Chapter 4
Eliza
My low heels clicked sharply against the gleaming marble floors as I followed a butler—seriously, who has a butler?
!—through the expanse of Blackwood Manor.
So this was how wealthy killers lived? The grandeur of the place was exquisite but suffocating—tall, darkened windows, heavy curtains that blocked out the sunlight, and portraits of what I assumed were long-dead ancestors stared down at me, judging my every move.
I hadn’t been expecting comfort inside, but I hadn’t quite been prepared for the oppressive weight of it all either.
The manor seemed to stretch on endlessly, each room more foreboding than the last. The thought of one singular man living in this massive structure was unfathomable when it could have housed two dozen comfortably.
The butler, an older, white-haired gentleman with an air of quiet authority, hadn’t spoken much since he’d opened the doors and led me inside with a deep-set scowl upon his face that pulled at his marionette lines.
He hadn’t offered me tea or asked if I’d like to sit down, as was customary in many smaller estates that I’d been to around here.
Alfred, Batman’s butler—that’s who he reminded me of!
I felt an unwelcome smile pull at my mouth, amused at the comparison as my eyes watched the man leading me.
He was more sinister looking than Alfred, with that expression on his face.
Though he was dressed in a pressed pair of khakis and a fine wool sweater that was appropriate with the cooling weather, there was a rough-hewn air about him, like a sharp-eyed falcon dressed in a cardigan.
“Mr. Blackwood is expecting you. He saw you arrive.” The words felt more like an order than an invitation.
As we passed under a stone archway that led to what appeared to be a drawing room of sorts, my mind raced.
Looking at the dark, traditionally modern interior of the manor, I couldn’t help but wonder how I was going to face this man the town gossips spoke of with so much fear.
He had an infamous scar, and it wasn’t known how he had come to own it.
He had seemed handsome in the way that some serial killers were and was rumored to have dated Hollywood sweethearts and models.
I didn’t care if he looked like Damon Salvatore, my focus was the donation and the conservatory.
I had to convince him.
I didn’t realize how tightly my jaw was set until the butler stopped in front of a large shiny black door, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection before he turned the round brass handle with a soft click and our reflection disappeared.
He glanced at me once, and then, with a slight bow, stepped aside.
“Mr. Blackwood will see you now.”
I stood for a moment, eyeing the doorway, and then stepped forward.
The atmosphere of the room was thick with expectation, like the manor itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what fury I would cause.
I desperately wanted to run through a breathing exercise, but I had no time for hesitation—my career was on the line.
The door creaked as I pushed it farther open. The jarring scent of something burning wafted from the room. A small gasp lodged in my throat, and I felt my eyes widen briefly.
Jasper Blackwood sat behind a massive wooden desk that seemed far too large for the room.
The office was meticulously organized with neatly shelved books, all with the pages out so you couldn’t read the spines—which seemed psychopathic enough on its own—and the smell of smoke accompanied a strange chill in the air.
The chill quickly turned warm and uncomfortable as my eyes fell on the man behind the desk.
He was a striking figure—tall, angular, with jet-black hair that seemed impossibly dark in the dim light of the room.
His features were sharp, his jawline defined with an almost predatory elegance.
He was the kind of man whose presence filled the space, whose silence seemed louder than any spoken word.
For a split second, I wondered why I was there, forgetting about the donation and who the man was entirely.
I snapped my attention back to the issue at hand and fought the urge to shake my head to clear it.
My eyes flickered to the scar that went from under his right eyebrow, up in a diagonal line, across to the left side and stopping before his hairline.
It was thin and jagged but only added to his image.
He had such a magnetic pull that it made the photographs I had seen seem almost misleading—or perhaps they weren’t, and the added layer of appeal was more of an aura that seemed to roll off him.
It was unfortunately quite easy to see why the man had gotten away with so much over the years; he was absurdly good-looking, and he carried himself in a confident, mysteriously alluring way.
I bristled, loathing him all the more for it—some of us didn’t experience pretty privilege; some of us weren’t just handed millions of dollars or mansions.
His eyes lifted from what looked like a burning envelope as I entered, and for a brief moment, they locked onto mine, at first with a tinge of surprise and then something else as a prickle of electricity danced up my arms and over my shoulders and neck while I felt the full weight of his eyes.
Cold. Hard. They seemed to take in every detail of me, as though measuring my worth.
Quite familiar with harsh scrutiny, though maybe not from anyone that looked like he did, I stood tall, my spine straight, my breath steady.
I had come here for a purpose, and I would not be intimidated by a pair of espresso-brown eyes and whatever current momentarily zapped between us.
He casually dropped the remainder of the burning envelope into a decorative brass bowl on his desk as he held my eyes.
Out of respect I waited for him to speak first, but he merely raised a thick eyebrow, his gaze lingering on me for another beat too long before he motioned to the chair across from him.
Just the way he moved, with his air of superiority and overinflated confidence, instantly grated against my nerves.
It practically wafted off him that no one ever told him no, probably the last ones who had were his parents…
“Sit,” he said, his voice low and quiet.
I hesitated only for a moment before I crossed the room and lowered myself into the shiny leather chair. His eyes never left me, and I could feel the weight of his attention, as if he were peeling back the layers of my thoughts, searching for weakness.
“Mr. Blackwood,” I began, my voice steady despite the tension that coiled tight in my chest. “Thank you for meeting with me. I know you must be very busy while you are in Pinehurst.”
His lips twitched slightly in a mocking manner, but the movement was so subtle, it might have been a trick of the light. “I’m not sure I’d call it busy,” he said. “Though you should know I don’t typically take appointments. I’m not a salon, Miss…?” His sharp words hung in the air like a challenge.
“Eliza.” I felt my face pull into a scowl and I attempted to readjust, hoping to appear more friendly. I’d tell him whatever he wanted to hear to get the botanical gardens this money. “Eliza Arnold, I’m from the Pinehurst Botanical Gardens, about a two-hour drive.”
“I know where Pinehurst Botanical Gardens is. You people have already come here about the conservatory, and I’ve already told you no.
To be quite frank, Miss Arnold, I only took this meeting as a favor to my head butler, who has been nagging me incessantly about the state of the conservatory for years.
” He glanced at his watch, some shiny black, expensive-looking thing, and returned his slightly annoyed gaze back upon me, obviously expecting his rude sentence to push me back out the door.
Joke was on him. I was an overthinking, awkward woman; this wasn’t even the most uncomfortable conversation I’d had this week.
If he truly wanted to belittle me and break me down into tiny, minced pieces, he should take a lesson from my mother.
I pushed the conversation I’d had with her as far from my mind as possible.
I needed to remain put-together and strong.
“Well, sir, I’m not here to waste your time,” I said, setting my bag on the floor next to me and pulling out the folder containing my proposal for the conservatory’s restoration.
As I stretched my arm out and leaned toward him, I struggled not to shake, almost worried he would lash out at me.
“You are going to donate $250,000 to the Pinehurst Botanical Gardens and you are going to let us fix up your conservatory. You’ve had a rather high earning year, and as an intelligent businessman, I know that you are looking to offset your taxable income.
A donation of that size would also serve well as environmental philanthropic branding geared toward your community, something that I’m certain will interest you after Blackwood Industries’ former issues.
” I placed the folder carefully on the desk between us, watching as his eyes eventually flicked down to it after remaining on me for a surprised second.
There was no sign of interest on his face.
He didn’t even move to open it. Instead, he folded his hands in front of him and leaned back in his red leather chair.
“It’s a shame you drove all the way here when I could have easily told you no over the phone.
” His dark eyes lit with the same look a cat gets as it toys with a newly discovered mouse.
Fuck.