Kiss of Vengeance

Chapter 1

HELENA

The nightmare never changes.

It always starts the moment I close my eyes.

In the dream, I’m twenty years old again. The phone rings in the hallway, cutting through the quiet afternoon. I answer it. The voice on the other end is cold. It’s a police officer. He sounds tired, reading from a script he has used a thousand times.

He talks about the rain. He talks about the slick road on the coast. He tells me that my father lost control of the Mercedes, and it spun twice before tearing through the guardrail.

Then he delivers the words that stop my world.

"Mr. Blackwood is being treated for minor injuries, but I’m sorry... your mother didn't survive the impact."

I scream for her, but no sound comes out.

The worst part isn’t the crash. It’s the silence that follows. The silence of the house and of my father sitting in his armchair days later, staring at his hands, the hands that were on the wheel, while a glass of whiskey trembles in his grip.

I wake with a gasp, my lungs seizing as if I’ve been held underwater.

For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The room is dark, with the heavy curtains pulled tight, blocking out the morning sun. I lie there, my heart hammering against my ribs, waiting for the panic to pass.

The dream, the waking, the crushing weight of reality pressing on my chest before I even place a foot on the floor, happens almost every day.

It has been five years, but the wreckage is still here. It just looks different now.

My father didn't die in that car, but the man he used to be did. The smart owner of the Blackwood empire and the loving husband was buried with my mother. The man who walked away from the crash is a stranger. He’s empty, eaten alive by guilt.

He started drinking to stop the noise in his head. He started gambling to feel something other than pain. He has spent every day of the last five years trying to punish himself, and he’s dragging the family empire down with him.

I’m the one who has to fix it.

For five years, I’ve been the one running the show. I beg the banks for more time. I apologize to the clients he ignores. I work until my eyes burn to keep the business alive. He’s digging a grave for this company, and I’m desperately trying to pull us out of it.

I throw off the silk duvet and sit up, shivering.

The Blackwood Estate is always cold. It’s a massive gray stone fortress sitting on the cliffs above the Atlantic Ocean.

My father built it twenty years ago to prove to the world that he was powerful.

Now, with the heating broken in half the rooms and most of the staff gone, the house is less like a mansion and more like a tomb.

I walk across the room. My bare feet sink into the carpet, but the floorboards beneath creak. The house isn't strong anymore. It settles into the cliffs a little more every year, as if the ocean is trying to drag it down.

I pass the wardrobe. It’s filled with designer coats I haven't worn in three years. I pass where a bottle of Chanel perfume sits gathering dust. I don't wear it anymore.

I turn to the nightstand.

It’s the first thing I do every morning. Before I check my phone or the shipping reports, I check on her.

The frame is silver, tarnished slightly at the edges where my thumbs have rubbed it for five years. Inside, my mother, Eleanor, is laughing. She’s standing on the deck of a ship, wind in her hair, holding a glass of champagne. She looks radiant, like a woman who has forever left to live.

I pick up the frame and trace her smile with my finger. "Good morning, Mom," I whisper.

I don't pray. I stopped believing in God at her funeral, but I believe in her.

This photo is the only real thing in this house. It’s my strength. When the banks call, I look at her. When my father stumbles in at 3:00 AM after losing a huge sum in a bet and reeking of alcohol, I look at her. I promise her, every single day, that I won't let him destroy what she helped build.

I could’ve left years ago. I could’ve let the bank take the house and walked away. But this company was her dream as much as his. Leaving it would feel like killing her all over again.

I’m trying, Mom. I swear, I’m trying.

I set the frame back down, angling it perfectly so she’s watching me. It’s a superstition, maybe, but it feels like as long as she’s watching, the walls won't collapse.

I walk to the bathroom. The face in the mirror is pale, the dark circles under my eyes stark against my skin.

My dark hair is pulled into a tight bun, not a single strand out of place.

My green eyes stare back at me, sharp and sleepless.

I’m only twenty-five but feel twice my age.

The prime of my life has been a mere blur.

I splash cold water on my face, scrubbing away the exhaustion.

Wake up, Helena.

I get dressed fast. A sharp black skirt. A white silk blouse buttoned to the top. A blazer that makes my shoulders look stronger than they are. I pull my hair back into a tight bun. It hurts my scalp, but I like the pain. It helps me focus.

I need to focus. Today is the deadline for the Venezuelan deal.

