Mrs Blackwood Novels & Stories

But their show of affection was soon cut short, when we heard footfalls coming down the stairs. “What’s happening here?” The sophisticated and elegant Mrs. Rosewood, Ignacio’s mother, and lady of the house appeared on top of the staircase. Mrs. Rosewood’s appearance is stern. Her eyes are chink, and her high cheekbones equalled her to a few elites, who won’t accept no as an answer.

The hair is in a high bun and the fashion is vibrating from top to bottom. There was Anita, her secretary, and several men in black suits, dressed neatly in the Men in Black style, but without glasses. Pak. Sutar, her trusted man, rushed into the room with his body bent over handing the branded bag to great madam, my mother-in-law. On the other couch, sat a woman dressed super neatly holding an open folder containing some papers, I don't know what that is. Amelia, Wisnu and I immediately approached the Great Madam, took her hand to kiss each other, taking turns. She smiled while stroking the heads of Amelia and Wisnu.

Ashley curled her lips in dissatisfaction. After hearing this, Morgan couldn't help laughing, "Mrs. Blackstorm, I just..." "Okay, just drink!" ***

Roland said. Zeke got to the remote before I did and the images that flashed across the screen were shocking and they caught us by surprise. They showed a desolate scene on a quiet residential street, yellow tape everywhere, and reporters struggling to maintain composure. The breaking story: Gordon Blackwood—patriarch of the Blackwood Dynasty, had been found dead in a gruesome murder case. Authorities have asked anyone with information to come forward.

“If you say yes, you don’t do it blind. You read everything, document everything, and if you say no, you come to me-.” “I won’t.” “You say that now.” She hesitated, then added quietly, “He has an assistant. Rowan Cole. If anyone knows how Blackwood really operates, it’s him.” I looked up. “You know his assistant?” “Know of him,” she corrected. “He’s survived longer than anyone else. That alone makes him interesting.” She smiled faintly, something curious flickering in her eyes. " I heard he's hot too", She smirked “And dangerous in his own way.”

That night, I dream of the office. Not him. Just the space where he should be. Monday of the third week, I miscalculated a timeline. Not catastrophically. Not enough to derail anything. Enough that AV calls me. “Lyra, Mr. Blackwell would usually want eyes on this.” The words hit harder than they should. “I’ll revise it,” I say. “Of course,” she replies smoothly. “Just flag it when done.” I hang up and stare at my screen longer than necessary. Mr. Blackwell would usually…

Draven didn’t say a word, just set his fork down with slow finality and called out, “It’s open.” The door creaked as it swung inward, and there she was. Ms. Blackwood. She walked in like she owned the place, heels tapping across the hardwood, her coat sliding off her shoulders with practiced ease. Her lipstick matched the wine-colored silk blouse clinging to her curves. Her eyes swept the room and landed on me. A flicker of something unreadable passed through them, before she dismissed me entirely. “Morning,” she said, her voice syrup-sweet as she moved toward him. “You look… stronger.”

Beep. A soft knock came at the door. Mrs. Blackwood looked up to see a young woman in a crisp business suit standing in the doorway. She recognized her as Rebecca, her husband's personal assistant. "Mrs. Blackwood," Rebecca said softly, bowing her head respectfully. "I'm sorry to disturb you." "It's alright, Rebecca. Come in." The assistant stepped inside, clutching a leather portfolio against her chest. Her expression was uncertain, as if she wasn't sure she should be there.

“Someone is here to see you, sir.” “Who?” I asked, already zipping up my trousers and buckling my belt. I walked back over to my executive chair and took a seat, smoothing down my shirt and pretending as if nothing scandalous had just happened in the room. Sandra slowly got to her feet, wiping her mouth with a smirk. “Sir... it’s Mr. Blackwood.” “What!” The name hit me like a bucket of ice water. Everyone in the business world knew exactly who Blackwood was—he was the most ruthless, high-profile divorce attorney in the city.

At the woman who had walked into my boardroom four months ago and negotiated the terms of an arrangement like she was born for exactly that room and who had been in every room since like she was born for that one too. "What do we do first," I said. She picked up her phone. "We call Marcus," she said. "And we start building before Victor knows we are building." She was already dialing. I watched her and thought about fifteen years of careful positioning about to meet the most precise legal mind I had ever seen work. Victor Ashwood had spent fifteen years building toward this moment. He had no idea what was waiting for him.