CHAPTER 3

ISABELLA

"I killed his parents."

My father's words hung in the air between us, awful and impossible.

"What are you talking about?" I whispered, my legs trembling as I sank back into the chair opposite his desk. The velvet ring box still sat where Blackwood had placed it, a silent harbinger of my future. "Tell me you're not serious."

He wouldn't meet my eyes. "It's complicated, Izzy."

"Then un-complicate it!" My voice rose sharply. The shock was wearing off, giving way to a fury I'd never felt before. "How exactly does one accidentally kill someone's parents?"

"I never said it was an accident." He drained his glass and set it down with a heavy thud. "But I never meant for it to happen."

"That makes absolutely no sense." I ran shaking fingers through my hair, loosening strands from my messy bun. "Start from the beginning. Please."

My father looked older than I'd ever seen him, the weight of secrets visibly crushing him. He stared at the empty glass for a long moment before speaking.

"James and Elaine Blackwood," he said finally. "They owned Blackwood Pipeline Solutions. Fifteen years ago, they were my main competition for a major infrastructure contract,the kind that could make or break a company."

A sick feeling crept up my throat. "The Carson City project? The one you always said put Caldwell on the map?"

He nodded. "I'd leveraged everything we had to prepare our bid. We were on the brink of bankruptcy, Izzy. If we didn't get that contract..." He trailed off, then squared his shoulders as if preparing for a blow. "I obtained some information. Proprietary specs on the Blackwood proposal."

"You stole from them," I said flatly.

"I had a contact inside their company. He offered the information, and I took it." No apology, no remorse. Just the cold calculation of a desperate man. "With those specs, I was able to underbid them by just enough to secure the contract."

I swallowed hard. "That's corporate espionage, Dad. It's illegal, but it's not murder."

"The night after the contract was announced, James and Elaine Blackwood were driving back from the airport. Their car went off Harborview Bridge." His voice had gone hollow, reciting facts like he was reading from a police report. "The official investigation ruled it an accident. Bad weather, slick roads."

A memory flickered at the edge of my consciousness,a news story from when I was nine. A prominent Boston couple killed in a late-night crash. I'd paid little attention then, too young to understand the significance.

"But it wasn't an accident," I said, connecting the dots. "Was it?"

My father's silence was answer enough.

"What did you do?" I demanded, bile rising in my throat.

"I didn't cut their brake lines or hire a hitman, if that's what you're thinking." He laughed bitterly. "I'm not a movie villain, Isabella."

"Then what?"

He reached for the decanter again, but I snatched it away, slamming it down out of his reach. "No more drinking until you explain exactly what happened."

For a moment, I thought he might shout at me. Instead, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"James Blackwood suffered from severe depression," he said quietly. "It wasn't public knowledge, but my contact told me. The pressure of possibly losing the contract had pushed him to the edge. The night they lost the bid, he'd been drinking heavily."

I closed my eyes, the horrible truth taking shape.

"The toxicology report showed his blood alcohol level was well over the legal limit," my father continued. "But there was more. The police found a note in his briefcase. Not a suicide note, exactly, but... dark thoughts. Concerns about the company's future. His family's security."

"And you knew all this before they died?" My voice sounded strange in my own ears, distant and detached.

"No. Not specifically. But I knew he was unstable. My contact warned me." He raked a hand through his silver hair. "I pushed anyway. Used what I knew about their proposal to edge them out. I told myself it was just business."

"But you think he deliberately drove off that bridge." It wasn't a question. "With his wife in the car."

"I don't know," my father admitted. "Maybe it was just an accident, made more likely by his state of mind and the alcohol. Maybe it was a split-second decision. Or maybe,"

"Maybe he planned it," I finished for him. "And you've spent fifteen years telling yourself you weren't responsible."

"I am responsible," he said sharply. "Not legally, perhaps. But morally? Yes. I knew James was fragile, and I pushed anyway. For profit. For this," he gestured around the study, at the trappings of wealth that had defined my childhood. "Everything we've had since then,your education, your mother's care, this house,it all traces back to that contract."

Nausea rolled through me. Our entire life, built on the deaths of Alexander Blackwood's parents.

A new, horrifying thought struck me. "How old was he? Alexander? When they died?"

"Sixteen." My father's voice was barely audible. "He was at boarding school when it happened."

Sixteen. The same age I'd been when my mother had her stroke. The memory of that helplessness, that world-shattering fear, swept over me. But at least I still had one parent left. Alexander Blackwood had lost both in a single night.

Because of my father.

"And the contract you signed with him?" I asked, trying to make sense of the twisted web that had ensnared me. "When did that happen?"