I walk downstairs. My heels click on the marble floor, echoing through the house. It’s too quiet.

This hallway was never empty before. My mother loved to host. There were parties every weekend, music drifting from the ballroom, and staff rushing everywhere with trays of champagne. The house was so alive then.

"Martha?" I call out.

Martha, our housekeeper, comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s a stout, kind woman who practically raised me, but lately, she looks as tired as I feel. Her uniform is worn out at the edges.

"Morning, Miss Helena," she says, her voice hushed. "Coffee is on the counter."

"Is he up?" I ask.

Her eyes drift to the ceiling, where the primary suite is on the second floor. "I haven't heard a sound. I tried to check in on him an hour ago, but the door is locked."

I exhale slowly. If his door is locked, it means he’s either passed out or gone.

"Let him sleep," I say, grabbing my coffee. "If he wakes up... just make sure he eats something solid."

"He hasn't been eating much, miss," she says softly. "Only drinking."

"I know, Martha. I know."

I grab my bag and walk out, unable to look her in the eye. I can't fix my father. I can barely fix the payroll.

Outside, the sky is dark, with thick clouds rolling in off the ocean. I get into my car, an old Audi that I keep polished so it looks new, and drive toward the city. Usually, I use the drive to the office to think, but today, my head is swirling with numbers.

My phone buzzes on the passenger seat. I don't look at it. I know who it is. The bank. The port. The lawyers. Someone needing something I don’t have.

My stomach twists. I haven’t eaten breakfast. I haven’t eaten a real meal in days.

Two million owed to the bank. Four months behind on port fees. The union threatening to strike if I don't pay them by Friday.

And then there’s the Venezuelan deal.

It’s our last chance. It’s a huge contract to move mining drills. It’s legal, and it pays a lot. The money would be enough to clear our debt and keep us safe for another six months.

If anything goes wrong, the company is dead.

The bank has given us a hard deadline of Monday morning. If the money isn't in the account by 9:00 AM, they take the business.

The client of the Venezuelan deal, Apex Heavy Industries, is already threatening to sue. Their lawyers sent a warning this yesterday: if our ship doesn't leave the harbor by midnight, they’ll cancel the deal. Fifty million dollars, gone.

I pull into the harbor parking lot. The giant cranes of the port loom against the gray sky. This is my kingdom. Or what’s left of it.

The offices of Blackwood Shipping occupy the top two floors of a glass tower overlooking the docks. We used to own the whole building. Now, we rent the bottom floors to a tech startup to pay the bills.

I walk past the front desk, nodding to the security guard, Frank. He looks worried. Everyone does these days.

I enter my office and look at my assistant, Sarah.

"Status."

Ever prepared, she’s already waiting. Sarah is young, smart, and too good to be working for my sinking ship of a company, but loyal to us. She holds a tablet against her chest like a shield.

"The Port Authority is stalling," she says, following me to my desk. "They haven't cleared the ship for departure. They’re claiming there’s a problem with the insurance."

I slam my bag onto the desk. "There’s no problem. I paid it myself yesterday. I used my personal savings."

Sarah winces, knowing my savings were the last money I had.

"I know," she says. "But they’re saying the system hasn't updated."

"A wire transfer takes two hours!" I snap, staring at the screen. "It’s been three days. What is happening? Where are all these problems coming from, especially now?"

She swallows hard. "Well, they aren't answering the phone. And... Mr. Rossi called."

I freeze.

Rossi is the man we owe the most money to.

"What did he want?"

"He wants a meeting today. He says if he doesn't see a payment plan by noon, he’s taking the warehouses."

I sink into my chair and look out the huge window. Below, our ship sits at the dock. It’s peaceful from up here rather than the ticking time bomb it really is. My entire existence is tied to that hull.

"Get Rossi on the phone," I say. "Tell him I’m in a meeting with the Venezuelan attaché. Lie to him. Tell him the money is safe in the bank and will be released when the ship leaves. Buy me twenty-four hours."

"And the Port Authority?"

"I’ll go down there myself if I have to. Send the receipt of the transfer to the harbor master now."

She nods and runs out.

I spend the next six hours putting out fires. I sign papers, yell at union representatives, and lie to nervous investors.

It’s just business, my father used to say. It’s a game. You have to hold your cards right.

But my father stopped playing the game years ago. Now, the game is playing him.