriage is, traditionally, until death parts us."

"Nothing about this is traditional," she countered. "You don't want me. You want to punish my father. So I'm asking,how long before you've extracted your pound of flesh and we can both move on with our lives?"

A reasonable question from her perspective. But she fundamentally misunderstood my intentions.

"Your father took something irreplaceable from me," I said, my voice cooling several degrees. "My parents. My family. My very identity. That debt cannot be repaid with a temporary arrangement."

"So I'm collateral damage for the rest of my life?" The flash of defiance in her eyes stirred something unexpected within me. "You'd condemn both of us to a loveless marriage just to watch my father suffer?"

I stood then, unable to remain seated with the energy suddenly coursing through me. Moving to the window, I gazed out at the city while collecting my thoughts.

"What do you know about my parents, Izzy?"

The question seemed to catch her off guard. "Only what my father told me yesterday. That they died when you were sixteen. That he... contributed to their deaths through corporate espionage."

"Contributed." I turned to face her, letting her see a fraction of the cold fury I'd carried for fifteen years. "An interesting choice of words. Your father stole proprietary information that my parents had spent years developing. He used it to undercut their bid on a project that would have secured their company's future. And when they lost that bid, my father,who had been battling depression,drove himself and my mother off Harborview Bridge."

I watched her face pale slightly as the magnitude of her father's actions sank in.

"I came home from boarding school to empty rooms and funeral arrangements," I continued, my voice detached even to my own ears. "No parents. No real family to speak of. Just a trust fund I couldn't access for years and a family business being dismantled by opportunistic competitors."

She swallowed visibly. "I'm sorry for what happened to you. Truly. But I wasn't responsible for my father's actions."

"No." I moved closer to her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "But you are the one thing he truly loves. The one thing he cannot bear to lose."

"So I'm not just a wife. I'm a hostage."

"A harsh interpretation."

"But an accurate one." She stood suddenly, eliminating the height advantage I'd been using. We were close now,too close for professional comfort, but I refused to step back. "If you want to hurt my father, there are more efficient ways. Financial ruin. Public humiliation. Legal prosecution."

"All temporary punishments," I dismissed. "Money can be remade. Scandals fade. Even prison sentences end. But watching his beloved daughter bound to the son of the people he destroyed? Watching you take my name, live in my home, potentially even bear my children someday?" I allowed myself a cold smile. "That is the kind of lifelong suffering he deserves."

I saw the impact of my words in the slight widening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible shudder that passed through her. But to her credit, she didn't retreat.

"Children," she repeated, the word hanging between us like a live wire. "You expect me to have your children? To bring innocent lives into this... this revenge plot?"

"Eventually," I said, watching her carefully. "Not for some time, of course. But yes, heirs would be expected. The ultimate severing of your connection to the Caldwell name."

She took a step back then, her composure fracturing for the first time. I recognized the calculations happening behind those expressive eyes,weighing options, searching for escapes, finding none.

Finally, she squared her shoulders. "I have conditions."

"You're hardly in a position to negotiate."

"I'm the lynchpin of your entire revenge scenario," she countered. "Without my cooperation, you have nothing but financial leverage over my father. Significant, yes, but not the devastating emotional punishment you're aiming for."

Clever girl. I felt a reluctant flicker of admiration.

"What conditions?"

"First, my art remains mine. My career, my income from it, my decisions about what to create and exhibit,all of it stays under my control."

I nodded. "Acceptable."

"Second, I maintain my own bank account and a reasonable allowance that doesn't require me to ask permission for every purchase."

"That was already my intention."

"Third," she continued, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands, "separate bedrooms. If this arrangement ever becomes... physical... it will be on mutually agreed terms. Never coerced, never commanded."

The implication that I might force myself upon her stung unexpectedly. "I am many things, Izzy, but I assure you, I have never needed to coerce a woman into my bed."

A flush crept up her neck, but she pressed on. "Fourth, I want regular, private time with my mother. No supervision, no limitations."

"Granted."

"And finally," she took a deep breath, "when we appear in public, you will treat me with respect. No humiliation, no obvious signs that this is anything but a normal marriage. I won't be paraded around as your conquest or your victim."

I studied her for a long moment. She had prepared for this meeting, clearly. Thought through her priorities. Identified the few areas where she might carve out some autonomy within the prison I'd constructed.

"Your conditions are reasonable," I conceded. "Though I would add one of my own,you will not publicly embarrass me or the Blackwood name. No scandalous behavior, no indiscreet revelations about the nature of our arrangement."

"Agreed." She lifted her chin. "So we have a deal?"

I moved back to my desk, picking up the ring box and approaching her again. "There's a more traditional way to seal this particular arrangement."

