Chapter 2

The Blackwell estate was a fortress disguised as a mansion—forty-seven rooms, twelve staff members, and one husband who had vanished like smoke. Three days into my marriage, and I hadn't seen Roman once.

"Mr. Blackwell takes his meals in his study," the housekeeper, Mrs. Adler, informed me with practiced neutrality each morning. "He prefers not to be disturbed."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

So I ate alone in a dining room built for thirty, the clink of my fork echoing off walls lined with oil paintings worth more than my father's hospital bills. Every morning I called the hospital to check on Dad—stable but critical, the nurses said, their voices careful, meaning: pay the next installment or we move him out of intensive care.

The Blackwell family had promised to cover his treatment. That was the deal. My life for his.

On the fourth morning, I broke Rule Number One.

The study door was unlocked—an oversight, or maybe a test. Inside, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, and the scent of old paper and black coffee hung heavy in the air. A massive oak desk dominated the center, covered in architectural blueprints and financial documents I couldn't begin to understand.

And there was Roman.

He sat behind the desk in his wheelchair, reading glasses perched on his nose, completely absorbed in whatever he was studying. Without the shadows of the cathedral or the distance of the ballroom, I saw him clearly for the first time.

The scar was brutal—a jagged line that told a story of violence and survival. But beneath it, his features were sharp, aristocratic, almost beautiful in their severity. His shoulders were broad under a black cashmere sweater, his forearms corded with muscle as he turned pages. For a man the world pitied, he radiated a quiet, dangerous authority.

"Rule Number One," he said without looking up.

"I know." I didn't retreat. "We need to talk about my father's medical bills."

Now he looked up. Those dark eyes—not cold, I realized, but guarded, like a man who'd learned the hard way what happened when he let people in.

"The agreement was clear. Your father receives treatment for the duration of our marriage."

"The hospital called this morning. The payment for this month hasn't been processed."

Something shifted in his expression—not guilt, but surprise, quickly masked. He picked up his phone and dialed. The conversation was brief, clipped, commanding. When he hung up, he said, "It's handled. There was an administrative error."

"Thank you."

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.

"Your stepmother," he said. "She told my family you volunteered for this marriage. That you were eager."

The laugh that escaped me was bitter enough to taste. "My stepmother sold me to pay off her gambling debts and told your family whatever story would close the deal fastest. I volunteered the way a hostage volunteers to cooperate."

Silence stretched between us. Then, so quietly I almost missed it: "I know the feeling."

Before I could respond, the study door burst open and Easton strode in carrying a garment bag and his trademark smile.

"There you are, Iris! Mother's hosting a charity gala tonight and you need to look the part." He held up the bag. "Vera Wang. You'll be stunning."

"She's not going," Roman said flatly.

"Of course she is. She's a Blackwell now—she has obligations." Easton turned to me with conspiratorial warmth. "Don't worry, I'll be your escort since my brother clearly won't be attending."

The tension between the brothers was a living thing—electric and old, charged with years of history I didn't understand.

"I'll go," I said, looking directly at Roman. "Unless my husband objects."

Roman's jaw tightened. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—possessiveness? Concern? It vanished before I could name it.

"Do what you want," he said, turning back to his blueprints. "You will anyway."

The gala was a glittering ocean of silk and diamonds, held in the Blackwell family's downtown hotel. Easton guided me through the crowd with a hand on the small of my back, introducing me to senators, CEOs, and socialites who all shared the same polished smile and curious eyes.

"So you're the girl who married Roman," each one said, in varying degrees of pity.

"She's the girl who saved the Blackwell inheritance," Easton corrected smoothly each time, earning appreciative laughter that made my skin crawl.

Then I saw her.

Victoria Blackwell—Roman and Easton's mother—stood at the center of the ballroom in a gown that cost more than my father's surgery. Her smile, when she turned it on me, was a masterpiece of controlled contempt.

"Iris, darling," she said, kissing the air beside both my cheeks. "How brave of you to wear Vera Wang. Most girls from your background wouldn't know how."

The women around her tittered. My cheeks burned, but I held my ground.

"Most girls from my background know how to survive worse than a dress code, Mrs. Blackwell."

Victoria's smile froze. Easton coughed. And from the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement near the ballroom entrance—a dark figure in a wheelchair, watching from the shadows before retreating into the night.

Roman had come after all.