Chapter 2

I didn't sleep.

The bed was a California king draped in Egyptian cotton that probably cost more than three months of my diner wages, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father's study. The desk. The note. The gun.

And now I was living in the house of the man who put him there.

At 5:47 a.m., I gave up pretending and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The penthouse was silent—cathedral ceilings swallowing every sound, the pre-dawn skyline bruised purple and grey beyond the windows.

I found the coffee machine. It looked like it required an engineering degree. After three failed attempts that produced nothing but steam and a judgmental beeping noise, I gave up and boiled water in a pot like a normal human being.

"The machine responds to voice commands."

I spun. Ethan stood in the kitchen doorway, already dressed—charcoal suit, no tie, hair damp from a shower. He looked like he'd been awake for hours. Maybe he never slept. Maybe monsters didn't need to.

"Espresso, double," he said to the machine. It purred to life instantly.

Of course it did.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying me with that surgical gaze. I became acutely aware that I was wearing an oversized T-shirt, no bra, and yesterday's mascara.

"You look terrible," he said.

"Thank you. That's exactly what every bride wants to hear the morning after her wedding."

His mouth did that almost-twitch again. "Diane sent your schedule. Hair and makeup at nine. Fitting at eleven. Lunch with my PR team at one to brief you on talking points for Thursday."

"Talking points," I repeated flatly. "For a charity gala."

"For our love story." He took his espresso. "We met at a fundraiser for children's literacy. You spilled wine on my sleeve. I found it charming. We've been together for eight months. You prefer tulips over roses, and your favorite restaurant is Eleven Madison Park—which you will memorize the menu of before Thursday."

"And if someone asks me something that's not on the script?"

"Improvise convincingly. You were a theater minor at Columbia, weren't you?"

I froze. "How do you know that?"

"I had you vetted, Olivia. Extensively." He sipped his espresso. "Columbia University, class of 2021. Theater minor, biology major. Dean's list until your junior year, when your father's company collapsed and you dropped out to manage his affairs. After his death, you worked at Rosie's Diner on West 47th, the night shift, for two years and four months. You have no criminal record, no outstanding warrants, and no social media presence since 2022."

Each fact landed like a slap. He'd dissected my life like a quarterly report.

"Did your background check mention that I take my coffee black?" I asked, voice tight.

"It did, actually. Along with your blood type, your credit score, and the name of the hospital where your grandmother is being treated."

The room tilted.

"Stay away from her," I said, my voice dropping to something dangerous.

Ethan set down his cup. "I have no interest in your grandmother, Olivia. But I need you to understand something." He stepped closer. "I don't enter arrangements without knowing exactly who I'm dealing with. You are no exception."

The space between us shrank. He smelled like cedar and something darker—ambition, maybe. Or control.

"Then you should also know," I said, holding his gaze, "that I don't scare easily."

"Good." His eyes held mine for one beat too long. "You'll need that."

He turned and walked toward the elevator. "Car leaves at eight-forty-five. Don't be late."

The doors closed. I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath underwater.

My phone buzzed again. The same unknown number.

He vetted you, but he didn't dig deep enough. Shall I tell him what he missed? —V

My blood turned to ice. I typed back with shaking fingers.

Who are you?

Three dots appeared. Then vanished. No reply.

I pressed my palm flat against my stomach. Six weeks. The baby was the size of a lentil, according to the pregnancy app I'd downloaded in secret. Too small to show. Too fragile to risk.

If Ethan's "extensive vetting" had missed the pregnancy, then whoever V was might know something even his investigators hadn't found. Or worse—V knew things about me that I'd buried so deep I'd almost forgotten them myself.

Like the fact that Olivia Ashford wasn't just James Ashford's daughter.

She was the sole heir to a patent portfolio worth $2.3 billion—patents that Blackwell Industries had acquired in the takeover. Patents that, under a clause my father had hidden in the original incorporation documents, would revert to his bloodline heir if Blackwell Industries ever failed to maintain active development on them.

