Romane von Lola Rae

Morning arrived without permission.Sunlight crept into the Blackwood estate like an intruder, pale and indifferent, illuminating what the night had tried to hide. The vineyard lay quiet beyond the windows, dew clinging to the leaves, the crushed grapes already beginning to rot where Julian’s blood had soaked into the earth.Ivy woke to the sound of voices.Not Julian’s. Never again Julian’s.These were sharper. Official. Measured.She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of the guest bedroom she’d been guided into sometime before dawn. She remembered fragments—hands at her shoulders, a blanket draped over her, a glass of water pressed to her lips. Remembered screaming herself hoarse, remembered the weight of eyes on her grief.She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood.Her dress from the night before lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, stained dark at the hem. She stepped over it and pulled on a robe instead, tying it tight, armor disguised as silk.When she op

The hunting party had been Ivy’s idea.Julian loved symbolism—rituals that made him feel primal and powerful—so she framed it that way. A night in the Sonoma vineyards. Antique shotguns. Good whiskey. Important men pretending they still knew how to survive without assistants and stock portfolios.He’d loved it immediately.“Like Hemingway,” Julian had said, already pouring himself a drink. “Only with better wine.”Ivy smiled and kissed his cheek, already planning the rest of the board.By sunset, the estate buzzed with curated masculinity. Twenty men in tailored jackets and expensive boots roamed the vineyard paths, laughing too loudly, guns slung over shoulders like props. The air smelled of crushed grapes and gun oil. Floodlights illuminated the rows just enough to feel dangerous.Julian was drunk by the time the first shot rang out—wild, celebratory, fired into the dark to mark the beginning of the hunt. Applause followed. Someone whooped.Ivy stood on the terrace and watched them

Three years earlier.Blackwood Tower smelled like money and restraint.Italian leather. Polished steel. Old ambition sealed into marble and glass. Ivy Valmonte had learned the building quickly after her engagement—where the cameras thinned, which elevators ran private, which doors were locked more out of habit than necessity.Tonight, she stood on the executive floor with her back against a wall of glass, staring out at Los Angeles as if it might offer an escape route.It didn’t.Seven forty-two p.m.Downstairs, the rehearsal dinner glittered—Julian holding court, investors laughing too loudly at his jokes, champagne flowing like absolution. Ivy had smiled until her cheeks hurt, then excused herself under the pretense of a headache.It wasn’t a lie.The ring on her finger felt heavier by the minute.She turned at the sound of ice clinking in crystal.Sebastian Blackwood stood in Julian’s office as if he owned it.Suit jacket discarded. Tie loosened. A glass of Macallan cradled loosely

The reading of Julian Blackwood’s will took place at 9:00 a.m. sharp, because Julian had always believed punctuality was a form of dominance.The drawing room at the Blackwood estate had been converted into a theater of restraint. Mahogany paneling gleamed under crystal chandeliers. Heavy drapes muted the California sun, turning morning into something more funereal. Chairs were arranged in careful rows, close enough to invite conflict, far enough apart to prevent outright violence.Ivy arrived five minutes early.She wore black again, but sharper this time, tailored wool, clean lines, no veil. Her hair was pulled back in a low, severe knot. Diamonds remained at her throat, though smaller than yesterday’s. Mourning, refined.She chose the chair at the center of the front row without asking permission.Ownership, even symbolic, mattered.Behind her, the room filled quickly. Julian’s relatives filtered in like carrion birds: cousins who had smiled too hard at the funeral, an aunt who had

The casket was lowered at exactly 11:17 a.m.Ivy Blackwood noted the time without meaning to. Her mind clung to numbers when feelings threatened to surface—dates, balances, margins of error. It was easier to measure grief than to feel it. Easier to stand still in black silk and diamonds and let the earth swallow her husband while the world watched, hungry for spectacle.Julian Blackwood, CEO. Visionary. Philanthropist. Beloved tyrant.Dead.The priest’s voice drifted over the crowd, words dissolving before they reached her. Ivy kept her chin lifted, shoulders squared, gloved hands folded neatly at her waist. Her veil was sheer enough that cameras could still see her face—calculated transparency. The widow as icon. Grace under devastation.She did not cry.She had practiced this.The cemetery in Forest Lawn rolled outward in manicured perfection: white marble headstones, trimmed hedges, the city smog softening the hills into something almost romantic. Three hundred mourners stood in di