CHAPTER 7

ALEXANDER

The conference room fell silent as I entered, fourteen executives straightening in their chairs like schoolchildren caught passing notes. The quarterly financial review was scheduled to last three hours,an inconvenience when my thoughts kept drifting to more personal matters.

"Gentlemen. Ladies." I nodded curtly, taking my place at the head of the table. "I believe we were discussing the expansion into Southeast Asian markets."

My CFO cleared his throat. "Yes, Mr. Blackwood. I was just about to walk the team through the projections for the first quarter following acquisition."

I gestured for him to continue, forcing myself to focus on the slides flashing across the screen. Numbers. Data. Predictions. The clean, controllable elements that had built my empire. Yet today, they failed to command my full attention.

It had been twenty-four hours since Isabella Caldwell had walked into my office and agreed to become my wife. Twenty-four hours during which I'd found myself unexpectedly preoccupied with her final question.

Did you ever consider that by binding yourself to me for life, you're punishing yourself just as thoroughly as you're punishing my father?

The question itself wasn't particularly insightful,I had, of course, considered the implications of a lifelong arrangement with a woman who would likely resent me. What caught me off guard was the genuine curiosity behind it. She hadn't asked to wound or challenge me, but out of a sincere desire to understand my reasoning.

And I had answered her honestly. Some prices were worth paying.

"Mr. Blackwood?"

I blinked, realizing the room had gone quiet. My CFO was looking at me expectantly, along with thirteen other executives.

"Your recommendation on the Jakarta expansion?" he prompted.

"Proceed as outlined," I replied smoothly, betraying none of my momentary lapse in attention. "But increase the contingency fund by fifteen percent. Political instability in the region concerns me."

He nodded, making notes, and the meeting continued. I kept my expression impassive, though inwardly I was disturbed by my own distraction. I had built Blackwood Enterprises through relentless focus and discipline. Twenty-four hours away from my most significant personal triumph, I could not afford to falter.

The remainder of the meeting passed without incident. As the executives filed out, James lingered behind, closing the door once we were alone.

"The wedding planner needs final approval on several items," he said without preamble, sliding a tablet across the table. "Flowers, menu, seating arrangements for the minimal guest list."

I glanced at the screen, seeing images of white roses, crystal glassware, and elegant table settings.

"It's a contract signing, not a celebration," I said dismissively. "Keep it minimal."

"The planner strongly suggests at least some traditional elements. For appearance's sake."

I looked up at James sharply. "Whose appearances are we concerned with? There will be fewer than ten people present."

"Yours." His voice was calm but firm. "You've spent six years planning this merger,"

"Marriage," I corrected automatically.

",this marriage," he amended, "as the culmination of your strategy against Winston Caldwell. If it appears hasty or makeshift, it diminishes the impact."

He had a point, loath as I was to admit it. The aesthetics of power were nearly as important as power itself.

"Fine. Approve whatever the planner suggests, but nothing excessive." I waved a hand at the tablet. "Has the stylist contacted Ms. Caldwell about her dress?"

"She has an appointment tomorrow afternoon. I've instructed her to bring several options appropriate for a small but elegant ceremony."

I nodded, satisfied. "And the property transfers? The paperwork for Mrs. Caldwell's care facility?"

"All prepared for your signature after the ceremony." James hesitated, then added, "Winston Caldwell called again this morning. He's requesting a meeting before the wedding."

Something cold and vicious uncoiled in my chest. "Denied."

"He was quite insistent. Said he wants to discuss terms."

"The time for negotiation has long passed," I replied, my voice hardening. "All terms were established six years ago, and his daughter has already agreed to them."

James studied me for a moment, his expression carefully neutral. "And what of her terms?"

I raised an eyebrow. "What about them?"

"She made several demands regarding her autonomy, her art career, separate bedrooms. You agreed rather easily."

"They were reasonable requests that don't interfere with my objectives."

"Including separate bedrooms?" A hint of skepticism colored his tone.

I felt a flicker of irritation. "The marriage itself accomplishes my goal. The specific living arrangements are irrelevant."

James had been with me since Harvard Business School, one of the few people who had witnessed my transformation from orphaned, angry teenager to calculating business titan. He was also the only person who occasionally dared to question my decisions.

"Is that so?" he asked mildly. "Because I was in that meeting, Alexander. I saw the way you looked at her."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied coldly.

"You do." He leaned forward slightly. "In six years of surveillance and reports, you never mentioned that Isabella Caldwell is not only beautiful but intelligent, perceptive, and surprisingly resilient. Qualities you've always admired in women."

My jaw tightened. "Her personal qualities are irrelevant to my purpose."

"Are they? Because separating Winston Caldwell from his daughter could have been accomplished through many means. You specifically chose marriage,a lifelong commitment to a woman you've been observing for years."

I stood abruptly, my patience exhausted. "I chose the method that would inflict maximum psychological damage on Winston Caldwell. Nothing more."

