WICKED INHERITANCE

The casket was lowered at exactly 11:17 a.m.

Ivy Blackwood noted the time without meaning to. Her mind clung to numbers when feelings threatened to surface—dates, balances, margins of error. It was easier to measure grief than to feel it. Easier to stand still in black silk and diamonds and let the earth swallow her husband while the world watched, hungry for spectacle.

Julian Blackwood, CEO. Visionary. Philanthropist. Beloved tyrant.

Dead.

The priest’s voice drifted over the crowd, words dissolving before they reached her. Ivy kept her chin lifted, shoulders squared, gloved hands folded neatly at her waist. Her veil was sheer enough that cameras could still see her face—calculated transparency. The widow as icon. Grace under devastation.

She did not cry.

She had practiced this.

The cemetery in Forest Lawn rolled outward in manicured perfection: white marble headstones, trimmed hedges, the city smog softening the hills into something almost romantic. Three hundred mourners stood in disciplined clusters—board members, investors, politicians, distant relatives who smelled inheritance in the soil.

Flashbulbs snapped behind velvet ropes.

Somewhere to her left, a woman sobbed too loudly. Ivy did not turn to look. Grief, like money, was louder when it was performative.

Across the grave, Sebastian Blackwood stood alone.

Same bloodline. Same height. Same black suit cut to ruthless precision. He wore sunglasses darker than hers, his expression unreadable, jaw tight enough to look carved. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture military, as if he were attending an execution rather than a burial.

He hadn’t looked at her once since the service began.

That was new.

Ivy felt the absence like a pressure change. For three years, Sebastian’s attention had been a constant—sometimes scorching, sometimes poisonous, but always there. Even when he hated her. Especially when he hated her.

Today, he watched the grave.

The casket descended inch by inch. The mechanism whined softly, obscene in its efficiency. Ivy’s gaze followed the polished mahogany until it disappeared beneath the lip of the earth.

Julian was gone.

The thought landed with less impact than she expected.

No relief. No triumph. Just a hollow stillness, like a room after a storm has passed through and taken all the air with it.

A breeze lifted her veil, brushing it against her cheek. For half a second, the sensation pulled her somewhere else.

Marble beneath her palms. Cold and unforgiving. The taste of iron and wine in the air. Sebastian’s hand at the small of her back, firm, possessive, anchoring her while music drifted faintly from somewhere upstairs.

The night before the wedding.

The memory flickered—no more than a breath, a heartbeat—before she crushed it down. Not now. Not here. She tightened her fingers inside her gloves until the leather creaked.

The priest finished. A pause followed, heavy and ritualized.

“May he rest in peace.”

The lie passed easily through the crowd.

One by one, mourners stepped forward to drop handfuls of dirt onto the coffin. The sound was unbearable—soft thuds, final and intimate. Ivy waited. Let others go first. Let the cameras capture her stillness, her restraint.

When it was her turn, she stepped forward alone.

The grave yawned open at her feet. Ivy took the shovel offered by the groundskeeper, its handle smooth and cool. She scooped a measured amount of earth—no trembling, no hesitation—and let it fall.

The dirt struck wood.

That sound did something to her chest. Not pain. Pressure. As if something sealed itself shut.

Good, she thought distantly. Stay closed.

She stepped back, handed off the shovel, and returned to her place. Applause did not follow—this wasn’t that kind of funeral—but there was a murmur of approval, the collective recognition of a widow who knew how to behave.

As if summoned by the shift in the air, Sebastian finally looked at her.

Even behind the sunglasses, she felt it.

His head turned slowly. Deliberately. When their gazes met, something sharp passed between them—too fast for anyone else to notice, too precise to be accidental.

This wasn’t hunger.

This wasn’t grief.

It was an assessment.

Ivy’s pulse kicked, traitorous. She held his gaze without flinching, lips settling into the faint, appropriate curve she’d perfected over three years of public life. He didn’t return it. His mouth stayed flat, unreadable.

For the first time since Julian’s death, a thin line of unease traced its way down her spine.

Sebastian wasn’t looking at her like a woman who had lost her husband.

He was looking at her like a variable.

The service broke apart soon after. People approached her in waves—condolences delivered in hushed tones, hands squeezing hers for just a beat too long. She thanked them all. Memorized faces. Field reactions away.

Who lingered. Who avoided her eyes. Who glanced, just once, toward Sebastian.

By the time the crowd began to thin, Ivy’s cheeks ached from holding herself together.

Sebastian never approached her.

That, more than anything else, felt deliberate.

When the last camera crew packed up and the cemetery returned to its curated quiet, Ivy remained by the grave. She waited until the space around her cleared, until only a few distant figures remained among the trees.

She exhaled for the first time all morning.

“Beautiful show,” Sebastian said behind her.

His voice was low, controlled. Too close.

Ivy didn’t turn immediately. She kept her eyes on the fresh earth, on the wreaths already wilting under the sun.

“Julian would’ve appreciated the audience,” she replied. “He always did love being watched.”

Sebastian moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him through layers of black fabric. She resisted the instinct to shift away.

“Did he?” he asked. “Or did he just like controlling who was allowed to look?”

The question slid between them, sharp and intimate. Ivy finally faced him.

Up close, the cracks showed. A faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. A muscle jumping near his temple. Whatever calm he was projecting was an act—one he was barely maintaining.

“You should be careful,” she said softly. “People might overhear.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile.

“Let them,” he said. “They’re all listening anyway.”

Silence settled again, heavier than before. The wind stirred the leaves overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed.

Sebastian tilted his head, studying her face with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

“You’re very composed,” he said. “For a woman who just buried her husband.”

Ivy met his gaze evenly. “Grief looks different on everyone.”

“Does it?” His voice dropped. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like preparation.”

There it was.

Not an accusation. Not yet.

A warning.

Ivy felt something cold and precise click into place inside her. Whatever game Julian had left behind whatever mess his death had created. Sebastian was already thinking several moves ahead.

Good.

She’d always preferred opponents who understood the rules.

“Careful, Sebastian,” she murmured. “You’re starting to sound paranoid.”

He leaned closer, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers. The contact was brief, electric, gone almost as soon as it registered.

“Paranoia keeps men alive,” he said. “And widows, honest.”

He stepped back then, putting distance between them with surgical precision. Adjusted his cuffs. Restored the mask.

“I’ll see you soon,” he added, already turning away. “There are… arrangements to discuss.”

As he walked off, Ivy watched his retreating figure, the way people parted instinctively to let him pass.

Arrangements.

The word echoed unpleasantly.

She turned back to the grave, to the fresh earth bearing Julian Blackwood’s name.

For the first time since the gunshot that ended everything, Ivy felt it clearly—not grief, not guilt, but the slow, unmistakable tightening of a vice.

Whatever came next, it wouldn’t be quiet.

And Sebastian wasn’t mourning the dead.

He was counting the living.