The Chauffeur คนขับรถส่วนตัวของคุณชายมาเฟีย

The first thing I noticed about my new husband was the gun beneath his jacket.

The second was the way he looked at me.

There was no tenderness in his dark eyes. No nervous excitement. Not even the faintest trace of the happiness a groom was supposed to feel on his wedding night.

He looked at me as though he were studying a problem he had not yet decided how to solve.

Or perhaps a woman he had already decided how to destroy.

I smiled anyway.

“Mr. Blackwood,” I murmured, lifting my champagne glass toward him, “you look disappointed.”

Adrian Blackwood did not smile.

His attention remained fixed on me while the orchestra continued playing behind us, filling the grand ballroom with a romantic melody that seemed almost cruelly inappropriate.

“I am not disappointed.”

“Then why do you look as though you are attending a funeral?”

His jaw tightened.

“Perhaps I am.”

A cold shiver traveled down my spine.

I refused to let him see it.

Instead, I took a slow sip of champagne and turned my attention toward the hundreds of guests surrounding us.

They were all smiling.

Everywhere I looked, there were expensive gowns, tailored suits, diamonds, champagne towers, and camera flashes.

The most influential families in the city had gathered tonight to witness the marriage of Adrian Blackwood, heir to one of the country’s most powerful business empires, and Elena Vale, a woman whose past was supposedly nothing more than a collection of unanswered questions.

They believed they were witnessing a love story.

They had no idea they were standing in the middle of a battlefield.

Five years ago, I had lost everything.

My father, Thomas Vale, had been one of the most respected businessmen in the country. He had built Vale Industries from nothing and spent decades turning it into an empire.

Then, almost overnight, everything collapsed.

He was accused of embezzling millions from his own company.

The evidence appeared undeniable.

Bank transfers.

Forged signatures.

Secret accounts.

Financial records that seemed to prove he had been stealing from the company for years.

The newspapers destroyed his reputation before he even had the opportunity to defend himself.

Business partners abandoned him.

Friends stopped answering our calls.

People who had once begged for invitations to our home suddenly crossed the street when they saw us.

And before my father could prove his innocence, he died.

The official report called it suicide.

I never believed it.

Three days later, my mother disappeared.

There was no body.

No farewell letter.

No explanation.

One moment she was there.

The next, she was gone.

The authorities eventually declared her dead.

I refused to accept that either.

Then came the final blow.

Our family home was seized.

Our accounts were frozen.

Vale Industries collapsed into the hands of competitors.

And while my family name was being dragged through the mud, the Blackwood family continued to grow more powerful.

That was when hatred entered my heart.

Not the kind of anger that disappeared after a sleepless night.

Something deeper.

Something colder.

Something that survived five years.

I had spent those years preparing to return.

I had changed my appearance.

Changed my name.

Learned how money moved.

Learned how powerful men hid their secrets.

Learned how to smile when I wanted to scream.

Most importantly, I learned patience.

Because revenge required patience.

And tonight, I had finally reached the center of the family I believed had destroyed mine.

Adrian Blackwood.

My husband.

My enemy.

My target.

“Are you nervous?”

His voice pulled me back into the present.

I looked at him.

“Nervous?”

“Your hand is cold.”

Only then did I realize he was still holding it.

His fingers were wrapped around mine, warm and firm.

I slowly looked down at our hands.

My wedding ring glittered beneath the chandeliers.

A beautiful diamond.

A beautiful lie.

“I suppose I am nervous,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I married a stranger.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You know my name.”

“Everyone knows your name.”

“And yet you agreed to marry me.”

There was something beneath his question.

Suspicion.

He wanted to know why I had chosen him.

I smiled.

“I have my reasons.”

“So do I.”

The answer came so quietly that I almost missed it.

I looked at him.

For one brief moment, something flickered across his expression.

Regret.

Then it disappeared.

The orchestra began another song.

Adrian extended his hand.

“Dance with me, Mrs. Blackwood.”

I placed my hand in his.

His fingers closed around mine.

Warm.

Steady.

Dangerous.

We stepped onto the dance floor.