I opened the box, revealing the black pearl ring. Her eyes flickered to it, and I caught a moment of genuine surprise,perhaps she'd expected something ostentatious or coldly brilliant, not this more unusual choice.

"Why a black pearl?" she asked, her curiosity seemingly genuine.

"It reminded me of you," I said truthfully. "Rare. Formed under pressure. Beautiful, but not in the conventional way."

Something shifted in her expression,confusion, perhaps, at this unexpected moment of something almost like sincerity.

"Your answer, Izzy?" I held the ring between us.

She extended her left hand, fingers trembling almost imperceptibly. "Yes. I accept your proposal."

I slid the ring onto her finger, noting how perfectly it fit,as it should, given that I'd obtained her ring size months ago in preparation for this moment. The black pearl gleamed against her skin, elegant and somehow ominous.

"The wedding will be this Saturday," I said, watching her eyes widen in shock.

"This Saturday? That's impossible. No one can plan a wedding in four days."

"My team has been preparing contingencies for weeks. Everything is arranged,a private ceremony at the Blackwood estate on the North Shore. Small, exclusive, just the witnesses required by law."

"But,"

"The speed is necessary," I cut her off. "Your father's financial situation is precarious. The sooner we formalize our arrangement, the sooner certain protections can be implemented."

She looked down at the ring on her finger, turning her hand slightly to watch how the light played on the pearl's surface.

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Planning is what I do best."

She met my eyes then, and I saw something new there,a determined resilience that I hadn't anticipated.

"Then you should know something, Alexander." She spoke my full name for the first time, and hearing it in her voice created an unexpected sensation in my chest. "I will honor this agreement. I will be your wife on paper and in public. I will play my part in whatever tragedy you've scripted for my father."

She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the subtle floral scent of her perfume, see the flecks of gold in her amber eyes.

"But don't for a moment think that you own me. That ring on my finger buys you my presence, my cooperation, even my civil behavior. It doesn't buy my spirit or my heart or my soul."

Instead of the anger I might have expected to feel at her defiance, I experienced something dangerously close to respect.

"I wouldn't want a wife without spirit," I said quietly. "What would be the point?"

For a moment, confusion flickered across her face. I stepped back, returning to my professional demeanor.

"James will contact you tomorrow with the schedule and arrangements. A car will pick you up at nine AM on Saturday. You may bring one guest as your witness,I assume your father."

Her laugh was short and bitter. "The architect of my fate? No. I'll find someone else."

Interesting. I had expected her loyalty to her father to remain intact, despite everything. This suggestion of a rift could alter the dynamics of my revenge in ways I hadn't anticipated.

"As you wish." I returned to my desk, pressing the intercom. "Ms. Reid, please come in."

My assistant entered immediately, carrying a leather portfolio.

"These are the prenuptial agreements," I explained to Izzy. "Standard protections for both parties, with the specific provisions we've just discussed added as amendments. You'll have time to review them before Saturday."

She accepted the portfolio with steady hands. "And if I find terms I can't agree to?"

"Then we negotiate. I'm not unreasonable, Izzy."

The look she gave me clearly communicated her doubt about that statement.

"Is there anything else we need to discuss today?" I asked.

She hesitated, then shook her head. "No. I believe we've covered the essentials of my indentured servitude."

"Marriage," I corrected mildly. "An ancient and respected institution."

"Not the way we're approaching it." She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the handle. "One last question."

"Yes?"

"Did you ever consider," she asked, looking back at me with those perceptive eyes, "that by binding yourself to me for life, you're punishing yourself just as thoroughly as you're punishing my father?"

The question struck with unexpected precision. For six years, I had planned this revenge with meticulous care, focused entirely on Winston Caldwell's suffering. I had never seriously considered the cost to myself,the lifetime spent with a woman who would likely never forgive the circumstances of our union.

"Perhaps," I admitted, surprising myself with my candor. "But some prices are worth paying."

She studied me for a moment longer, as if trying to decipher something written in a language she only partially understood.

"I'll see you on Saturday, Alexander."

And then she was gone, the subtle scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

I moved to the windows again, watching several minutes later as she emerged onto the street below. Even from fifty-eight floors up, there was something distinctive about her,the way she held herself, shoulders back, head high. Not defeated, despite everything.

My phone rang, pulling me from my thoughts. James, with updates on the merger negotiations with Chen Industries. I pushed all thoughts of Isabella Caldwell aside, returning to the world I understood and controlled absolutely.

But as the afternoon wore on, her question echoed in my mind: was I punishing myself as thoroughly as I was punishing Winston Caldwell?

It didn't matter. Justice for my parents was worth any price,even if that price was tying myself forever to the daughter of the man I hated most in the world.

Even if that daughter was proving to be far more intriguing than I had anticipated.