8 - To the New Beginnings
The night air was bitter, thick with a creeping fog that slithered around Blackwood Mansion like ghostly fingers seeking to swallow the grand estate whole.
The ancient iron gates, wrought with the Blackwood family crest, groaned open as Sarah's sleek black Mercedes rolled through.
Gas lamps flickered weakly, their golden halos swallowed almost immediately by the dense mist, barely lighting the path ahead.
Sarah Blackwood stepped out with deliberate grace, her heels crunching sharply on the gravel driveway.
Her charcoal coat, long and tailored, brushed her calves as she pulled it tighter against the sharp chill.
Small clouds puffed from her breath with every exhale.
Her jaw was set, eyes steely—there was no room for doubt tonight.
She strode toward the polished mahogany doors, their gleam muted beneath the foggy gloom.
Inside, the butler Thompson awaited—tall, silver-haired, and as rigid as ever after thirty years of loyal service.
His sharp eyes immediately caught the tension etched in Sarah's posture, the unusual late hour signaling urgency.
Without a word, he took her coat and nodded toward the study.
"The elder Mr. Blackwood is expecting you. "
Sarah's heels echoed sharply against the marble floor as she made her way through the mansion's ostentatious interior.
Crystal chandeliers dangled from towering ceilings, scattering fragmented light like diamonds across gilded frames.
The scent of polished wood mingled with something older—history, secrets, regret.
Despite the warmth inside, a shiver ran down her spine, born from memories better left unspoken: decades-old bargains, sacrifices made in cold rooms just like this.
In the study, Elder Blackwood sat alone, a formidable figure surrounded by leather-bound tomes and relics of distant travels.
The firelight flickered across his weathered face, casting shadows beneath bushy brows and illuminating the amber whiskey swirling in his crystal glass.
At seventy-eight, he was a pillar of iron and tradition—sharp, imposing, unyielding.
His gaze lifted as Sarah entered. "Sarah," he greeted, voice low and measured. "Trouble with Ethan again?" There was a weary familiarity in his tone, as if his grandson's recklessness was a never-ending storm.
Sarah pressed her lips into a thin line, her fingers tightening briefly on the back of the leather chair opposite him—too restless to sit yet needing something solid. "It's not about Ethan, Dad but the Landons."
His eyes sharpened, curiosity piqued. "Go on." He folded his hands atop the polished desk, the signet ring catching the firelight—the Blackwood crest glowing faintly.
She didn't hesitate. "Mathew Landon collapsed this morning—heart attack. The Carson deal fell apart, and the Landons are on the edge of ruin. Scarlett's father can't save their company, but it still holds valuable patents and assets. Now we have to return what he did for us, Dad."
Elder Blackwood "Yes, I agree. Do you have any plans in your mind" asked as he read Sarah's mind. At least he knows that Sarah will not bring it to his attention without any plans or problems.
She continues " Yes, Dad. I have plans. We can get Ethan married to Mathew's daughter" Her voice was steady, but her eyes burned with urgency. "This also secures Ethan's future through marriage—and helps their business."
Elder Blackwood leaned back, fingers drumming thoughtfully. The grandfather clock ticked loudly, marking the weight of the moment. "An arranged marriage," he mused. "Old-fashioned... but effective. Do you already know about the girl?"
"Scarlett," Sarah replied. "She isTwenty five. Smart—top of her class. Strikingly beautiful, yet pretty enough to stand on her own legs without her parent's support. Shy, quiet—no scandals. Malleable." Her words were measured, as if evaluating a prospect rather than a person.
He nodded slowly. "Ethan won't welcome this," he said, voice gravelly. "He's stubborn—like his father was."
"That's why I need your help, Dad," Sarah said, leaning forward, her dark eyes locked on the elder's. "He respects you, Dad. If you tell him, maybe he'll listen. It's what James would have wanted—for his son, and for his friend's family."
The name hung between them like a fragile echo. Elder Blackwood exhaled heavily. "Very well.It's time to return Mathew's family what we owe." He drained his whiskey in one swift motion. "Call Ethan."
An hour later, the roar of an engine sliced through the fog, thickening now like a living thing. Ethan Blackwood's Aston Martin glided through the mist, headlights piercing fleeting paths before fading into the gloom. He parked with effortless precision and stepped out—scowl firmly in place.
Dressed in a sharp black suit with the top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, Ethan moved with lazy confidence, his every step radiating controlled power.
