Chapter 6
HELENA
The harbor sky looks like a fresh bruise, ugly purple bleeding into the gray.
I watch it slide through the tinted window of the SUV, my forehead resting against the cold glass. The engine's vibration hums against my skull, a constant reminder that I’m moving, even though I have nowhere left to go.
We cross the bridge into the industrial district, tires humming on the asphalt.
Usually, this drive wakes me up. Seeing the cranes rising against the skyline usually reminds me who I am and fills me with pride.
This is my city. My port. My blood is mixed into the concrete of those docks. But today, the skyline is a cage.
My hands are folded in my lap, resting on the fabric of a skirt I didn’t choose.
Earlier, a strange woman entered the suite where I’m being held.
A middle-aged maid with quick, cold hands, she didn't speak to me.
She simply laid the clothes out on the end of the bed: a charcoal pencil skirt, a white silk blouse, and a black structured blazer.
Less like business wear and more like armor.
She took the heavy boots and thick sweater I'd packed in my desperate rush and replaced them with black heels.
"You have a meeting," was all she said.
So, I dressed. It’s all I could do.
I put on the stranger's clothes and painted my face with the makeup provided, carefully layering concealer over the dark circles under my eyes. An extra layer coated the faint bruise blooming on my neck where the monster’s fingers had pressed the night before.
In the mirror, I looked like Helena Blackwood, the resilient heiress to a shipping empire, but sitting here, locked inside this heavy car next to the man who stole my life, I’m a prop. A doll in a glass box, waiting to be played with.
Konstantin Morozov sits beside me, typing on his phone. The rhythm of it is starting to grate on my nerves. He’s wearing a dark slate suit today, cut to fit the width of his shoulders perfectly. To the outside world, he could pass for a legitimate businessman. An investor. To me, he’s dangerous.
"Slow down," the driver says.
It's not Lev up front. It's another one of Konstantin's shadows—a bull-necked man whose eyes flick to the rearview every four seconds.
The driver mutters something in Russian. I don't speak the language, but I've learned enough in the past hours to recognize the tone.
He isn’t annoyed. He's on guard.
Konstantin hasn't looked at me since we left the penthouse. He stares at his phone, scrolling through a file with a focus that's almost insulting.
"Why are we stopping?" I ask, my voice sounding rusty.
Konstantin doesn't look up. "Standard protocol."
"There’s no protocol for a traffic jam at eight in the morning," I say, glancing out the window. "Unless there's an accident."
"There’s no accident," he says flatly. "We are checking the perimeter."
"Checking for what?"
He finally turns his head. His eyes are cold, clear, and devoid of sleep. "For anyone who isn't us."
He taps the driver's shoulder. "Status?"
"Traffic is backing up at the bridge," the driver replies, his accent thick. "The chatter is up. The Italians are sniffing around the south docks."
My stomach gives a painful twist. The Italians.
The debt note in my father's desk, and the men I thought were coming for us, flash through my mind. If the Moretti family knows the Blackwood empire is vulnerable, they won't stop at money. They will come for blood.
"Let them sniff," Konstantin says. "If they cross the perimeter, put them in the ground."
He slides the phone into his pocket and turns to face me.
"You’re shaking," he observes.
I clench my hands into fists to stop the tremors in my lap. "I'm angry."
"Good. Anger is useful. Use the anger, Helena. You’ll need it."
"I don't need your advice," I spit. "I need you to get out of my building."
"My building," he corrects softly.
The car slows.
We’re turning off the highway onto the Harbor Road. The air outside changes, even through the filtration system of the car, the smell of salt and diesel swirl. The scent of the Atlantic.
Rising above the industrial sprawl of the docks, gleaming against the overcast sky, is the glass tower.
BLACKWOOD SHIPPING & LOGISTICS.
The letters are massive, chrome-plated steel mounted on the top floor, reflecting the gray clouds.
My heart gives a painful, jagged thump.
This isn't a building. It’s my blood. My mother sketched the design for that tower on a napkin when I was six years old. She picked the location specifically so she could oversee the action from her desk. The cranes. The containers. The constant stream of activity forming our family’s lifeblood.
I’ve walked into that building every day for five years. I know every crack in the sidewalk, every security guard's name, every squeaky floorboard in the mailroom.
But today, as the convoy of black SUVs sweeps through the security gates, it doesn't feel like a homecoming. It feels like an invasion.
