Chapter 2: The Taste of Salt and Rain

The rain in the city didn’t wash things clean; it only turned the dust into grime. I sat on a plastic chair in a laundromat that smelled of cheap detergent and damp wool, watching my meager belongings spin in a repetitive, dizzying circle.

It had been thirty days since I walked out of the Blackwood Estate. Thirty days since I traded silk sheets for a thin mattress in a studio apartment where the heater rattled like a dying man.

I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders. It was the same coat Lucian had draped over me on the night of our third anniversary. I should have thrown it away. I should have burned it. But on nights when the wind whistled through the gaps in my window frame, the faint, lingering scent of his sandalwood cologne was the only thing that kept the shivering at bay.

My stomach gave a sudden, violent lurch.

I bolted for the small, grimy restroom in the back of the laundromat, barely making it to the sink before the morning sickness took hold. It wasn't just nausea; it was an all-consuming exhaustion that seemed to seep into my very bones.

"Are you okay, honey?" an elderly woman asked as I emerged, wiping my mouth with a rough paper towel.

"Just a bug," I lied, forcing a weak smile.

"You look pale as a ghost," she muttered, shaking her head. "You should be home in bed with a hot tea and a husband to rub your feet."

A husband. The word felt like a jagged piece of glass in my throat. I didn't have a husband. I had a contract partner who had discarded me the moment his "real" life beckoned.

As I walked back to my apartment, carrying my laundry bag, I passed a newsstand. A glossy business magazine caught my eye. Lucian was on the cover. The headline read: THE BLACKWOOD BLACKOUT: INSIDE THE RAPID DECONSTRUCTION OF A BILLION-DOLLAR LEGACY.

I stared at his face. He looked colder than I remembered. There was a hardness in his jaw, a sharpness in his eyes that suggested he was a man at war. Below his picture, a smaller caption read: Rumors circulate of a reunion with heiress Sarah Vance, though the socialite remains elusive.

A sharp pain bloomed in my chest. Sarah was my sister, but we were worlds apart. She was the golden child, the one who broke hearts and moved on without a scratch. I was the "quiet" one, the reliable one. The one who was used as a placeholder while she played her games abroad.

I reached my apartment and climbed the three flights of stairs, my breath hitching. Once inside, I locked the three bolts on the door—a habit I’d developed since moving to this neighborhood.

I sat at my small desk and opened my laptop. I had a deadline for a book cover illustration, but my fingers wouldn't move. Instead, I opened a hidden folder on my drive. It was filled with photos I had taken over the last three years.

Lucian sleeping, his lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks.

Lucian at the breakfast table, frowning at a financial report.

Lucian holding an umbrella over me during a charity gala, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back.

"Why, Lucian?" I whispered to the empty room. "If it was all a habit, why did you look at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered?"

I remembered the "medicine" incident from six months ago. We were in the Swiss Alps for a summit. I had developed a terrible stomach cramp in the middle of a blizzard. Lucian hadn't just sent his assistant; he had gone out himself, through the snow, to find a specific herbal tea he knew settled my nerves. He had stayed up until 4:00 AM, rubbing my stomach with warmed oil until the pain subsided.

If that was "training" for Sarah, then he was a masochist.

My phone vibrated on the desk. It was an unknown number. My heart leaped—was it him? Had he realized he made a mistake?

I swiped 'answer' with trembling fingers. "Hello?"

"Evelyn? It’s Marcus."

My heart sank. It was Marcus, Lucian’s head of security—and the only person in that house I had truly considered a friend.

"Marcus," I breathed. "How did you get this number?"

"That doesn't matter," his voice was low, urgent. "Eve, listen to me. Don't come back to the city. Don't look for him. Whatever you see in the news, stay away."

"What's happening, Marcus? The bankruptcy... is it real?"

There was a long silence on the other end. I could hear the sound of heavy rain and the muffled roar of an engine. "He's doing what he has to do. Just... take care of yourself. And Eve? If you're carrying what I think you're carrying... keep it a secret. For his sake. And yours."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone, my blood running cold. Marcus knew. He knew about the pregnancy. And more importantly, he sounded terrified.

I stood up and went to the window, looking down at the dark street below. A black sedan was parked across the road. It hadn't been there when I arrived. The headlights flickered once, then twice, before the car slowly pulled away into the night.

I wasn't just a dumped wife. I was a target. And for some reason, Lucian Blackwood had destroyed his entire world just to make sure I wasn't standing next to him when the fire started.