His dark hair was deliberately tousled, a devil-may-care mask over the calculating steel-gray eyes beneath.
At six-foot-two, he was every inch the heir to the Blackwood legacy, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his irritation at being summoned.
Without waiting for a greeting, he pushed through the front door, nodding curtly at Thompson, who raised a single eyebrow in response to the impatience on display.
Ethan strode through familiar halls, footsteps heavy with purpose and annoyance. He entered the study unannounced, gaze sharp as a blade scanning Sarah and his grandfather.
"What is it now, Grandpa?" His voice cut the air, cold and clipped. "I was busy."
Elder Blackwood's steady tone brooked no argument. "Sit, Ethan. Family business."
Ethan's posture loosened just enough as he dropped into the chair with practiced ease, stretching his legs out. But the tension in his shoulders betrayed his impatience. "This better be good," he warned, eyes flicking toward the antique clock. "Some of us have real work."
"It is important," Elder Blackwood said, unphased. "The Landons are in crisis. Mathew Landon had a heart attack this morning. Their business teeters on collapse after the Carson deal's failure. And Scarlett..." His voice hardened. "She's your fiancée."
Ethan froze, the casual scowl replaced by stunned disbelief. "Excuse me?" His words sliced the silence, deliberate and sharp.
Sarah cut in, voice steady but firm. "We're arranging a marriage. It will stabilize both families. The Landons keep their dignity and company, and you secure your reputation as a serious businessman instead of a corporate raider. Their patents are valuable assets."
A humorless laugh escaped Ethan, brittle and raw. "So it's a business transaction. Marry a stranger for image's sake?" His lips twisted in disdain.
"Yes." Elder Blackwood's eyes locked on his grandson's. "It's best for everyone. The Landons keep their company. You act like the Blackwood heir you are—rather than the reckless man the press criticizes."
"Instead of what, Grandfather?" Ethan challenged. "Someone who tripled the company's value in five years? Who saved us from ruin after Father's death?"
The name 'James' lingered heavily in the room—unspoken grief threading through the tension.
Ethan leaned back, smirking, though the firelight never touched his eyes.
"Here's an idea—skip the marriage. Buy Landon outright, absorb the assets at a discount.
No strings, no compromises." He glanced at his watch.
"Lawyers could draft the papers tonight. "
Sarah's composure cracked, a gasp escaping as she stood, voice rising. "How can you say that? A family is collapsing, a man fighting for his life—and you think only of profit? Is this who you've become?"
Ethan's jaw tightened, voice flat and cold. "Practicality, Mom. Father taught me that. Emotions doesn't build empires."
Silence thickened the room. The fire crackled as shadows flickered across their faces—each locked in a silent war of wills. Then Sarah's voice broke through, steady and resolute.
"If Ethan refuses, I will transfer all my shares to Landon Group. They will become major shareholders."
The room froze. Ethan's eyes widened imperceptibly; Elder Blackwood's brows rose in rare surprise.
"Sarah," the elder said cautiously, "do you realize what you're risking?"
She nodded, a strand of hair brushing her face. "I do. Dad, if that's not enough—you can also do the same. You've always wanted Ethan to settle down. This is the only way."
He sighed deeply, fingers rubbing his temples. The firelight caught the signet ring once more—a symbol of legacy and duty. His eyes, sharp and relentless, met Ethan's stormy gaze.
"She's right," he said. "I will transfer my shares if you refuse. The Blackwood name means something. It's time you remember that."
Ethan's fists clenched, knuckles whitening. Power slipped through his fingers—the control he prized more than anything threatened by a woman he'd never met.
The grandfather clock struck midnight, its chimes echoing like a sentence.
Ethan rose, pacing to the window where the fog pressed like cold hands against the glass. His reflection stared back—hard, unforgiving.
His voice, low and icy, cut through the room. "Fine. I'll marry Scarlett Landon."
Sarah exhaled, relief flooding her features as tension drained. Elder Blackwood nodded, pouring three glasses of whiskey, a ghost of satisfaction curling his lips.
But Ethan remained at the window, expression unreadable. This was no fairy tale, no surrender to love.
It was business. Cold, calculated, and ruthless.
Raising his glass in a mock toast, he smiled—smile cold and empty.
"To new beginnings," he said smoothly, "and to Scarlett Landon, whoever she may be."
The whiskey burned down his throat, a perfect companion to the iron resolve hardening in his chest.