Immediately, the attention of the room shifted toward us.

Cameras flashed.

People whispered.

Adrian placed one hand against my waist and guided me effortlessly across the polished floor.

“You dance well,” I said.

“I have had practice.”

“With Isabelle?”

His eyes sharpened.

I smiled innocently.

Isabelle Laurent.

His former fiancée.

The woman everyone had expected Adrian to marry before I appeared.

“She was mentioned in several articles,” I continued.

“I don’t discuss my past.”

“Convenient.”

“You seem very interested in my past.”

“Shouldn’t a wife know something about her husband?”

“Perhaps.”

His hand tightened around my waist.

“But perhaps a husband should know something about his wife as well.”

My smile remained in place.

“What would you like to know?”

“Everything.”

The word settled between us.

I felt my heartbeat quicken.

He wasn’t merely talking about my past.

He was warning me.

“I am not very interesting,” I said.

“I don’t believe that.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

I looked into his eyes.

“What do you know?”

He leaned closer.

His voice became almost inaudible.

“I know you are not the woman you pretend to be.”

My heart stopped for half a second.

But I smiled.

“Perhaps you are not the man you pretend to be either.”

His expression changed.

The music continued around us.

Neither of us looked away.

Then he leaned down and kissed my cheek for the benefit of the cameras.

His lips barely touched my skin.

But his whisper was unmistakable.

“Do not go anywhere tonight.”

I pulled back.

“Why?”

“I need to speak with you.”

“About what?”

His gaze moved briefly toward the ballroom doors.

Then returned to me.

“Your father.”

Everything inside me went still.

My father.

No one talked about Thomas Vale anymore.

Not in public.

Not in private.

Not if they valued their reputation.

I searched Adrian’s face for some indication that I had misunderstood him.

There was none.

He walked away before I could question him.

I remained on the dance floor for several seconds, surrounded by music and applause, while my mind raced.

Why had he mentioned my father?

How much did he know?

And why had he waited until tonight?

I eventually found him near the entrance to the ballroom.

Before I could reach him, someone caught my wrist.

I turned.

Isabelle Laurent stood behind me.

She was breathtaking in a crimson evening gown, with dark hair falling over one shoulder and diamonds glittering around her throat.

She smiled.

It was the sort of smile that belonged in a magazine.

Beautiful.

Perfect.

Empty.

“Congratulations,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“I hope you know what you’ve done.”

I gently pulled my wrist from her grasp.

“I married my husband.”

“You stole him.”

“I did not steal anyone.”

Her eyes hardened.

“He was supposed to marry me.”

“Then perhaps you should ask him why he changed his mind.”

Her smile vanished.

“You think you have won because he put a ring on your finger?”

I looked down at the diamond.

“No.”

“Then what do you think you have won?”

“Nothing.”

She studied me.

For the first time, something resembling fear appeared in her eyes.

She leaned closer.

“You don’t know Adrian.”

“Neither do you.”

Her gaze moved toward him.

Then she lowered her voice.

“Whatever you think you are doing, stop.”

“Why?”

“Because Adrian isn’t the most dangerous person in this family.”

A chill ran through me.

“Who is?”

Isabelle looked over my shoulder.

I followed her gaze.

Adrian stood across the ballroom.

His expression was unreadable.

Isabelle whispered,

“Ask him what happened the night your father died.”

Then she walked away.

I stared after her.

My pulse had begun racing.

The wedding suddenly felt different.

The champagne tasted bitter.

The flowers seemed suffocating.

And the ring on my finger no longer felt like jewelry.

It felt like a warning.

I found Adrian nearly an hour later.

His private study was located on the second floor of the mansion.

The door was slightly open.

I pushed it.

“Adrian?”

No answer.

The room was enormous.

Dark wooden shelves covered the walls, filled with books and carefully organized files. A large window overlooked the city, where thousands of lights shimmered beneath the night sky.

Then I saw it.

A folder lying inside a partially opened drawer.

My father’s name was written across it.

THOMAS VALE.

My breath caught.

I moved toward the desk.

My hand trembled slightly as I reached for the folder.