"Six years ago. Alexander had just graduated from Harvard Business School. He'd already started rebuilding his family's company,renamed it Blackwood Enterprises,and was making waves in the industry." My father's fingers drummed restlessly on the desk. "He approached me at a charity function. Very civilized. Said he had some concerns about the Carson City contract from years back. Asked for a private meeting to discuss 'irregularities' in the bidding process."

I could almost see it,the young Alexander Blackwood, barely into his twenties, planning his revenge with calculated precision.

"At the meeting, he laid out everything. Had documentation proving I'd obtained their proprietary information. Emails. Bank transfers to my contact." My father's face had gone ashen at the memory. "He said he could destroy me with a single phone call to the SEC. Criminal charges, civil penalties that would bankrupt us."

"So you made a deal with the devil." The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

"He offered an alternative. A private settlement. He would allow Caldwell Group to continue operating under my leadership, with certain conditions. Financial oversight. A controlling interest that would remain dormant as long as we met quarterly targets." My father's eyes finally rose to meet mine, red-rimmed and desperate. "And a marriage contract, to be executed when you turned twenty-four."

Revulsion crawled across my skin like insects. "Why wait until I was twenty-four?"

"That was part of the deal. You needed to finish college, establish your art career. He was... specific about that."

The implications made my head spin. Alexander Blackwood had been watching me, planning this, for six years. While I'd been attending classes, building a portfolio, dating occasional boyfriends who never seemed quite right,he'd been waiting. Calculating. Knowing exactly when he would strike.

"And you agreed." I couldn't keep the disgust from my voice. "You sold your own daughter."

"I was trying to protect you! Protect your mother!" He slammed his fist on the desk. "If I'd refused, we would have lost everything then and there. You would have been nineteen, with no degree, no prospects. Your mother would have been moved to a state facility. I made the best choice I could."

"By postponing the inevitable? By lying to me for six years?" I stood up, unable to remain still with the storm raging inside me. "You could have told me, Dad. We could have prepared. Built something independent of all this. Instead, you just... what? Hoped he'd forget? Change his mind?"

"I hoped I could find a way out," he admitted. "I've spent six years trying to build enough capital, enough leverage to break the contract. But every move I made, he countered. Every potential investor I approached mysteriously backed out. Every attempt to diversify was blocked. He's been three steps ahead the whole time."

I paced the length of the study, my bare feet silent on the worn Persian rug. My mind raced through options, scenarios, escape routes.

"We'll fight it," I said finally. "This contract can't possibly be legal. Forced marriage? It's medieval."

"It's not forced." My father's voice was hollow. "It presents a choice. You can refuse."

"With the consequence that my mother loses her care, you lose your company, and we both end up homeless." I laughed bitterly. "Some choice."

"I've already spoken to three different lawyers. The contract is ironclad. He's made sure of it."

I stopped pacing, my attention caught by the small velvet box still sitting on the desk. Almost without conscious thought, I reached for it, feeling its weight in my palm.

"Don't," my father said sharply.

I ignored him, flipping open the lid.

The ring inside was not what I'd expected. No massive diamond, no ostentatious display of wealth. Instead, a single black pearl sat nestled in a setting of platinum and tiny diamonds, elegant and understated. Unique. Beautiful, in a haunting sort of way.

And utterly wrong for a relationship built on revenge and coercion.

I snapped the box shut and dropped it back on the desk as if it had burned me.

"There has to be another way," I insisted, though the conviction in my voice had faded. "We can go to the press. Expose what he's doing."

"And I'll be arrested for corporate espionage, possibly conspiracy related to the deaths of his parents." My father shook his head. "He's planned for every contingency, Izzy. Every escape route."

The full weight of my situation crashed down on me. I was trapped. Cornered. Every path forward led to the same destination: becoming Mrs. Alexander Blackwood.

"Get out," I said quietly.

My father blinked. "What?"

"Get out of this room. I need to think, and I can't do that with you sitting there drowning in whiskey and self-pity."

He stood, swaying slightly. "Isabella,"

"No." I held up my hand. "You've had six years to come up with a solution. Now I have less than twenty-four hours. So please, just... leave me alone."

For a moment, I thought he might argue. Instead, he nodded once and shuffled toward the door, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-eight years.

"I'm sorry," he said, pausing at the threshold. "I truly am. I never thought,"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" I cut him off. "You never thought about anyone but yourself."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone in the study with the contract that would determine my future and the ring that would symbolize my captivity.

I sank into my father's chair, pulling the thick document toward me. The blue leather cover was cool under my fingertips as I opened to the first page.

