WICKED INHERITANCE

The reading of Julian Blackwood’s will took place at 9:00 a.m. sharp, because Julian had always believed punctuality was a form of dominance.The drawing room at the Blackwood estate had been converted into a theater of restraint. Mahogany paneling gleamed under crystal chandeliers. Heavy drapes muted the California sun, turning morning into something more funereal. Chairs were arranged in careful rows, close enough to invite conflict, far enough apart to prevent outright violence.Ivy arrived five minutes early.She wore black again, but sharper this time, tailored wool, clean lines, no veil. Her hair was pulled back in a low, severe knot. Diamonds remained at her throat, though smaller than yesterday’s. Mourning, refined.She chose the chair at the center of the front row without asking permission.Ownership, even symbolic, mattered.Behind her, the room filled quickly. Julian’s relatives filtered in like carrion birds: cousins who had smiled too hard at the funeral, an aunt who had

The hunting party had been Ivy’s idea.Julian loved symbolism—rituals that made him feel primal and powerful—so she framed it that way. A night in the Sonoma vineyards. Antique shotguns. Good whiskey. Important men pretending they still knew how to survive without assistants and stock portfolios.He’d loved it immediately.“Like Hemingway,” Julian had said, already pouring himself a drink. “Only with better wine.”Ivy smiled and kissed his cheek, already planning the rest of the board.By sunset, the estate buzzed with curated masculinity. Twenty men in tailored jackets and expensive boots roamed the vineyard paths, laughing too loudly, guns slung over shoulders like props. The air smelled of crushed grapes and gun oil. Floodlights illuminated the rows just enough to feel dangerous.Julian was drunk by the time the first shot rang out—wild, celebratory, fired into the dark to mark the beginning of the hunt. Applause followed. Someone whooped.Ivy stood on the terrace and watched them

The first board meeting after Julian Blackwood’s death felt less like corporate governance and more like a quiet declaration of war.Blackwood Global headquarters stood exactly as it always had—forty-two stories of glass and steel cutting into the Los Angeles skyline—but the atmosphere inside had shifted. Power had become unstable, like a chandelier hanging by a single thread.Everyone could feel it.Ivy arrived precisely at 8:55 a.m.Not early enough to appear eager. Not late enough to appear careless.The executive conference room stretched along the eastern side of the building, a cathedral of glass with a table long enough to seat twenty. The skyline burned gold beyond the windows as the morning sun rose over the city.Ten board members were already present.They stood when she entered.Not out of affection.Out of calculation.“Mrs. Blackwood,” one of them said.Ivy acknowledged the greeting with a small nod as she walked to the head of the table—the seat Julian had occupied for

Detective Elena Cruz didn’t rush. People who rushed usually wanted something. Cruz preferred to let people wonder what she already knew. The lobby of Blackwood Tower gleamed with the sterile perfection of billionaire ambition—white marble floors, chrome fixtures, quiet security guards pretending not to watch everyone who walked through the doors. She paused just inside the entrance and looked up. Forty-two floors. A monument to power. Also, she suspected, a monument to secrets. 

The jet took off at 2:40 a.m.Ivy didn’t sleep.She sat by the oval window of the Blackwood private jet, watching Los Angeles disappear beneath the clouds while the quiet hum of the engines filled the cabin.Across from her, Sebastian Blackwood sat with his long legs stretched out, reading something on his tablet like they were flying to a routine business meeting.Not chasing a man who might know who murdered his brother.Not running toward a truth that could destroy both of them.Ivy hated how calm he looked.“You planned this,” she said.Sebastian didn’t look up.“Planned what?”“You already knew Marcus was in London before we spoke last night.”He finally raised his eyes.“Yes.”“And you didn’t tell me.”“You would’ve gone anyway.”“That’s not the point.”“No,” Sebastian replied quietly.“It’s exactly the point.”Ivy leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms.“You don’t trust me.”Sebastian gave a small humorless smile.“I trust you exactly as much as you trust me.”Which meant—