Chapter Twenty-Four: War

Dead silence stretched like a held breath.

Someone gasped, probably shocked that I would talk to a luxury event planner like that.

Or just shocked that I had a back bone.

I didn’t care.

Jules coughed to hide what was definitely laughter.

Delacroix turned red from her hairline to her designer neckline.

"Well," she said stiffly, her composure cracking like old paint. "As you wish." She turned and click-clacked away in her heels, each step sounding like gunshots on marble.

"God, I adore you when you go ruthless on people," Jules whispered, voice full of vicious pride.

"That's just because you’re a bloodthirsty female but yeah, that makes two of us," I muttered, already moving on. There was too much work to waste time on self-pity.

But then another woman approached, and something about her made me pause. She was curvy with dark hair that gleamed like silk and a smile that actually reached her eyes. Her name tag read Alea—Catering Director.

"Mrs. Blackwood," she said softly, respectfully, "I wanted to show you our tasting station layout. We're thinking five regional pairings across the terrace—"

She waited for permission to continue. Not demanding. Not condescending. Just professional.

I nodded, feeling some tension ease from my shoulders. "Please, go on."

Her smile brightened. "We're here to make your vision come alive. Just let me know if anything feels wrong."

I thanked her and meant it.

Not everyone here was a snake waiting to strike.

Just most of them.

And j had to weed them out, I will not allow anyone to sabotage this gala.

An hour later, I was deep in conversation with the lighting coordinator when Delacroix decided to make another power play.

"Mrs. Blackwood," she interrupted, her voice dripping with false concern, "I've been thinking about your... situation. Shouldn't someone in your condition avoid stress? All this responsibility can't be good for the thing in your— I mean, the baby."

The room went dead quiet. Every conversation stopped. Every eye turned to us.

My hand instinctively moved to my still-flat stomach, protective and fierce. The audacity of this woman using my pregnancy as a weapon made my vision go red around the edges.

"My situation? My condition?" I repeated, my voice deadly calm. "You mean my pregnancy? The one that makes me more capable, not less? The one that's given me clarity about exactly what I'm fighting for?"

I stepped closer to her, and she actually backed up.

"Let me make something crystal clear, Miss Delacroix. I know you were hired to plan this gala and I’ve seen your portfolio, heard about you and I know that you’re really good at what you do. I also know for a fact that you have been sent to sabotage this gala. Now I don’t care who hired you to sabotage this, I’ll take you being rude and trying to make things bad, I’ll take it. But what I will not take is any of your evil eye, directed at the life in my womb. In case you didn’t know, I've survived things that would break you in half. I've been betrayed by people I trusted, thrown away like garbage, and left to rebuild myself from nothing. If you think growing life inside me makes me weak, you're about to learn just how wrong you are."

The woman's face had gone pale. Around us, the room buzzed with nervous energy.

"I suggest," I continued, my voice carrying to every corner of the salon, "that everyone here understands something. I'm not just Dominic Blackwood's wife. I'm not just some pretty face playing dress-up. I'm the woman who bought out her ex-husband's company while he was busy screwing his mistress. I'm the woman who turned my biggest betrayal into my greatest victory. And right now, I'm the woman in charge of this gala."

I paused, letting that sink in.

"Anyone who has a problem with that can leave. Now."

Nobody moved.

Delacroix cleared her throat. "O-Of course, Mrs. Blackwood. I meant no offense."

"Good," I said sweetly. "Then we understand each other."

***

By six that evening, the conference room looked like a battlefield dressed in luxury, and I was the general surveying her troops.

Fabric swatches in every conceivable shade covered tables like battle plans. Mood boards stood stacked like weapons of mass seduction. A DJ tested sound systems while someone wheeled in five racks of crystal-embroidered gowns worth more than small countries' budgets.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking it all in, feeling power flow through my veins like champagne and lightning.

Jules appeared with bottled water, her eyes bright with something that looked like respect.

"You're killing it," she said, twisting off the cap. "Nobody's died yet, which is honestly impressive."

"The day is young," I replied, but there was no real heat in it. I was too busy feeling alive, feeling powerful for the first time in months.

"Delacroix looks like she's one criticism away from throwing herself into that fountain centerpiece."

I smirked, and it felt like putting on armor. "One more comment about my 'condition,' and I'll throw her in myself."

Jules got serious for a moment. "They don't know who you really are."

"They will, soon."

I turned back to the room, watching all these people who thought they could dismiss me as just another pretty face married to a powerful man.

They had no clue.

I wasn't some silent socialite anymore, content to smile and nod and look decorative. I was the woman who'd faced down Reynolds and Lydia Blackwood and walked away standing. Pregnant with new life, yes. But far from powerless.

Never powerless again.

This gala wasn't just Dominic's deal.

It was my declaration of life.

The day I became the queen of my own game.

And by the time this night was over, everyone would know exactly who Scarlett Blackwood had become.

The gala is in three days and I will not let anything go wrong, not on my watch.