CHAPTER TWO: THE HOUSE OF ICE

Ivy Sinclair

The moment the iron gates closed behind me, something inside me shifted. Like a door had shut—not just physically, but spiritually. I was no longer Ivy Sinclair, daughter of innovation, heartbeat of a dying empire. I was Ivy Blackwood-to-be, the bride sold into the frozen jaws of a marriage I hadn’t chosen.

And this—this mansion—was my cage.

Blackwood Estate rose like a monument to control. A monolith of steel and stone perched on the cliffs of upstate New York, watching the Hudson River wind like a silver thread below. Towering windows, tall as cathedral glass, reflected nothing but clouds. No color. No softness. No soul.

I hugged my coat tighter as the car pulled up to the curved entrance. The circular drive was lined with trimmed hedges, symmetrical to a fault—like everything in Lucien’s world. Clean. Clinical. Soulless.

The driver opened the door for me with mechanical precision. No smile. No warmth. Just a nod as I stepped out, my boots crunching softly on the gravel. I clutched the handles of my luggage as if they were the last pieces of myself I could carry.

A woman in a black dress waited at the entrance, her bun tight enough to give her migraines, her face neutral.

“Miss Sinclair,” she said. “Welcome to Blackwood Estate. I’m Mrs. Delacroix. The housekeeper.”

Not a trace of warmth. Just welcome, followed by silence. A script.

I forced a smile, but it felt like paper pressed over glass. “Thank you.”

She turned with a graceful stiffness. “Follow me, please.”

I stepped over the threshold—and into another world.

The air inside was colder than outside, which seemed impossible. But it wasn’t just the temperature—it was the atmosphere. The silence. The deliberate absence of life. The walls were glass and pale stone, the floors a gleaming marble that whispered underfoot. No family portraits. No vases with flowers. No framed moments of laughter or legacy. Just architecture and wealth. Like someone had designed this place to be impressive—but never inhabited.

Lucien didn’t live here. He reigned here.

Mrs. Delacroix’s voice was crisp as we walked. “You will be occupying the East Wing. Breakfast is served at eight sharp. Dinner at seven. Mr. Blackwood has requested formal attire at the table.”

“Of course he has,” I murmured.

She glanced back, but didn’t comment.

We moved through corridor after corridor, the windows stretching tall to the ceiling, displaying the gray horizon outside like paintings. No warmth anywhere. Just curated art and silence.

“How many people live here?” I asked, mostly to break the quiet.

“Just Mr. Blackwood,” she said. “And now… you.”

I swallowed. “He doesn’t have family here? Friends?”

She stopped in front of a massive oak door with gold inlaid handles. “Mr. Blackwood prefers solitude. This is your room, Miss Sinclair.”

My room.

The words hit me harder than they should have. Not our room. Just mine. Even in this farce of a marriage, Lucien couldn’t pretend we were partners. Not even in name.

Mrs. Delacroix opened the door. The room was enormous—larger than my entire apartment in Brooklyn. A four-poster bed draped in velvet. A balcony that overlooked a garden too neat to be real. A dressing room. A private marble bathroom that gleamed like a luxury showroom.

It was beautiful.

And I hated it.

Because beauty without warmth is just ice dressed up in pearls.

“There’s a note on the pillow,” Mrs. Delacroix said, nodding. “If you need anything, ring the bell.”

She left without another word.

I dropped my suitcase at the foot of the bed and walked to the pillow, my stomach turning.

Lucien’s handwriting was sharp. Precise. Brutal.

Dinner at eight. Wear something appropriate. —L

I crumpled the note in my fist and tossed it across the room.

The closet was a walk-in wardrobe, stocked with gowns and designer shoes I hadn’t bought. Lucien had clearly planned this—down to my size, my taste. Or maybe he hadn’t planned at all. Maybe one of his assistants had assembled my new life like a museum exhibit.

I ran my hands along the fabrics. Every thread screamed wealth. Luxury. Control.

I found a black silk gown with off-the-shoulder sleeves and slipped into it. The fabric hugged me like water, cool and clinging. The diamond earrings I’d never owned sparkled on the dresser like silent bribes.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

Not a girl anymore.

A bargaining chip. A pawn.

But if Lucien Blackwood thought I was here to be silenced, he was going to learn that Sinclair daughters don’t break—they burn.

The dining room looked like something out of Versailles. A chandelier the size of a small car sparkled above a polished table long enough to seat an entire board of directors. And there he was—Lucien—already seated at the head, his back straight, his expression carved from ice.

He stood as I entered, ever the gentleman in form, if not in spirit.

“You’re late,” he said.

I walked to the opposite end of the table, the heels of my shoes tapping a sharp rhythm. “Only by two minutes. Shall I be flogged, my lord?”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“I see sarcasm is your coping mechanism.”

“And I see arrogance is yours,” I replied sweetly, sitting down.

We ate in silence at first. The silverware was absurdly heavy. The food tasted like art—not flavor. I could barely tell what I was eating.

Finally, I broke the stillness. “So. This is how it’s going to be?”

He didn’t look up. “This is how it has to be.”

“No conversation? No partnership? Just separate wings and shared headlines?”

He looked up now, his eyes locking with mine. “This isn’t a romance novel, Ivy. It’s a contract. You agreed.”

“I agreed to save my father’s company. I didn’t agree to live like a ghost in your ice castle.”

His jaw tightened. “You have a roof. Security. Power. Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” I said quietly. “It’s not.”

He stood, his chair scraping back with authority. “Then make peace with disappointment.”

He left without another word.

That night, I stood on the balcony in bare feet, watching the rain fall. The gardens below were too perfect to be real just like everything else in this place. Like they were meant to be looked at, not lived in.

The wind tugged at my hair. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of pine and petrichor.

I missed the chaos of the city. The noise. The people. The imperfection.

I missed being seen.

Here, I was nothing but a signature in Lucien’s empire.

I heard a noise behind me and turned.

Lucien stood at the doorway, half in shadow.

“I didn’t knock,” he said.

“I noticed.”

He stepped onto the balcony. For once, he looked less like a CEO and more like a man. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up. His hair tousled slightly by the wind.

“I wanted to see if you’d run,” he said.

I arched a brow. “And if I had?”

“I would’ve let you,” he said softly.

My heart thudded. “Then why haven’t you?”

He turned to look at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “Because if you’re still here… then maybe you’re stronger than I thought.”

I swallowed. The space between us pulsed with unsaid things.

“I’m not afraid of you, Lucien.”

“You should be.”

A beat of silence.

Then I said, “I think you’re the one who’s afraid.”

His jaw clenched. “Of what?”

“Of being known.”

The wind picked up again. He didn’t answer.

He just looked at me—for real this time. No boardroom detachment. No corporate indifference.

And then, just before he turned to go, he said something I’d never forget.

“This house will try to break you, Ivy. Just like it broke everyone else.”

I stared after him long after he disappeared into the shadows.

And whispered to the rain, “Let it try.”