Chapter Twenty-Six: The Heir’s Shadow Burns

The rain started just after midnight.

It didn’t fall gently, like the kind in novels. It crashed—rattling windows, bruising the rooftop, and filling the halls with a sound like the world was splitting at the seams.

I sat in the library, curled in Lucien’s leather chair, my knees drawn up under one of his cashmere throws. The fire crackled low, casting flickers of amber light across the floor, but it did nothing to thaw the frost in my bones.

Eryx was here. In the city. In my world.

And with him, a shadow too vast to name.

Lucien was in the war room. He’d barely said a word since the gala. Just kissed my knuckles, brushed hair from my face, and disappeared behind locked doors—plotting. Calculating.

Bleeding in silence.

And I hated that I understood it.

I was no stranger to quiet wounds.

But I couldn’t sit still.

I couldn’t breathe with the image of Eryx’s smirk still echoing in my mind. That look in his eyes—like he’d already undressed every secret I wore, peeled back every layer of loyalty and betrayal.

He looked at me like I was already his.

I stood.

Let the blanket fall.

My bare feet whispered over the floor as I stepped into the hall.

The corridor stretched dark and endless, a spine of glass and stone. The Blackwood Estate was different at night. It shifted. Shadows lengthened. Mirrors seemed to breathe.

But I wasn’t afraid.

Not of the house.

Not even of Eryx.

I was afraid of what I might become in the space between Lucien and the crown.

My fingers curled around the brass door handle to the war room.

Locked.

“Lucien,” I called gently.

No answer.

So I did the one thing no good wife would do.

I picked the lock.

The click was subtle. The door swung open on a breath.

Lucien stood at the center of the room, shirt sleeves rolled, tie discarded, muscles tense beneath his vest. His back was to me, eyes fixed on the board stretched across the wall—a map of Manhattan marked with red string, photographs, and pins.

He didn’t turn.

“I told you to stay out,” he said quietly.

I stepped inside anyway. “And I told you I’m not a porcelain doll.”

He turned slowly.

His eyes were tired. Storm-worn.

But still hungry. Still mine.

“Then come in,” he said. “And look at the fire I’m trying to put out.”

I crossed the room.

Lucien pointed to a cluster of photos—buildings, people, dossiers. “Eryx has already taken over four key Blackwood holdings. He’s not attacking with bullets. He’s using charm. Power. Quiet aggression.”

I traced a line with my fingertip.

“And this?”

Lucien’s voice hardened. “That’s the last piece. The Sinclair Foundation. He wants your legacy, too.”

My breath caught. “He’s coming for me.”

Lucien nodded. “You’re the crown. The image. The leverage. And if he can’t seduce you… he’ll ruin you.”

I swallowed. “Then don’t let him.”

Lucien looked at me.

Something snapped between us. Raw. Unfiltered. Unholy.

He moved in close, hands bracketing my hips, voice dark and breathless.

“I will burn this city to the ground before I let him touch you.”

He kissed me.

Not like before.

Not out of rage or tension.

But need.

Real, bleeding need.

His mouth claimed mine, and I met him with fire. I clawed at his vest. He gripped my thighs and lifted me onto the war table. Papers scattered. Pins clattered to the floor.

His hands slid up my shirt, fingertips hot against my ribs. My blouse ripped—he didn’t stop.

And I didn’t care.

Because in that moment, I wasn’t a key. Or a pawn. Or a queen.

I was just Ivy.

And he was just the storm I wanted to drown in.

After, when our breathing slowed and my heartbeat wasn’t tattooing against my ribs, I rested my head on his chest.

He stroked my hair. “I’m scared.”

I looked up. “Of him?”

He shook his head. “Of what you’ll become when all of this ends.”

The next morning, a package arrived.

Wrapped in crimson velvet.

I unboxed it in the drawing room.

Inside: a ring.

Black stone. Encased in gold shaped like thorns.

And a note.

“Queens don’t kneel. They bleed.” – Eryx

I threw the box across the room.

Lucien caught it before it hit the floor.

His eyes were full of something cold. “He’s trying to claim you.”

I lifted my chin. “Then let’s remind him who I am.”

We spent the day preparing.

I called Mira, my oldest friend, now estranged and living in Florence. She owed me a favor. A big one.

Lucien contacted his last remaining loyalists—board members, private security, old family friends.

We didn’t need to fight Eryx with bullets.

We needed to fight him with legacy.

With truth.

With me.

By evening, I walked into the Blackwood vault again.

But this time, I wasn’t there to uncover secrets.

I was there to make one.

I opened the safe Lucien’s mother had built into the back wall.

Inside: a single cassette.

Unmarked.

I played it.

Her voice. Fragile. Terrified.

“If you’re hearing this, Reagan has gone too far. He’s grooming them both. But one of them still has a soul.”

I pressed record on my phone.

History would not bury this.

Not again

That night, I stood at the edge of the balcony overlooking the city, wearing white silk and fire in my veins.

Lucien joined me.

“He’ll strike tomorrow,” he said.

“I know.

“He’ll come for you.”

“Let him.”

Lucien looked at me.

“Ivy…”

I turned to him.

“What if I don’t want the crown anymore?” I whispered. “What if I just want you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he kissed my forehead.

“You can have both,” he said.

“But you’ll have to walk through fire to keep it.”

In the distance, lightning kissed the skyline.

And somewhere in the shadows, I felt him watching.

Eryx.

Waiting.