The car comes to a halt at the curb in front of the main entrance. Usually, the sidewalk is bustling with couriers or staff, and I'd be walking in with my coffee, waving to Frank at the front desk.
Today, the sidewalk is empty.
One of Konstantin's men opens my door, letting the cold harbor wind rush in to whip my hair across my face.
"Out," Konstantin commands.
I step onto the pavement. My legs wobble in the unfamiliar heels, but I force them to lock. I straighten my spine and smooth the front of the blazer. If I'm walking to my execution, I’ll do it with my head held high, damn them.
Unflinching, I walk toward the doors with Konstantin a looming presence at my back. I can feel his heat, his gravity pulling at me.
I step into the lobby.
It’s a grand space of high ceilings and white marble floors, dominated by the massive digital map tracking our fleet.
I stop dead.
The reception desk is there, the polished granite slab where Frank has sat for fifteen years. Frank, with coffee stains on his uniform and his grandkids’ pictures taped to the monitor. But Frank is gone.
In his place sits a man I’ve never seen before. He’s young, with a shaved head and a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He wears a black suit that strains at the seams, and he isn’t watching the monitors. He’s staring at the door. At me.
He doesn't smile. He gives a sharp nod to Konstantin.
I scan the lobby. Two other men in dark suits stand by the elevators in that rigid parade-rest pose. They look like mercenaries.
My stomach churns.
They have replaced the security. My kingdom has been occupied while I slept.
"Where is Frank?" I demand, my voice echoing in the quiet lobby.
Konstantin steps beside me, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back. It could pass for a gentleman's gesture, a partner guiding his associate, but his fingers dig into my waist, a painful reminder of who is in control.
"Frank has been given an early retirement," Konstantin replies casually. "My team handles security now. It’s more efficient."
"Frank has three grandchildren," I say, my voice trembling with rage. "He needs this job."
"Frank was asleep at the monitors half the time," Konstantin counters. "Move."
He pushes me forward with enough force to make me stumble.
We walk past the new guard. He doesn't ask for ID or offer a polite greeting. He watches us with dead, shark-like eyes instead.
Konstantin presses the elevator button.
"You can't fire everyone," I hiss, keeping my voice low so the guards don't hear. "These people have worked for my family for decades. They’re loyal."
"They were loyal to a paycheck," Konstantin corrects. "And you stopped signing those paychecks months ago. I’m doing them a favor. I’m bringing in new management."
The doors slide open, and we step inside.
As they close, sealing us in the metal box, the silence returns, thicker this time.
I watch the numbers climb. 10... 15... 20...
My office is on the top floor. The executive suite.
Konstantin stands in the corner, leaning back against the rail, watching. He isn’t typing on his phone anymore.
The elevator dings. Floor 30.
The doors open.
I take a deep breath. This is the hard part.
The executive floor is an open-plan layout—glass walls, low dividers, usually buzzing with the hum of activity. It’s the nerve center of the company.
I step out, and the hum dies instantly.
It happens in a wave. First, the people closest to the elevator look up, then the silence spreads until the entire floor is dead quiet.
People—analysts, logistics coordinators, sales reps—turn to look at me.
They see me, and then they see him as Konstantin walks out at my heels.
I see the fear in their eyes. They have heard the rumors. They know about the men in the lobby. They know something is wrong.
I lock eyes with Dave, the Operations Manager. He’s a loud, boisterous man who usually greets me with a joke about the football scores.
Today, he looks at me and immediately glances at his keyboard, typing furiously at nothing.
They are all terrified.
And I’m the one bringing the terror in.
I walk toward my office, the click of my heels echoing too loudly on the polished concrete floor.
Every step feels like a lie. I’m showing confidence and power. But inside, I’m screaming.
I reach Sarah's desk.
She jumps as if I've electrocuted her, scrambling to her feet and clutching a tablet to her chest.
"Miss Blackwood!" she squeaks. Her eyes dart to Konstantin, then back to me, wide with panic. "I... we were worried. You didn't come in yesterday, and your phone was off. Mr. Rossi called three times, he said… "
"I'm fine, Sarah," I interrupt. "I had personal matters to attend to."
"Oh." She swallows hard.
Her gaze drops to my neck, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the bruise barely hidden by the concealer.
She knows. "Is... is everything okay?"
I want to grab her shoulders and tell her to run. I want to scream, "Call the police! This man is a monster!"