A clause no one knew about.

Except me.

And apparently, V.

The fitting was at a boutique on Madison Avenue that didn't have prices on anything, which meant everything cost more than my annual income. A team of three stylists descended on me like beautiful, well-dressed vultures.

"Mrs. Blackwell, we're thinking emerald for Thursday," said the lead stylist, a woman named Genevieve who spoke exclusively in the third person. "Genevieve sees you in something structured. Architectural. You have the shoulders for Valentino."

I stood on a platform in my underwear while strangers pinned fabric to my body and discussed my proportions like I was a building being renovated.

"The waist will need to be forgiving," I said carefully. "I've been... stress eating."

Genevieve nodded sympathetically. "Of course, darling. Genevieve understands."

She didn't understand. No one could.

By noon, I had been plucked, polished, and packaged into something that looked like Ethan Blackwell's wife. The woman in the mirror had blown-out honey-brown hair, subtle contouring that sharpened her cheekbones, and eyes that looked expensive.

But underneath the armor, my hands were still shaking.

The PR lunch was held in a private dining room at the Blackwell Tower. Four people sat across from me: Diane, Ethan's assistant; Marcus, his head of communications; a woman named Priya who handled "narrative strategy"; and Ethan himself, who ate a salad with the enthusiasm of someone reviewing a tax document.

"The story needs warmth," Priya said, sliding a tablet toward me. "The public knows Ethan as... clinical. The marriage announcement needs to soften his image. Make him approachable."

"Make him human, you mean," I said.

Silence. Marcus coughed.

Ethan looked up from his salad. "She's not wrong."

Priya recovered quickly. "We've drafted social media posts for both accounts. Olivia, we'll need access to yours—"

"I don't have social media."

"We'll create accounts. Backdated posts, curated photos—"

"Fabricated history," I said.

"Strategic narrative," Priya corrected smoothly.

I looked at Ethan. "Is any part of your life real?"

His fork paused. "The parts that matter."

"And which parts are those?"

His grey eyes locked onto mine. For a moment—just a flash—something cracked in that granite facade. Something almost... human.

Then Diane's phone rang, and the moment shattered.

"Mr. Blackwell, your mother is on line two. She's asking about the wedding. She wants to meet your wife before Thursday."

Every muscle in Ethan's body went rigid. "Tell her Thursday is soon enough."

"She's... insistent, sir."

"She's always insistent. Thursday."

Diane nodded and stepped out. But I caught the look that passed between her and Marcus—a look that said this is going to be a problem.

After the meeting, I found myself alone in the penthouse's vast living room, staring at the hallway that led to the east wing. The forbidden corridor.

No entering the east wing.

The door at the end was closed. Ordinary. Unremarkable.

But something about it pulled at me—a low hum, almost subliminal, like a frequency just below hearing.

I took one step toward it.

"I wouldn't."

I whirled. Diane stood behind me, portfolio clutched to her chest, expression carefully neutral.

"Mr. Blackwell is very particular about that space," she said. "The last assistant who opened that door was terminated within the hour."

"What's in there?"

Diane's smile was polite and absolutely impenetrable. "I don't know. And I've worked for him for seven years."

She turned on her heel and left.

I stared at the door for another ten seconds, then retreated to my room.

But that night, lying in the dark, I heard something.

Through the walls. From the east wing.

A woman's voice. Soft. Singing.

A lullaby.

And then—Ethan's voice, barely a whisper: "I'm here, Mom. I'm right here."

Mom?

His mother was supposed to be across the city. He'd refused to let her visit. He'd told Diane—

Unless the woman in the east wing wasn't a visitor.

Unless she lived there.

I pressed my ear to the wall, heart hammering.

The singing stopped.

And then, so quietly I almost missed it, I heard Ethan Blackwell—the man made of granite and quarterly reports—

Crying.