Agreement between Winston James Caldwell and Alexander James Blackwood, dated September 15, 2017.

Six years ago, almost to the day. While I'd been starting my junior year at Berklee, blissfully unaware, these two men had been negotiating my future like I was a commodity to be traded.

I flipped through the pages, legal jargon swimming before my eyes. Financial terms. Conditions. Contingencies. And then, on page seventeen, the marriage clause.

Upon Isabella Marie Caldwell's twenty-fourth birthday, she shall be presented with the option to enter into marriage with Alexander James Blackwood. Should she accept, the financial terms outlined in Section 3 shall continue as established, with modifications as specified in Appendix B. Should she decline, all protections and considerations extended to Caldwell Group and associated entities shall immediately terminate.

Cold, clinical language for what amounted to emotional blackmail.

I closed the contract and pushed it away, rising to move toward the windows. Night had fallen while my world imploded, and the garden beyond the glass lay in shadow, illuminated only by the distant glow of Boston's skyline.

Alexander Blackwood wanted to punish my father by taking the one thing he couldn't bear to lose. Me. His only child. His "pride and joy," as Blackwood had mockingly called me.

But there was more to it than that. The careful provisions ensuring I'd complete my education. The specific timing. The ring that showed more thought than I would have expected from a man interested only in revenge.

Something didn't add up.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes. What options did I really have? I could refuse, triggering financial ruin and potentially leaving my mother without proper care. I could try to fight the contract legally, but my father seemed convinced it was airtight, and we had no money for a protracted legal battle anyway.

Or I could accept. Marry Alexander Blackwood. Become the instrument of my father's punishment while securing my mother's care and some semblance of financial stability.

None of those choices included a happy ending for me.

I returned to the desk and picked up the ring box again, opening it to study the black pearl. It gleamed in the dim light, mysterious and somehow ominous. A perfect symbol for the man who had chosen it.

Alexander Blackwood, who had orchestrated the destruction of my family with meticulous precision. Who had watched me from a distance for six years, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Whose cold eyes had assessed me like I was a particularly interesting specimen under glass.

Who, despite everything, had caused an undeniable shiver of awareness when his hand had touched my elbow.

I snapped the box shut again, angry at myself for even noticing such things at a time like this. Stockholm syndrome setting in already? Pathetic.

My phone vibrated in the pocket of my paint-stained dress. I pulled it out to find a text from an unknown number.

Your answer. 3 PM tomorrow. My office, 58th floor, Blackwood Tower. Come alone.

So he was already dictating terms, assuming my compliance. The presumption ignited a fresh wave of anger that clarified my thoughts with startling speed.

I had no good options. But I did have exactly one thing Alexander Blackwood didn't: intimate knowledge of what it meant to be a Caldwell.

We weren't just wealthy Bostonians with old money and older connections. We were survivors. My great-grandfather had rebuilt the family fortune after losing everything in the Great Depression. My grandmother had taken over the company when her husband died suddenly, expanding it despite rampant sexism in the industry. My own mother had navigated Boston high society as an "outsider" from Philadelphia, enduring the subtle cruelties of established families who considered her beneath them.

And I was my parents' daughter,for better or worse.

If Alexander Blackwood thought I would meekly accept my fate as a pawn in his revenge, he was about to learn otherwise. I couldn't escape this marriage, but I could damn well make sure he regretted forcing me into it.

I reached for my phone again, typing a reply before I could second-guess myself.

I'll be there.

The response came immediately: Wise choice.

I set the phone down, a strange calm settling over me. I had twenty-one hours to prepare for the beginning of my new life as Alexander Blackwood's wife. Twenty-one hours to gather what remnants of independence I could salvage.

Twenty-one hours to become the kind of woman who could survive being married to a monster.

I left the study without a backward glance at the contract or the ring. Neither mattered now. The decision had been made,not by me, not really, but by circumstances beyond my control.

As I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, I caught a glimpse of my father in the sitting room, hunched over with his head in his hands. For a moment, I felt a flicker of the old compassion, the instinctive desire to comfort him.

I crushed it ruthlessly. He had made this bed fifteen years ago. Now we would both lie in it.

In my room, I stripped off the paint-stained dress and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand. As steam filled the small bathroom, I watched the red paint swirl down the drain, transforming from crimson to pink to nothing at all.

Tomorrow, Isabella Caldwell would begin to disappear as well, subsumed into whatever Alexander Blackwood had planned for his unwilling bride.

But tonight, I was still me. Still free, if only for a few more hours.

I would make them count.