James nodded, clearly unconvinced but wise enough not to push further. "Of course. I've scheduled a final meeting with Rothwell for tomorrow morning. He's finally agreed to your terms on the Cambridge property."

"Good." I welcomed the change of subject. "Have the contracts ready for my signature before noon."

He gathered his tablet and moved toward the door, then paused. "One more thing. The background check on Ms. Caldwell's friend,Maya Chen. She'll be attending as Isabella's witness on Saturday."

"And?" I prompted when he hesitated.

"She's not just a friend. She's also a fairly well-connected art dealer who's been representing Ms. Caldwell's work for the past three years. Graduating sales of $250,000 last year alone."

An unexpected detail. "Financial independence is part of our agreement. Her art career continues."

"Of course. I merely thought you should be aware that Ms. Chen is... protective. And has connections throughout Boston's art community. Should Ms. Caldwell ever wish to publicize the nature of your arrangement,"

"She won't," I interrupted confidently. "That was one of my conditions, which she accepted. No public embarrassment of the Blackwood name."

James nodded. "As you say. I'll have the car ready at eight on Saturday."

When the door closed behind him, I moved to the windows, gazing out at the city below. Boston sprawled before me, a landscape I had conquered methodically over the past decade. Buildings, companies, people,all pieces on a chessboard I had learned to master after my parents' deaths.

Isabella Caldwell was simply another piece. The most important one, perhaps, but still just a means to an end.

So why had her face haunted me since yesterday? Why did her final question echo in my mind when I should have been focused on quarterly projections and market expansions?

I turned away from the window, irritated by my own lack of discipline. Three more days until Isabella Caldwell became Isabella Blackwood. Three days until Winston Caldwell watched his beloved daughter commit herself to the son of the people he had destroyed.

Three days until justice was finally served.

I returned to my office, immersing myself in work until the city lights came on below, pinpricks of brightness against the gathering darkness. When my phone buzzed with a text from my head of security, I welcomed the interruption.

Subject visited art gallery on Newbury Street with unidentified female, then had lunch at Café Nero. Currently shopping at bridal boutique on Boylston. Photos attached.

I opened the attachment to find several images of Isabella and a woman with bright pink hair,presumably Maya Chen,entering an upscale bridal shop. Isabella's expression was resolute, her chin lifted in what I was beginning to recognize as her defiant pose.

So she was selecting her own dress, despite the stylist I'd arranged. An unexpected smile tugged at my lips. Of course she was. Isabella Caldwell would not surrender control of even this small detail without a fight.

The knowledge should have irritated me. Instead, I found myself oddly pleased by her quiet rebellion. It suggested a spine of steel beneath that elegant exterior,exactly the kind of strength that would make Winston Caldwell's suffering all the more acute when he realized what he had lost.

My phone rang, displaying my sister's name. I hesitated before answering.

"Rebecca."

"Don't 'Rebecca' me in that cold CEO voice," she replied immediately. "Why am I hearing from my assistant that my brother is getting married on Saturday?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I was going to call you."

"When? During the honeymoon?" Her voice was sharp with annoyance. "Alexander, what the hell is going on? Who is Isabella Caldwell, and why have I never heard of her before?"

Rebecca was my half-sister,my father's daughter from his first marriage. Twelve years my senior, she had already been attending college when our father and my mother died. Our relationship was complicated at best, strained by grief, distance, and fundamentally different approaches to life.

"It's complicated," I said finally.

"Uncomplicate it." Her demand was eerily similar to what I imagined Isabella might have said to her father after my visit. "Is this about Winston Caldwell? Because when I saw that name on the guest list,"

"You weren't supposed to see the guest list." I cut her off, making a mental note to reprimand the wedding planner.

"I'm your only living relative. Of course I'd be included in your wedding." Her voice softened slightly. "Alex, please tell me this isn't what I think it is."

I remained silent, which was answer enough.

"Oh, Alex." The disappointment in her voice was palpable. "After all these years? You're still pursuing this... this vendetta?"

"Justice," I corrected coldly. "Our father,"

"Our father was sick," she interrupted. "Mentally ill. I loved him, but you know as well as I do that he was battling demons long before the Caldwell contract. What happened was tragic, but it wasn't entirely Winston Caldwell's fault."

"He stole proprietary information. He knew Dad was unstable."

"And you've spent fifteen years planning revenge instead of healing." Her frustration was evident even through the phone. "Now you're dragging some innocent woman into this? Making her collateral damage in your war against her father?"

I stood, moving to the window again, unsettled by how closely her words echoed Isabella's question from yesterday.

"The arrangement is mutually agreed upon," I said stiffly.

Rebecca's laugh was short and bitter. "I'm sure it is. What choice did you leave her?"

None. That had been the point,to corner Winston Caldwell's daughter the same way her father's actions had cornered our parents. To force her hand just as her father had forced our father's.

