Novels by Debbie

The silence that followed Arielle’s question was not empty.it was crowded, suffocating, a living thing that pressed in from all sides, thick with things Damian did not say, with years he had sealed away behind discipline and success and precision, locked behind iron gates of control. It vibrated with the weight of unspoken words, with shadows he had banished to the corners of his mind, with the ghosts of vulnerabilities he refused to acknowledge. He stood across from her in the low-lit living room, the city glowing faintly through the glass walls behind him, a distant hum of neon and steel, his face carefully neutral in a way she was beginning to recognize too well, a mask he donned like a second skin. This was the face he wore in boardrooms, the one that brokered deals and crushed opposition and kept the wolves at bay. This was the face he wore when emotions weren't his favorite forth, when feelings were inconvenient, when the only currency that mattered was power. “The Locke de

Arielle waited three days before she started looking. Not because she forgot Valerie’s words, those had lodged themselves too deeply for that, but because she needed to be certain she wasn’t acting on fear alone. Fear had already cost her enough in her life, She refused to let it turn her into someone who distrusted shadows instead of truth. But doubt, once planted, always demands air. It was late when she finally opened her laptop, the penthouse quiet in a way that felt intentional. Emma was asleep down the hall, Damian still occupied with back-to-back calls in his private study, his voice occasionally carrying through the walls in measured, controlled tones. The world felt contained, orderly, and safe. That, somehow, made her chest ache. Arielle sat curled on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, the soft glow of the screen illuminating her face. She typed slowly at first, as though moving too quickly might make the thing she was searching for more real. Blackwood Holdings Locke

Doubt did not arrive loudly. It slipped in quietly, like a draft through a window she hadn’t realized was open. Arielle stood in front of the bathroom mirror long after the water in the sink had gone cold, staring at her own reflection without really seeing it. Valerie’s voice echoed in her head with infuriating clarity, every word polished and precise, designed to lodge itself where reassurance could not easily reach. You were a broken thing on the worst day of your life. Arielle pressed her palms against the marble counter, grounding herself. She had survived worse than cruel words wrapped in silk. She had rebuilt herself before Damian ever entered her life. She knew that. And yet. She replayed moments now with a new lens, Damian stepping in at exactly the right time, resources appearing before she ever had to ask, her life stabilizing almost too quickly. Safety layered upon safety until she barely remembered what it felt like to breathe without it. Had she mistaken protectio

A week changed the temperature of everything. The city had moved on, as it always did, new scandals replacing old ones, outrage reshaped into something fresher, louder. Liam was recovering under protection, Emma had returned to laughing more easily, and Arielle had begun to sleep again without jolting awake at every imagined sound. On the surface, life had smoothed itself out. Underneath, tension still lived in her bones._______ A charity gala was held at a restored historical estate on the edge of the city, all marble floors and high arched windows, warm light spilling into manicured gardens. Damian had funded most of the evening anonymously, medical outreach, housing initiatives, education grants, but his presence was impossible to miss. Arielle walked beside him in a deep emerald gown, her hand resting naturally in the crook of his arm. She had learned the rhythm of these events now: the smiles, the pauses, the polite inquiries that were never quite innocent. She felt stead

The hospital room was quiet in the way only places of recovery ever were, too white and too still, humming faintly with machines that pretended everything was under control. Arielle sat beside Liam’s bed, fingers wrapped tightly around his uninjured hand like letting go might make him disappear. His face was mottled with bruises now, swelling blooming purple and yellow beneath the harsh light. A bandage crossed his temple, another wrapped his ribs. He was conscious and alert, even joking earlier, but that didn’t erase the image Damian showed her, it was burned into her mind, blood on concrete. Damian stood near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other resting flat against the glass. He hadn’t moved much since they arrived. Security had quietly filled the corridor outside within minutes of their arrival. Doctors had been thorough, cautious, respectful in that way people were when Damian Blackwood was present. Liam would recover, No internal damage, Pain, yes. Trauma, yes. But

The message came in at 2:14 a.m. Damian was awake. Sleep had become a fractured thing these days, light and restless, more habit than rest. He lay on his back in the dark, one arm curved around Arielle’s waist, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing against his side. She slept deeply, exhaustion finally claiming her after the gala, after the whispers, after the unspoken weight of being seen too much. His phone vibrated once on the nightstand. indicating there's a message for him. Damian reached for it instantly, senses sharpening. No one messaged him at that hour unless something was wrong. Unknown number. A single image loaded first. Blood on concrete. Then text. "Your wife should learn when to walk away" Damian was out of bed before the second image finished rendering. The third image showed Liam. Not unconscious and broken, but clearly hurt. A split lip, Blood streaked along his temple. One eye already swelling. He was being half-supported by someone just