Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ADDIE
At least I didn't have to do the dishes on my wedding day.
Mei Ling was a blur of soft-spoken authority, directing the servants to clear the uneaten feast with a flick of her hand.
She moved through the Great Hall like a conductor, her quiet commands turning the chaos of the interrupted dinner into an efficient cleaning machine.
Silverware clattered into velvet-lined bins.
The half-eaten venison was whisked away before the steam stopped rising from the plates.
It was a strange, haunting domesticity; the way the house simply reset itself the moment the men left to shed blood.
"Go on, Addie." My new mother-in-law nudged me with a knowing smile. "Get some rest while the house is quiet. If my boy is anything like his father, you won't be getting much sleep once he returns tonight."
She gave me a conspiratorial wink that left me flushed and speechless. Then she was gone, spinning back to the cleaning staff to direct them about wine storage. I stood there alone in the center of the receding feast, her words echoing in the sudden, heavy silence of the hall.
Ivar had slunk off to do homework, his youthful grumbling a sharp contrast to the stillness the older Blackwood men had left in their wake. There was nothing for me to do.
I made my way back toward Vidar’s wing—my wing now, I supposed—with the red silk of my dress whispering against the floorboards.
Was this the blueprint for the rest of my life?
A sequence of repeating after a man, being fed choice morsels by hand—and god, the worst part was how much I’d actually liked that—and playing the part of a glorified dinner companion simply because I’d been born with the wrong anatomy for the "War Room"?
I stopped in the hallway, my gaze landing on Vidar’s heavy oak door. I felt like a servant who only came out to clean up. No. Worse. I felt like a doll who was being put back on the shelf after being played with.
I wanted a leverage point in a house built on secrets and blood loyalties. They talked about trust as if it was a holy relic. I'd never been a religious woman. Trust was just a lack of information.
My heart hammered like a trapped hummingbird against my ribs as I reached for Vidar's doorknob. I tried the handle. It wasn't locked.
I peeked inside. My body braced for consequence. I half-expected Vidar to step out of the shadows as if he’d been waiting for this, or for some unseen security system to scream its warning.
Nothing happened.
The room held its silence. The absence of sound pressed in on me, suffocating, as if I’d crossed a line I couldn’t see but could already feel tightening around my throat.
I shouldn’t be here. And still…
My gaze dragged until it landed on the desk. There it was. His laptop. Not hidden. Not locked away. Just… there.
Like a test. Or a trap.
My fingers twitched at my side, a restless, traitorous urge curling through me. Curiosity burned hotter than caution. It licked up my spine, whispering that one look wouldn’t matter. That I could take something from him for once.
I took a step closer before I could stop myself.
I flipped it open. No password. No biometric scan. Just an open digital door.
Is it snooping if the contract is signed and the vows are spoken? I was his wife. What was his was mine, and all. I was already justifying the breach.
I pulled out the chair and sat, my fingers hovering over the trackpad. I was on the hunt for anything to give me more power. What I found was a folder labeled with my name.
It definitely wasn't snooping if it was about me. I double-clicked on the icon. The folder spilled its contents. What was inside wasn't just a background check; it was an autopsy of my life.
There were dossiers on my past relationships, names of partners I hadn't thought of in years, even notes on my spending habits and the exact date I’d earned my last bonus. The level of intrusion was staggering. He hadn't just bought my debt; he’d mapped my soul.
And then, right beneath my personal file, was a folder for Sterling it was a revelation.
Vidar was orchestrating a massive short-sell of Sterling you "borrow" shares at a high price, sell them immediately, and wait for the company to crater so you can buy them back for pennies to return them.
The difference—the wreckage—is your profit.
But Vidar wasn't just waiting for the firm to die. By dumping a massive volume of shares into the market all at once, he was forcing the price to plummet. He was the one holding the pillow over the firm’s face while the rest of the market would watch it suffocate.
My eyes scanned the transaction logs, and my blood turned to ice.
There, tucked into a sub-folder of "Acquisitions," were my own private shares. The equity I’d bled for. He’d already bought them up through a series of offshore shell companies.
It was illegal—insider trading, market manipulation, a dozen different felonies—but the Blackwoods didn't live by the law of the land. They lived by the law of the wild.
A sick, twisted part of me realized he’d, in a sense, saved me. By moving my stock into his account before the crash, he’d insulated my wealth. I wouldn't lose a dime when Sterling & Associates hit zero.
But then I remembered Nell.
Nell, who didn't have a Blackwood protector. Nell, who believed in the firm even more than I had. She had poured every bonus, every cent of her savings, into buying more stock during the last quarter, convinced the stock would pay back in dividends.
If this short-sell went through—and it was already in motion—Nell wouldn't just be unemployed. She would be bankrupt. She’d be left holding a handful of worthless paper while her life’s work was stripped for parts.
My loyalty to Nell was the only thing I had left that hadn't been signed away in a marriage contract. I went back to my room and grabbed my phone.
"Pick up, Nell. Please, pick up the damn phone."