Chapter 2
Eliza
Jasper Blackwood—the name alone sent a shiver down my arms.
The reclusive heir to Blackwood Manor was a figure of illusion and mystery in the small town of Pinehurst and everywhere that surrounded it.
There were whispers of how coldhearted he was and the way he would disappear for years at a time, returning only when the house seemed to demand it, like a curse.
There was something sinister beneath his surface, something dark in the way people spoke of him; though in the end, every one of them would mention his power and wealth with an admiring glint in their eye.
According to the stories, Jasper Blackwood was a heathen of a child.
I suppose it was not entirely his fault initially, as he was apparently never told “no” and got anything and everything he ever wanted as the only child of Darius and Hester Blackwood, the tremendously wealthy owners of Blackwood Bladecraft—yes, that Bladecraft, the knife company that Jasper later grew into the huge weapons conglomerate Blackwood Industries.
They said he was unruly and awful then and was now a disturbingly wealthy, cutthroat, lawless businessman.
It was all well-known. A former nanny said he tried to push her over the cliff when she put her foot down and told him no to having another piece of cake.
The older residents of town swore he was the devil incarnate, formed by the spirits of the people killed by the knives his father’s company made.
He’d gotten kicked out of private school after stabbing a kid and putting another in the hospital with a broken jaw.
From the sound of it, he’d always had a dark obsession with the massive cliff drop that was his backyard.
They said his parents had to build a stone wall around the drop-off after he got angry and shoved one of his father’s valets over the edge.
Thankfully the man clung on for dear life even as Jasper stepped on his fingers, because he held on long enough to be recovered and tell the rest of the town about it after he quit.
Unfortunately, Jasper’s next victims weren’t quite as lucky.
Hester’s and Darius’s deaths were unnatural and unexplained, though many thought they knew what really happened.
Their bodies were never found, likely because, like the valet, they’d been pushed over the cliffside.
A fifteen-year-old furious Jasper was found by the cliff’s edge, covered in his mother’s blood.
Some said it was an accident; most said it was murder.
If someone had asked me, I thought he did it.
But no one knew for sure what had happened or why, only that it was by the hand of their malicious, vile son.
He never denied it, instead smirking ruthlessly at the cameras when the case was dismissed because of police misconduct and mishandling of evidence.
Some believed that his overpaid lawyer made that happen, while others were convinced the Blackwoods had the cops on their payroll.
I don’t know if it was true back then, but I knew it was true now—it was well-known that Jasper Blackwood was untouchable.
Another chill rippled up my spine as I took another curve and the view expanded before my eyes.
The houses in the distance looked deceptively small, even though most of them were mansions.
It looked like a busy patchwork quilt—save for the barren, empty rectangle where the old Blackwood manufacturing facility used to be.
The road curved again, and the view was replaced with a fresh patch of tiny houses.
I didn’t grow up in Pinehurst and had only moved there to work; my parents still lived in our small family home a few towns over.
All I knew for sure was that Jasper Blackwood was disgustingly wealthy and that the conservatory on the property—supposedly at one time, a lush, vibrant space—had essentially been abandoned and needed to be restored, and the botanical garden I worked for was on the verge of being closed.
The conservatory at Blackwood Manor was my last hope.
I had studied it for weeks using old photographs and news clippings, imagining what it could become once again: a sanctuary of rare plants, an oasis of life hidden within the shadows of the manor.
The horticultural society at Pinehurst Botanical Gardens had been trying to get inside it for years with the hope of propagating some of the rare plants rumored to be inside.
Even if they had been left to die, nature had a way of refusing, and that tiny, stupid little notion held every last one of my hopes.
Unfortunately, the horticultural society was overbearing and aggressive with their approach to everything, and I had no doubt that was how they’d tried to get into the conservatory.
Stupidly, the idea that I could do better had crawled in my head and possessed me like a spirit one day, and I couldn’t seem to shake the thought that maybe I could get him to agree to our team restoring the gardens.
I was quiet and soft-spoken, the least threatening person imaginable.
I had learned at a young age the skill of making myself invisible, something I hoped would be to my advantage here.
Apparently, after Jasper’s mother’s death, the conservatory had fallen into ruin.
No one had been allowed to touch it—not even the gardeners of the estate.
The garden had started when his mother, Hester, had poured all of her love into it, and eventually, her doting, besotted husband built the conservatory around it, so she could spend the entire year with the plants she held so dear.
Bringing my thoughts to the present, I swallowed hard as I approached the massive gates of the manor.
They were intricately designed with dark wrought-iron posts twisted into elaborate patterns.
Rich green vines of English ivy overtook the metal in spots.
It was as if the house itself had grown a cage.
The design was beautiful, but the sight of it was unsettling, as though the gates were not just for keeping others out but was also keeping secrets in.
My tires crunched to a halt just before the massive gates.
I sat in my car for a long moment, staring up at the imposing structure.
The heavy ironwork stretched high above me, and even though the gates were open, there was something about them that made me feel as though I were trespassing.
Every nerve in my body screamed to turn back around before it was too late.
I twisted my hands together and dug around to find the courage I knew I’d had at some point.
My eyes snagged on a small green light on the code box to the left of my window. They were watching me.
I lifted my chin and tried not to pass out. So much was riding on this. I couldn’t mess this up.
I reminded myself that I had come here with a goal: to convince Jasper Blackwood to donate $250,000—enough to keep our doors open another year, and to allow my team to restore the conservatory, something that could bring a large amount of publicity to Pinehurst Botanical Gardens—as well as a few tiny propagations in return.
To him, it would be nothing, but to us—to me—it would be everything.
Without this funding, I was going to lose my job, the one thing in this world that made me feel that I had a life of my own.
I had to make him see why donating would be beneficial to him and that this was more than just a job for us.
I would guarantee our discretion and that we would be quiet and unbothersome.
I collected my paperwork and quickly ran through my pitch.
I took a giant gulp of air and held it at the back of my throat.
In…one…two…three…I blew out the breath, moving the brown strands of hair that dangled in front of my face.
Sitting there, the manor looming in front of me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something much darker than a donation waiting for me behind the gates.
It was a wonder how something so immaculate and beautiful, so opulent, reminded me of one of those spring-loaded traps used for catching raccoons.
As though I would move my car another few feet, and the iron gates would slam shut behind me, trapping me here.
I moved forward, wincing as I parked my car in the large roundabout surrounding a boxwood hedge enclosing a large three-tiered black fountain, pristine but empty of water.
My fingers gripped the gray plastic door handle of my car, and I froze.
What was I doing here, alone, at dusk, facing a man who was known for little more than his nefarious business dealings and probably killing his own family?
What if someone else didn’t handle the conservatory business and I had to actually speak to Jasper Blackwood?
This whole time I’d inadvertently prepared myself to talk to an estate manager or whoever actually ran Blackwood Industries.
The idea of having to talk to Jasper Blackwood in person rattled in my chest, and there weren’t enough breathing exercises in the world to calm the fear it produced in my body.
There were other rumors too—stranger, more outlandish ones that he was cursed or that the manor itself was; that the tormented souls lost to the weapons his company made haunted the halls of Blackwood Manor, their voices lingering in the rooms, hoping to torture him back.
Darius Blackwood had been a greedy, money-hungry monster who only cared about himself.
Even though many of the stories had died down, the town of Pinehurst—and especially my mother, though she didn’t live there—held a grudge against the Blackwoods for the incident at the plant.
It had been covered up, and they’d underreported the disaster, paid off the local officials, and buried it.