Cinta Berbalut Dendam

Ivy Sinclair

The room smelled like old money.

Polished mahogany, aged whiskey, a whisper of cigar smoke that clung to the velvet drapes like secrets never meant to be told. The air was cold, too—cold enough to make my spine straighten in the stiff leather chair, cold enough to remind me that I didn’t belong here.

Not really.

This wasn’t my world. This was his.

Lucien Blackwood’s.

He sat across from me, silent, statuesque, carved out of privilege and poison. I don’t think he’d moved since I walked in. Not even a blink. Just those blue eyes—arctic and unreadable—watching me like I was a chess piece someone else had dared to place on his board.

God, he was beautiful.

Not in a soft, charming way. No. He was the kind of beautiful that hurt to look at. The kind that made your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked made to ruin women, and those damn eyes—like frost over a grave.

He hadn’t said a word In over three minutes.

I let the silence stretch, trying not to show how my palms sweated against the arms of the chair. My father had sold me into this room, into this moment, with one desperate signature and a handshake soaked in debt. And I’d said yes. I’d looked my father in the eyes and told him I’d do it.

That I’d marry Lucien Blackwood.

To save what was left of the Sinclair name.

Finally, Lucien shifted. Just barely. He folded his hands on the sleek obsidian table, fingers long and precise, like everything about him. When he spoke, his voice was low, smooth. A blade wrapped in silk.

“You understand what this marriage means.”

Not a question. A command wrapped in certainty.

I swallowed hard and nodded. “You bail out Sinclair Tech. You get access to our patents. I become your wife. A respectable merger. On paper.”

He tilted his head slightly, like I’d amused him. “On paper. And off?”

“I become a symbol. A prop.” My throat tightened. “Mrs. Blackwood.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a second, I thought I saw something flicker behind them. Not sympathy. No, never that. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. Or worse—boredom.

“You’re not afraid,” he said, voice softer now.

“I am,” I said truthfully. “But fear doesn’t change the facts.”

His jaw flexed—so quick I almost missed it. A tell.

He turned his gaze toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. The Manhattan skyline glowed in the dusk, a fortress of glass and greed. I felt his silence like a second presence in the room.

Then he looked back at me. Slowly. Intentionally.

“You’re not what I expected.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What did you expect?”

He gave a small shrug. “Something more… fragile.”

I let out a breathless, humorless laugh. “I thought the devil would smile more.”

For a beat, he just stared at me. Then—barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. But not nothing.

He stood. The air shifted as he moved—something about his presence made the room smaller, like I couldn’t breathe right when he was upright.

“Your father signed the agreement yesterday,” he said. “The wedding is in three weeks. You’ll move into my home tomorrow.”

I blinked. “That soon?”

His gaze cut into mine. “You sold yourself, Ivy. I don’t delay acquisitions.”

The words stung more than I expected. Not because they weren’t true. But because they reminded me just how little of this I controlled.

He walked to the door without waiting for a reply. The conversation was over.

I stood on shaky legs, pushing down the panic rising in my throat. As I turned to follow him out, my heels clicked against the marble floor—too loud, too desperate. And still, his voice stopped me at the threshold.

“One more thing.”

I turned.

His back was to me, hands in his pockets. “Don’t confuse this arrangement with affection.”

I froze.

He added, quieter, “We are not in love. We never will be.”

I said nothing. Because there was nothing to say.

The elevator doors closed behind me with a soft hiss. I leaned against the mirrored wall, willing my knees not to give out. I felt like I’d walked into a lion’s den and walked out marked.

My reflection stared back at me. Wide hazel eyes, tight jaw, hair too perfect to be honest. I looked composed. Controlled. Just like he’d expect.

But inside? I was unraveling.

I had agreed to marry a man who didn’t believe in love. Who thought of people as transactions. Who looked at me and saw a convenient solution, not a human being.

But I would survive this. For my father. For my family’s legacy. For myself.

I just hadn’t expected to feel like this.

Like I’d just walked into a gilded cage. And the man holding the key had no soul.

When I got home that night, my father was waiting in the dark.

He didn’t speak as I slipped off my coat and tossed my purse onto the worn leather couch. The apartment smelled like tea and old newspapers. Familiar. Safe. Until now.

“Well?” he asked softly.

I sat down beside him. “It’s done.”

He reached over and took my hand. His fingers trembled.

“I’m sorry, Ivy,” he whispered. “I never meant—”

“Don’t,” I said, pulling away gently. “Just don’t.”

Because if he apologized, I might break. And I couldn’t afford to.

Not now.

I packed that night. Not much—just what I needed.

Lucien Blackwood’s assistant had sent a car for me at exactly 9 a.m. the next morning. Black sedan. Tinted windows. Silent driver. The ride to Blackwood Estate was as smooth as it was suffocating.

The house—or mansion, really—rose up behind iron gates like something out of a nightmare. Modern architecture, all cold lines and black glass. No warmth. No welcome.

Just like the man who owned it.

The doors opened without a word. A maid showed me to my room—a sprawling, sterile suite that looked like it belonged in a luxury hotel. Marble floors. A king-sized bed with gray silk sheets. A view of the Hudson. And not a single picture or personal touch in sight.

There was, however, a note on the pillow.

“Dinner at eight. Wear something appropriate. —L”

I stared at the message for a long time before crumpling it in my fist.

So this was my life now.

Not a wife. Not a partner.

A perfectly dressed piece in a billionaire’s chess game.

At precisely 7:59 p.m., I descended the stairs in a black satin dress and heels that pinched my toes.

Lucien was already seated at the head of the long dining table. A glass of red wine in his hand. He didn’t look up as I approached, but he gestured for the seat to his right.

Not across. Beside him.

A subtle message.

I sat.

The table was set for two, but the space between us still felt like miles.

We ate in silence. I wasn’t even hungry, but I forced down the lamb and the wine like they were shields.

Finally, I broke.

“Are we going to pretend this is normal?”

Lucien set down his fork. “This *is* normal. For people like us.”

“People like us?”

“Billionaires. Strategists. People who understand sacrifice.”

My blood heated. “You think you understand me?”

He turned to me then, fully. “I understand that your father’s company is bleeding out. I understand that you’re here because I said yes. And I understand that you’re playing the part better than I expected.”

I stood. “You’re insufferable.”

He rose too, fast and smooth, and suddenly we were inches apart.

“You’re mine now, Ivy. Whether you like it or not.”

“I’m not a possession.”

His eyes dropped to my lips, and his voice dropped with them. “Aren’t you?”

For a second, the room blurred. My heart raced. And then I turned and walked away before I did something stupid—like slap him. Or kiss him.

He didn’t follow.

But I felt his gaze burning into my back long after I disappeared up the stairs.

That night, I lay in the cold sheets, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

Somewhere beneath the marble and silence of this house, Lucien Blackwood was awake too.

And though I didn’t want to admit it…

Part of me wished I knew what haunted him so deeply he’d built walls even love couldn’t climb.