The Billionaire's forbidden Ward

​The rain in Seattle didn’t just fall; it judged. It streaked down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Blackwood estate, blurring the manicured gardens into a messy smudge of green and gray. Inside, the air smelled of expensive sandalwood and the kind of silence that only comes with extreme wealth—a silence that felt heavy, like it was pressing the oxygen right out of my lungs.

​I looked down at my suitcase. It was scuffed, out of place on the Italian marble floor, much like I was.

​"You’re brooding again, Elara."

​My mother’s voice fluttered down the grand staircase. She looked radiant in cream silk, her wedding ring—a rock the size of a postage stamp—catching the chandelier light. She had married Julian Blackwood three days ago in a private ceremony in Bali. I had missed it due to my final exams, but the photos told the story: a whirlwind romance between a widow and a titan of industry.

​"I’m not brooding, Mom. I’m just... adjusting," I lied, gripping the handle of my bag.

​"Well, adjust faster. We’re having dinner at seven. Julian is very particular about punctuality." She blew me a kiss, her mind already drifting to whatever charity gala she was planning next. "Your room is the third door on the left upstairs. Explore! This is your home now."

​Home. The word felt like a stone in my mouth.

​I hauled my luggage up the stairs, my sneakers squeaking offensively against the polished wood. The third door on the left was massive, opening into a suite larger than my entire college dorm. But it wasn't the silk sheets or the private balcony that caught my attention. It was the door at the end of the hallway—the one that remained slightly ajar.

​Curiosity was always my greatest flaw.

​I walked toward it, my breath hitching. The room beyond was a study. It was dark, lined with leather-bound books and a heavy oak desk. And there, framed against the twilight, was the man who had officially become my stepfather seventy-two hours ago.

​Julian Blackwood didn’t look like a "dad." He looked like a predator who had successfully convinced the world he was a gentleman. He was in his late thirties, barely fifteen years older than me, with shoulders that filled out his bespoke waistcoat and hair the color of midnight. He was holding a glass of amber liquid, staring out at the rain.

​I should have turned around. I should have gone to my room and unpacked. Instead, I stood there like a deer in headlights.

​"It's polite to knock, Elara."

​His voice was a deep, resonant cello. He didn't turn around, yet he knew exactly who I was.

​"I—the door was open," I stammered, hating how small I sounded. "I was looking for my room."

​Julian turned then. His eyes were a piercing, cold gray—the color of the Atlantic before a storm. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze traveling from my messy ponytail down to my worn-out jeans, then back up to my face. The scrutiny felt like a physical touch, a heat that started at my neck and bloomed across my chest.

​"You've found it, then?" he asked, setting the glass down on the desk with a soft clack.

​"My mom said it was the third door," I managed to say.

​"And yet, here you are. At the fourth." He walked toward me. He didn't rush, but his stride was predatory, effortless. He stopped just inches away, invading my personal space until I could smell the sharp citrus of his cologne and the underlying heat of his skin.

​I had to look up to meet his eyes. Up close, the lines of his face were even harsher, more handsome in a way that felt dangerous.

​"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for. The intrusion? Or the fact that my heart was hammering against my ribs for all the wrong reasons?

​Julian reached out. For a second, I thought he was going to touch my face. My breath hitched, a traitorous shiver running down my spine. Instead, his hand passed my ear to grab the handle of the door behind me.

​"This is my private study," he said, his voice dropping an octave, turning low and intimate. "In this house, Elara, there are rules. My rules. The most important one? Do not enter rooms where you don't belong."

​He leaned in closer, his lips inches from my temple. "Do we understand each other?"

​The air was thick with something I couldn't name—something that felt like a warning and a promise all at once. I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

​"Good," he said, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips—a look that wasn't fatherly in the slightest. "Now go get ready for dinner. Don't keep me waiting."

​He closed the door firmly, leaving me standing in the hallway, my heart racing and the realization hitting me like a physical blow: This wasn't going to be a happy family. This was going to be a war!!