Semua Bab Scarred Hearts: A Mafia Billionaire Romance : Bab 51 - Bab 60

The house remained silent. But utterly differently. This was a different sort of silence. One that felt… intentional. As though the very quietness had been orchestrated—like flowers at a funeral. Leya leaned against the railing at the end of the second-floor hall, squeezing out a dripping rag along the banister. Water dripped down the oaken rails, tapping the marble below it like a metronome. She no longer felt the jaggedness of her spine. Or perhaps the scent of bleach was still in her fingernails. All she could feel was shadows. Stationary chairs. Rumbled rugs. Open books on tables that no one was going to take the trouble to pick up. > She was being watched. But this time, as opposed to the first, they weren't intimidating her with power. They were watching her to see if she'd break. If the shame would at last take root. If the mask slips. Leya smiled to herself as she buffed a brass doorknob until it shone. Let them watch. She had learned as a child how to become

Two Months Ago — Samuel Blackwood's Private StudyThere hadn't been one of those yelling, yelling storms in the weather that night, but there was a storm in Samuel Blackwood's study: live, with promise of hidden harm and weight-laden decision.Harrison stiffened before the fire, hands locked across chest, jaw bunched."I don't need a wife," he snarled."You need discipline," Samuel said, not raising his eyes.He poured metallic brandy into a crystal glass. The same glass he used whenever he was signing terms—never to accept them."And what is she?" Harrison sneered. "A leash?""No," Samuel replied. "She's a mirror."Harrison's eyebrows collapsed."Of what?""How about what happens to you when you wield power as a right and not a duty?"The fire spat. The air froze.Samuel turned around, his hand closed around a piece of paper. Thick paper. Blackwood seal. Older binding legal than both of them."The marriage contract for one year. She gets protection. You get the share of the estate yo

Two Months Ago — Samuel Blackwood's Private StudyThe fire in the hearth was too smoldering to warm the room, but it flared up fiercely in the iron grill with a bad will-a good bad will, as all the rest of the Blackwood house.Harrison stood stiff before it, shoulders squared, jaw locked tight enough to ache."I don't need a wife," he said again, as if the repetition would tilt the ground under his feet.Samuel didn't even look up at the decanter of brandy. "You don't need a wife. You need a legacy."He poured the drink into crystal—measured, controlled. A performance, not a pour.Harrison laughed. "And this is your concept of legacy? Marriage to some desperate nobody so I can impress the board?"No, Samuel spoke softly, putting down the decanter on the side table with a snap. "This is my idea of pruning."Harrison's eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?""You've been flowering like a weed, boy. Playing as if inheritance were heredity by blood. But blood will not buy land. Discipline will

--- Blackwood Mansion – Late Afternoon The conservatory roof was imbibing the final blushing shade of day. Dust sparkled in rays of golden light on creeping ivy and wilted orchids—flowers that were once loved and cared for, now abandoned and allowed to die under the cloak of grandeur. Blackwood Mansion was a master of deception. It concealed its rot beneath jewels. Leya moved down the east hall, an armload of clean laundry, hands raw from scrubbing floors that morning. Her sleeves were wet. Her back ached. But she did not complain. For no one would hear. And she did not weep. For this house was not worth her tears. She stood in front of a mirror and halted, not from vanity, but to lift the face in front of her. Disheveled hair. No lipstick. A plain gray dress—worn, washed, but certainly worn. Not a Blackwood. Not a guest. Just the maid. And they addressed her as such, too. A noise she heard down the hall in front of her. A soft, sloppy catch of breath. Not audible. But

--- Leya's Room – Morning, Just After the Accusation She still clutched the note in her fingers, but the fire it had ignited in her chest now raged in her. Vivian's warning—"Return the necklace and no further action will be taken"—was a challenge, not a threat. And Leya no longer ran from a challenge. She did not touch the pearls. Not because she was afraid of them, but because she did not need to touch them. Not to touch them. Not to defile them. As she was. She rolled away from the bed and tugged at the edges of her bedspread—slowly, miserably—searching the wrinkles. No smear on the wooden floor. No drawer pulled from the square. No hair ruffled. A clever burglar. An inside job. Someone who knew she was too vain to scream, too polite-tongued to yell. Her fingers brushed the edge of the page she’d started earlier. The one labeled: > Theft – Set-Up, Phase One Now she added beneath it: > Intent: Humiliation, control, narrative hijacking. Suspect: Eleanor.