CHAPTER 8

ALEXANDER

Morning came with clinical precision, my alarm chiming at exactly 5:30 AM. I rose and dressed for my morning run,five miles along the Charles River, the same route I'd taken for years. Physical discipline was as important as mental, and I allowed no exceptions for personal disruptions, no matter how significant.

The city was quiet at this hour, just beginning to stir with early commuters and delivery trucks. I ran at a punishing pace, pushing my body harder than usual, as if I could outrun the questions circling in my mind since Isabella's visit to my office.

By the time I returned to the penthouse, showered, and dressed for the day, it was 7:15, exactly on schedule. My phone contained several messages from James about the Rothwell meeting, a confirmation from the wedding planner, and a final message from my head of security:

Subject working in studio since 5 AM. No contact with Winston Caldwell.

I found myself wondering what drove Isabella to rise so early. What she was creating in those quiet morning hours while the rest of the house slept. Whether art was her escape, her solace, her way of processing the upheaval I had introduced into her life.

The thought was promptly dismissed as I left for the office. Today would be devoted to business, finalizing the Rothwell deal, reviewing contracts for the Jakarta expansion, clearing my desk before Saturday's events. Isabella Caldwell, her thoughts, her art,  her feelings about our impending union,had no place in that agenda.

James was waiting when I arrived at Blackwood Tower, a slim folder in his hands containing the Rothwell contracts. We spent the next hour reviewing terms, making minor adjustments, ensuring every detail aligned with my objectives.

"Rothwell will be here at nine," James said, checking his watch. "Are you certain you don't want to reconsider the price? He's likely to push back."

"The price is fair for the strategic value of the property." I straightened my cuffs, a habit before important negotiations. "Rothwell knows it. He's just hoping I'll cave under wedding pressure."

James's lips quirked in a rare show of amusement. "He clearly doesn't know you very well."

"Few people do," I replied, not entirely joking.

The meeting with Rothwell proceeded exactly as anticipated. The older man blustered, threatened to walk away, then finally capitulated when I remained unmoved by his tactics. By ten-thirty, the contracts were signed, the property officially mine, and another piece of my business expansion secured.

"Congratulations," James said as we returned to my office. "Cambridge is now the fifth location in the northeast corridor under Blackwood control."

"Schedule the architectural team for next week," I replied, already moving on to the next objective. "I want preliminary designs for the tech hub by month's end."

He made a note on his tablet. "There's one more item requiring your attention before the Jakarta call."

"Yes?"

"The prenuptial agreement for Ms. Caldwell. Legal has prepared it according to your specifications, including the provisions you agreed to during your meeting."

He placed another folder on my desk, thicker than the Rothwell contracts, bound in the same blue leather as the original agreement with Winston Caldwell. A certain symmetry that I appreciated.

I opened it, scanning the pages with practiced efficiency. Financial provisions. Property rights. Confidentiality clauses. All standard for a man of my wealth and position.

Then I reached the sections specific to Isabella. Her art career explicitly protected as her own domain. A separate bank account with a monthly deposit substantial enough to ensure her independence. Provisions for her mother's care guaranteed regardless of the state of our marriage.

And a clause I hadn't instructed:

In the event that emotional or physical abuse is proven, all financial penalties for breach of contract are waived, and Mrs. Isabella Blackwood shall retain all benefits outlined in Section 3, including continued care for Evelyn Caldwell.

I looked up at James, one eyebrow raised in question.

"My addition," he admitted without apology. "I thought it... prudent."

"You think I would abuse my wife?" The question came out sharper than intended.

"No." His response was immediate and sincere. "But I think you're binding yourself to a woman under circumstances that could breed resentment on both sides. This provision protects both of you,her from potential mistreatment, you from false accusations."

I considered for a moment, then nodded once. "Leave it in."

James looked faintly surprised, as if he'd expected an argument. "There's one other addition you should be aware of."

He flipped to the final page, indicating a section near the bottom:

After five years of marriage, either party may petition for divorce with full benefits maintained for Isabella Blackwood and continued care for Evelyn Caldwell, provided that the marriage has been maintained in good faith for the duration and no public statements regarding the nature of the original arrangement are made.

A five-year escape clause. For both of us.

"Explain," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

James met my gaze steadily. "You said this marriage was about justice for your parents. About making Winston Caldwell suffer by taking his daughter. Five years of watching his daughter as your wife,five years of family holidays, social events, board meetings where he must witness her as a Blackwood, seems sufficient punishment."

"For him, perhaps," I replied coldly. "Not for what was taken from me."

"Your parents died fifteen years ago, Alexander." His voice softened slightly. "How long must this vendetta continue? At what point does justice become something else entirely?"

I closed the folder with deliberate care, though what I wanted was to hurl it across the room. "Remove the five-year clause."

James didn't move. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"I didn't ask for your opinion on wisdom. I gave you an instruction." My tone left no room for argument. "The agreement stands as originally intended,a lifetime commitment."

He studied me for a long moment, something like disappointment in his eyes. Then he nodded once, taking the folder. "As you wish. I'll have legal make the adjustment before the signing on Saturday."

When he left, I turned to the windows, struggling to contain the unexpected surge of rage his suggestion had triggered. Five years. As if my parents' lives could be quantified, their loss balanced by a mere five years of Winston Caldwell's suffering.

As if Isabella Caldwell could be borrowed for a time and then released, our connection severed as neatly as a business contract.

The thought disturbed me in ways I couldn't immediately analyze. Isabella was a means to an end,the instrument of her father's punishment, nothing more. Yet the idea of our arrangement having a predetermined expiration date felt... wrong.

My phone chimed with a reminder for the Jakarta conference call. I pushed aside these unsettling thoughts, returning to the clean, logical world of business where emotions had no place and decisions were made on facts alone.

The remainder of the day passed in a blur of meetings, calls, and contract reviews. By the time I left Blackwood Tower, night had fallen over Boston once again.

"The estate, sir?" my driver asked as I settled into the back seat.

"No." The word came before I had consciously decided. "Beacon Hill first."

He nodded without comment, changing our route. Twenty minutes later, we pulled up half a block from the Caldwell mansion.

I wasn't entirely sure why I had come. To reassure myself that everything was proceeding according to plan? To glimpse the woman who would become my wife in less than forty-eight hours?

Light glowed in Isabella's studio window again. As I watched, a silhouette moved across the glass,Isabella herself, pacing back and forth, gesturing with what appeared to be a paintbrush. Even from this distance, her energy was palpable, a restless intensity that seemed to radiate from her.

What was she creating in these final hours of her life as Isabella Caldwell? What emotions was she pouring onto canvas before stepping into the cage I had constructed for her?

I was reminded suddenly, forcefully, of another artist I had known,my mother, who had painted landscapes in the sunroom of our home, her quiet joy in creation something I had never fully understood as a child.

The parallel was unexpected and unwelcome. I dismissed it immediately, instructing my driver to continue to the penthouse.

Two days. In two days, Isabella Caldwell would become Isabella Blackwood, and the justice I had spent fifteen years pursuing would finally be achieved.

Anything else,any unexamined feelings, any unexpected parallels, any doubts planted by James or Rebecca,was irrelevant to that purpose.

I repeated this to myself as the car moved through Boston's evening traffic, a mantra of conviction that felt, for the first time in fifteen years, somehow hollow.