Chapter 2 - The Will Is a Weapon

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 never forgiven Ivy for existing, a half-brother no one claimed publicly. Board members followed—some loyal, some opportunistic, all pretending neutrality.

Voices stayed low. Eyes slid toward Ivy, away again.

Sebastian arrived last.

The shift in the room was immediate. Conversations stalled, then resumed at a different pitch. He wore charcoal instead of black, the smallest rebellion. His presence filled the doorway for a beat too long, deliberate, before he stepped inside.

He did not look at Ivy.

He took a position near the fireplace, arms crossed, posture loose in a way that suggested he had nothing to prove. Ivy noted it all: the distance, the angle, the way his attention seemed scattered while missing nothing.

A performance.

Harold Lang cleared his throat.

Julian’s lawyer had aged ten years in eight weeks. His suit hung looser, his hands trembled faintly as he clutched a leather-bound folder. He stood behind a narrow lectern, flanked by two security guards Julian had hired long before anyone imagined they’d be necessary today.

“Thank you all for coming,” Harold began. “We’re here to execute the last will and testament of Julian Alexander Blackwood, dated—”

“Spare us the preamble,” Julian’s aunt snapped from the second row. “We all know why we’re here.”

Harold winced but pressed on.

Bequests came first. Charities. Foundations. Cultural endowments bearing Julian’s name. Ivy listened with half an ear, cataloging reactions. Disappointment flickered, was concealed. These were the easy parts—the distractions, the polishing of a legacy.

Then Harold paused.

Ivy straightened imperceptibly.

“To my beloved wife, Ivy Valentina Valmonte-Blackwood,” he read, voice tightening, “I leave sixty percent of Blackwood Global Holdings, inclusive of all voting shares, liquid assets, and real property interests, effective immediately upon my death.”

The room exhaled sharply.

Gasps. Murmurs. A chair scraped back as someone half-stood, then thought better of it.

Ivy remained still.

Sixty percent. More than she’d expected. More than Julian had ever promised aloud.

Across the room, Sebastian’s jaw tightened.

Harold lifted a hand, forestalling the inevitable eruption. “There is a codicil.”

Silence fell, abrupt and heavy.

“Control of the company shall vest fully and irrevocably in the party who maintains the largest unbroken block of shares for ninety consecutive days following my death. Should any party—through legal acquisition—obtain fifty-one percent or more within that period, control shall pass to them immediately.”

Ivy felt it then—the precise moment the trap snapped shut.

Ninety days.

A measured battlefield.

Harold continued, voice strained. “Proxy battles, hostile takeovers, and third-party share purchases are expressly forbidden during this period.”

Sebastian uncrossed his arms.

“And if neither party reaches fifty-one percent?” he asked calmly.

Harold swallowed. “Then control remains divided. With final arbitration to be decided by the board.”

A lie, thin as paper. Julian would never leave anything undecided.

Harold looked down again. “To my brother, Sebastian Julian Blackwood, I leave forty percent of Blackwood Global Holdings, the Sonoma estate, the London penthouse, and all personal effects.”

The room exploded.

Voices overlapped—outrage, disbelief, accusation. Someone laughed, sharp and hysterical. Julian’s aunt lunged halfway out of her seat, shouting Ivy’s name like a curse. Security moved in immediately, practiced and efficient.

Through it all, Ivy sat motionless.

Forty percent.

Enough to be dangerous. Enough to be necessary.

Julian hadn’t just split the company. He’d ensured proximity. Forced conflict. Guaranteed that neither of them could win without destroying the other—or themselves.

From the fireplace, Sebastian’s gaze finally found hers.

There was no anger in it.

Only understanding.

Harold raised his voice, barely regaining control. “There is… one final item.”

The noise died instantly.

“A letter,” Harold said. “To be read privately. By Mrs. Blackwood and Mr. Sebastian Blackwood together, once the room is cleared.”

A ripple of protest followed. Ivy ignored it.

Julian had always loved an audience. The fact that he’d denied them one now told her everything she needed to know.

The room emptied slowly, grudgingly. Relatives muttered as they were ushered out. Board members exchanged glances, calculations already underway. When the doors finally closed, only three people remained.

Ivy. Sebastian. Harold.

The lawyer handed Ivy a black envelope sealed with crimson wax.

Her fingers closed around it.

“Do you require my presence?” Harold asked weakly.

“No,” Ivy said. “You may go.”

He didn’t hesitate.

The door shut behind him with a soft, final click.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Sebastian spoke.

“He knew,” he said quietly.

Ivy didn’t ask who.

“Yes,” she replied. “He did.”

She broke the seal.

Julian’s handwriting stared back at her—sharp, familiar, infuriating. She didn’t read aloud. She didn’t need to. Sebastian watched her face as her eyes moved across the page, reading every word twice.

When she finished, she handed him the letter without a word.

He read faster than she had. Once. Then again, slower.

A humorless breath left him. “The bastard really couldn’t help himself.”

Ivy crossed to the fireplace and held out her hand.

Sebastian hesitated only a second before giving the letter back.

She fed it to the flames.

Paper curled. Ink blackened. Julian’s last manipulation dissolved into ash.

They stood there together, watching it burn.

“Ninety days,” Sebastian said at last.

Ivy turned to face him fully. “You’ll lose.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re welcome to try and stop me.”

Their gazes locked—not as lovers, not yet as enemies, but as two people who finally understood the scale of what stood between them.

Outside, the estate grounds lay quiet, immaculate, unchanged.

Inside, Julian Blackwood’s final gift took root.

War, dressed as inheritance