"Will you be there on Saturday?" I asked instead of engaging with her accusation.

She sighed heavily. "Yes. Someone needs to welcome this poor woman to our dysfunctional family." A pause, then: "Will she make you happy, Alex?"

The question caught me off guard. "Happiness isn't the objective."

"God, listen to yourself." Her voice cracked with emotion. "What would Mom think of what you've become?"

The mention of my mother sent a bolt of pain through me so unexpected and sharp that I gripped the edge of my desk. "Don't."

"Someone needs to say it," Rebecca pressed. "She wouldn't want this for you. She wouldn't want you to sacrifice your own chance at happiness for revenge."

"You don't know what she would want," I replied coldly. "She's been dead for fifteen years."

"And you've been dead right alongside her. Just in a different way." Her voice hardened. "I'll be there on Saturday. For Isabella's sake, not yours."

The call ended abruptly, leaving me clutching my phone with white knuckles, my careful composure fractured by memories I usually kept firmly locked away.

My mother's laugh, bright and sudden. The way she'd absently brush my hair from my forehead when I was concentrating too hard on homework. Her fierce defense of my father during his dark periods, her unwavering belief that love could conquer even the deepest depression.

I shoved the memories away, locking them back in the compartment where they belonged. Sentiment was weakness. Nostalgia was distraction. I had a mission that had guided every decision for fifteen years, and I was days away from its culmination.

Rebecca's disapproval changed nothing.

I left the office shortly after nine, my driver waiting with the car. As we pulled away from Blackwood Tower, I found myself instructing him to drive past the Caldwell mansion in Beacon Hill,a detour I hadn't planned.

The house looked much as it had for years: stately but showing signs of neglect, its grandeur fading like the family fortune it represented. A light burned in an upper window,Isabella's studio, according to surveillance reports. Was she painting? Packing? Preparing for the seismic shift her life would undergo in three days?

For a moment, I allowed myself to wonder what she was thinking. Whether she hated me completely, or if there was room for something else,respect, perhaps, or at least understanding. Whether she had meant it when she'd declared that I could never own her spirit, heart, or soul.

I couldn't imagine it mattering either way. And yet...

"Sir?" My driver's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Home?"

"Yes," I replied, turning away from the window. "Home."

The penthouse was dark and silent when I arrived, the cleaning staff long gone. I moved through the space with practiced ease, pouring myself two fingers of scotch before stepping onto the terrace that overlooked the city.

The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the first hints of autumn. Below, Boston continued its evening rhythm, oblivious to the personal dramas playing out in its midst. In three days, Isabella Caldwell would enter this space as my wife. Her presence would disrupt the careful solitude I had cultivated, introducing an unpredictable element into my controlled existence.

It was a necessary disruption. The price of justice.

I drained my scotch, setting the glass aside as my phone buzzed with another update from security:

Subject returned home at 9:15 PM. Carrying garment bag from Bergdorf's. Winston Caldwell attempted conversation in foyer. Subject proceeded upstairs without engaging.

So she had purchased her own dress, and she was still refusing to speak to her father. Both developments pleased me, though I couldn't have explained exactly why.

I returned inside, moving to my home office where the wedding arrangements awaited my final approval. Guest list, menu, seating chart, music,all the trappings of a celebration for what was, at its core, a business transaction with a vengeance component.

My gaze fell on the last item,a detailed schedule for Saturday, beginning with my arrival at the estate at 8:30 AM and concluding with our departure for the airport at noon. A three-day honeymoon in Zurich, where I had meetings scheduled with potential European investors. Practical. Efficient. Exactly what I would have planned for any other business trip.

Yet as I studied the schedule, I found myself wondering if Isabella had ever been to Switzerland. If she would appreciate the view of Lake Zurich from the presidential suite I'd reserved. If she would want time to visit the galleries and museums for which the city was known.

I closed the file abruptly, disturbed by the direction of my thoughts. This marriage was not about Isabella's enjoyment or comfort. It was about Winston Caldwell's suffering. About justice for my parents. About settling a debt fifteen years overdue.

I moved to the bedroom, methodically preparing for sleep with the same efficiency that characterized every aspect of my life. As I lay in the darkness, Isabella's question returned to haunt me once more:

Did you ever consider that by binding yourself to me for life, you're punishing yourself just as thoroughly as you're punishing my father?

Perhaps I was. Perhaps this marriage would prove to be a prison for both of us,she bound to a man she couldn't love, I bound to a woman who would forever associate me with her family's downfall.

But I had survived worse imprisonments. The crushing grief of orphanhood at sixteen. The years of rebuilding what my parents had lost, piece by painstaking piece. The cold determination that had replaced everything soft and vulnerable inside me.

If this marriage was to be another form of captivity, so be it. At least I would not suffer alone.

With that thought, I finally drifted into sleep, my dreams haunted by amber eyes that saw too much and a voice that asked questions I didn't want to answer.