Mrs. Blackwood

Ava Carter

By the time I woke up the next morning, my name was everywhere.

“Mystery Woman Marries Billionaire Damien Blackwood.” “Who Is Ava Carter?” “Blackwood Heir’s Shock Wedding Sparks Speculation.” My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing, numbers I didn’t recognize calling over and over, until I finally turned it off and shoved it under my pillow like that would make the world outside disappear too.

It didn’t. When I looked out my apartment window, there were already two news vans parked across the street, cameras aimed up at my building like they expected me to perform for them.

I hadn’t even signed anything with the media. I hadn’t asked for any of this. But apparently, when you marry a man like Damien Blackwood, the world decides you belong to it too.

The wedding itself happened three days later, and it was nothing like the weddings I used to imagine as a little girl.

There was no music. No flowers scattered down an aisle. Just a small private room inside the Blackwood family attorney’s office, a justice of the peace who looked bored out of his mind, and Damien standing beside me in a black suit, checking his watch twice before the ceremony even started.

We said the words we were supposed to say. Neither of us smiled. When it came time to sign the marriage certificate, his signature was quick and sharp, like he was closing a business deal, which, I supposed, he was.

I signed my own name beneath his, and just like that, I was Ava Blackwood. It didn’t feel like a wedding. It felt like a verdict.

Afterward, we were shuffled into a private dining room where a handful of people waited, and I understood immediately that this was less a celebration and more an inspection.

“So you’re the one,” said a woman near the window, her voice dripping with something between amusement and disdain. She was strikingly beautiful, dressed in a deep red gown that probably cost more than everything I owned combined. “Victoria Hail. I run PR for Blackwood Group. I’ll be the one cleaning up whatever mess you cause.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I said.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

A man beside her studied me with a different kind of attention, quieter, more calculating. “Julian Cross,” he said, extending a hand. “Damien’s cousin.” His grip lingered a second too long, his eyes tracing over my face like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Interesting choice, Damien. Very interesting.”

Damien didn’t respond, Noah, the lawyer from Damien’s office, gave me a small, sympathetic nod from across the room, the closest thing to warmth I’d received from anyone that evening. And then there was an older man near the back, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite place.

“Marcus Reyes,” he introduced himself. “I handle security for the family.” His gaze flicked toward Damien, then back to me. “You’re the first woman he’s ever brought here.”

“It’s not like that,” I said quickly.

“I know,” Marcus said, but something in his voice suggested he found that fact more interesting, not less.

We arrived at Blackwood Manor just after sunset, and I nearly forgot how to breathe.

The estate rose out of the darkness like something from a film, stone and glass and endless windows glowing gold against the night sky. The car doors opened onto a driveway wider than my entire street back home. Staff lined the entrance, bowing slightly as we passed, and I felt impossibly small walking beside a man who belonged in a place like this.

“This changes nothing,” Damien said quietly, once we were inside, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. “You’re my wife only on paper. Nothing more.”

“I remember the contract,” I said. “You don’t need to remind me.”

He didn’t answer, just gestured for a housekeeper to take me upstairs, already turning toward his study like the conversation, and maybe I had already stopped existing for him.

The housekeeper, a soft-spoken woman named Greta, led me up a wide staircase and down a long hallway lined with paintings that probably cost more than the hospital bill that had brought me here in the first place. She stopped in front of a set of double doors and pushed them open.

“Your room, Mrs. Blackwood.”

I stepped inside and stopped cold, There was only one bed. A massive king-sized bed, positioned in the center of the room like the entire space had been built around it.

“There must be some mistake,” I said. “I was told I’d have my own room.”

“Mr. Blackwood specifically requested this arrangement,” Greta said, folding her hands in front of her. “He asked that the two of you share the master suite.”

Footsteps sounded behind me, and I turned to see Damien standing in the doorway, his expression shifting from irritation to something sharper, colder, as his eyes landed on the bed.

“I gave no such order,” he said.

Greta blinked, confusion crossing her face. “But sir, the request came through this morning, Under your name.”

Damien’s jaw tightened. He stepped past me into the room, scanning it like he was searching for something, anything, that would explain what was happening.

“Who authorized this?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“I… I assumed it came from you directly,” Greta said, taking a step back. “I’ll check with the household office immediately.”

She hurried out, leaving the two of us alone in a room neither of us had asked for. Damien slowly turned toward me, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw something other than cold control in his eyes. Uncertainty. Maybe even the beginning of fear.

Before either of us could speak, the door clicked shut behind us, Then locked. We both spun toward it at the same moment. Damien crossed the room in three quick strides and grabbed the handle, twisting hard. It didn’t move.

“Hello?” he called out. “Open this door.”

Silence answered him.

Then, faintly, footsteps, unhurried, deliberate, fading slowly down the long hallway outside.

Someone inside this house already knew exactly what our marriage really was.

And they had just made their first move..