Chapter 2
Ava’s Pov
The warning message from the unknown number burned in my mind the entire night.
I stared at the text until my vision blurred, until the letters seemed to crawl across my phone screen. “Walk away from Blackwood while you still can.”
Who had sent it? A prank? A rival? Someone inside the Blackwood empire? I had no way of knowing. What I did know was that I couldn’t walk away. Not now. Not when my debts were choking me, not when this was the only lifeline I’d been offered in months.
By morning, I had convinced myself it was nothing—just noise, meant to rattle me. I wouldn’t let it.
Still, as I stood outside Blackwood Tower again, the glass walls reflecting the gray morning sky, my stomach twisted with unease.
The receptionist from yesterday barely glanced at me this time, simply pressing a button. “He’s waiting.”
I smoothed my blouse and rode the elevator up, the familiar rush of nerves making my pulse quicken.
Damien Blackwood was already at his desk when I stepped into the office. His suit today was charcoal, crisp as if freshly tailored, his hair perfectly in place. He didn’t look up when I entered, only muttered, “You’re three minutes early. Better.”
“Good morning,” I offered.
He looked at me then—steel-gray eyes sweeping over me as though he were cataloging my existence. There was something unnerving about that gaze, as if he saw more than I wanted to reveal.
“You received the file,” he said.
“Yes. I reviewed everything last night.”
“Then explain how you’ll make it happen.”
No greeting. No pleasantries. Straight to the point.
I inhaled. I had spent hours last night scribbling notes, sketching layouts, and researching past Blackwood events. My exhaustion threatened to drag me under, but determination pushed me forward.
“The venue you’ve chosen is the Grand Orpheum. It’s prestigious, but outdated. We’ll need to modernize the décor without erasing its charm. I’ll use deep jewel tones, dramatic lighting, and a centerpiece stage for the auction. Entertainment should be classical—something sophisticated yet memorable. As for catering, I already have a shortlist of Michelin-starred chefs who can meet the expectations of your guest list.”
Damien leaned back, fingers steepled. “And security?”
“I’ll consult with your head of security to ensure the layout accommodates safety protocols. Discretion will be key—nothing obtrusive, but efficient.”
For a moment, silence. His eyes bored into me, weighing my words. Then, to my shock, the corner of his mouth twitched. Approval.
“Not terrible,” he said.
My lips parted. “Not…terrible?”
He almost smirked. “You want me to call you extraordinary? Earn it.”
Heat flared in my cheeks. “Then give me the chance.”
His gaze lingered on me for a moment too long, unreadable, before he turned his wheelchair slightly, maneuvering toward the window that overlooked the sprawling city. He moved with precision, controlled and smooth, not a hint of hesitation in the way his chair glided across the floor.
“You should know something, Miss Morgan,” he said, his voice lower now, more dangerous. “Everyone will assume you’re here because of my name. Because you want something from me. Money, connections, a way to climb higher. They will look at you and sneer. Some will try to use you against me. If you’re not strong enough to withstand that, walk out now.”
The words struck deep, both a warning and a challenge.
My fists clenched at my sides. “I’ve already survived worse.”
That earned me a real smirk. Brief, sharp, but undeniably there.
The door opened before I could say more, and a man stepped in. Younger than Damien by maybe five years, with the same strong jawline but warmer brown eyes. His smile was charming, his suit impeccably fitted.
“Brother,” he drawled. “You didn’t tell me we’d be having guests.”
Damien’s expression hardened. “Adrian. What do you want?”
“I was curious,” Adrian said smoothly, his gaze sliding to me. “And now I see why. You’ve hired…help.”
I bristled. “Event planner.”
Adrian’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Of course. Forgive me.” He extended a hand. “Adrian Blackwood. And you are?”
“Ava Morgan.”
His handshake lingered just a fraction too long, his smile charming but edged with something sharper. When I pulled my hand back, he gave me a look that made me uneasy.
Damien’s tone cut through the tension like a blade. “Adrian, don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
Adrian chuckled. “Always so cold, brother. Be careful with this one. She’s…interesting.”
With a wink in my direction, he left, the air noticeably lighter without him.
“Stay away from him,” Damien said flatly.
I frowned. “Why? He seemed….”
“He’s not what he seems. None of us are.”
The finality in his tone warned me not to press further. But unease crept through me. One brother intimidating, the other charming but dangerous in a different way. I had walked into a den of lions, and I wasn’t sure which one would bite first.
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of details—timelines, budgets, names of suppliers. Damien’s sharp mind missed nothing, his questions precise, his standards impossibly high. By the time I finally left, my head spun.
Yet beneath the exhaustion, adrenaline thrummed through my veins. I hadn’t just survived Damien Blackwood, I’d stood my ground. And part of me, a part I hadn’t felt in months, whispered that maybe, just maybe, I could rise again.
I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, relief washing over me like a tide. I was halfway to the exit when a voice stopped me.
“Miss Morgan?”
I turned. A tall woman in a sleek navy suit approached, her expression carefully polite. “Elizabeth Hart. Mr. Blackwood’s executive assistant.”
I nodded. “Yes, we spoke on the phone.”
Elizabeth leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You seem like a nice woman, so I’ll say this only once. Don’t get too comfortable. Women who get close to Damien Blackwood don’t usually last long.”
I blinked, my stomach tightening. “What do you mean?”
Elizabeth’s lips curved, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ll find out.”
And with that, she walked away, heels clicking sharply against the marble.
I stood frozen, the weight of the warning heavy on my chest. First the anonymous message. Now this.
I forced my legs to move, stepping into the brisk city air. My phone buzzed in my bag, and for a moment I dreaded another warning.
But it wasn’t a message this time. It was an email.
From Damien Blackwood himself.
Subject: Contractual Agreement.
Message: Miss Morgan, report to my estate tomorrow morning. You will be staying there until the event concludes. Pack accordingly. Your employment depends on it.
My breath caught.
Stay at his estate?
My fingers trembled as I clutched the phone. I wanted to believe this was just work, just business. But deep down, something told me I had just stepped across a line I could never uncross.
And somewhere, unseen, someone was already watching.