I opened it.

The first page contained my father’s photograph.

The second contained financial records.

The third was a photograph.

My father stood beside Victor Blackwood.

And beside them stood a much younger Adrian.

I stared at the photograph.

They had known each other.

For years, I had believed my father and the Blackwoods had been enemies.

Yet here they were.

Together.

Smiling.

I turned the page.

Nothing.

The remaining documents had been removed.

“Looking for something?”

I froze.

Adrian stood behind me.

His suit jacket was gone.

His white shirt was slightly open at the collar, and his sleeves were rolled to his forearms.

He looked less like the untouchable billionaire everyone feared and more like a man who had spent the evening carrying a burden he could no longer hide.

His eyes settled on the folder.

Then on me.

“What did you find?”

“My father’s file.”

“Put it down.”

“No.”

His expression hardened.

“Elena.”

“You know him.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“My father and yours had business dealings.”

“That is not what I asked.”

He said nothing.

I stepped closer.

“You knew my father.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know what happened to him?”

His silence lasted too long.

“Adrian.”

“I knew he was in danger.”

My heart tightened.

“And you did nothing?”

“I tried.”

“You tried?”

I laughed bitterly.

“My father died. My mother disappeared. My family lost everything. What exactly did you try to do?”

His eyes darkened.

“Protect you.”

The words stunned me.

“Protect me from what?”

“The people who killed your father.”

My breath caught.

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know all of them.”

“But you know something.”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“You won’t.”

His jaw tightened.

“You don’t understand how dangerous this is.”

“My life has been dangerous for five years.”

“Elena—”

“Where is my mother?”

He went completely still.

I knew immediately.

He knew something.

“You know she didn’t die,” I whispered.

He looked away.

That was enough.

My chest tightened.

“My mother is alive.”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“You know she survived.”

“I believe she did.”

Five years of grief collapsed inside me.

I had mourned a woman who might still be alive.

I had cried over an empty grave.

I had spent countless nights wondering whether my mother had died afraid and alone.

And Adrian had known there was a possibility she was alive.

“You knew,” I whispered.

“I suspected.”

“You should have told me.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because the people looking for her would have come for you.”

“Maybe they already have.”

He looked directly at me.

“They have.”

A chill spread through my body.

Before I could ask what he meant, his phone rang.

Adrian glanced at the screen.

His expression changed.

“Stay here.”

“Who is it?”

He ignored me and answered.

“Speak.”

Silence.

Then his voice became colder.

“Where?”

He listened.

“When?”

His eyes moved toward me.

“Do not touch her.”

My heart began pounding.

Adrian’s face became terrifying.

“I said do not touch her.”

He ended the call.

I stared at him.

“What happened?”

He grabbed his jacket.

“We are leaving.”

“Where?”

“Get dressed.”

“Adrian, what happened?”

He stopped.

His eyes met mine.

“Someone has your mother.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“What?”

“They found her.”

I struggled to breathe.

“Who?”

“The Black Rose.”

The name meant nothing to me.

Yet something about it sounded familiar.

“What is the Black Rose?”

Adrian’s expression became grim.

“A secret organization.”

“Responsible for my father’s death?”

“Yes.”

“And my mother’s disappearance?”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

“Why would they take my mother now?”

He walked toward me.

“Because they want something.”

“What?”

His gaze locked with mine.

“You.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“They want me?”

“No.”

He reached for my hand.

“They want to use you to get to me.”

I looked at his hand around mine.

“You are afraid.”

“Yes.”

It was the first time Adrian Blackwood had admitted fear.

Not for himself.

For me.

He pulled me toward the door.

I resisted.

“One question.”

“What?”

“Why would they think you would come after my mother?”

His expression hardened.

“Because they know exactly what I am willing to do for you.”

I stared at him.

“What are you willing to do?”

He opened the door.

“Anything.”

Then he pulled me into the hallway.

And for the first time since I had returned to the Blackwood family, I realized something far more frightening than the possibility that my husband wanted me dead.

Someone else wanted me dead.

And Adrian Blackwood might be the only person standing between me and them.