9 - The Meeting Arrangement
Hospital Room, Late Afternoon
Scarlett Landon sat beside her father's hospital bed, her fingers brushing lightly over the back of his hand.
His skin felt fragile, like rice paper—cool, thin, veined.
The beeping of the heart monitor echoed in the quiet room, steady but ominous, each pulse a reminder that he was still here. Still fighting. But fading.
Light slanted in through the window blinds, casting stripes across the mint-green walls and making the shadows look longer than they should. The scent of antiseptic clung to everything—bedding, air, even her hair and clothes after days of keeping vigil.
Her father stirred beneath the covers, the hospital sheets rustling like dry leaves. Once broad-shouldered and strong, he now seemed swallowed by the bed, sunken into the mattress. When his eyelids fluttered open, his gaze searched for her through a haze of medication and exhaustion.
Scarlett forced a smile. "How are you feeling, Dad?"
He tried to answer, but only a ghost of a smile formed. "Been better, sweetheart."
The door clicked open, and a nurse entered quietly in soft-soled shoes.
She was young, efficient, expressionless.
Scarlett watched her check vitals, enter numbers, adjust a drip.
Numbers flickered across the monitor. Scarlett didn't know what they meant, but the nurse didn't look alarmed, so she held her breath and said nothing.
When they were alone again, Scarlett leaned back in the hard plastic chair that had molded to her after too many sleepless nights.
Her spine protested, and she rolled her shoulders with a soft groan.
The movement smudged the remnants of mascara beneath her eyes, but she didn't care. There were bigger concerns.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder—worn, overhandled. Inside were pages of boutique plans: storefront sketches, vendor contacts, spreadsheets with hopeful numbers. A younger version of herself had believed in those dreams. Now they looked like someone else's.
The bills had devoured everything. What little they had left was going to doctors and machines. And now her mother had brought up the last card they had left to play.
Scarlett's jaw clenched. Her mother's voice still echoed in her head from that morning, brittle and certain:
"It's the only way, darling. The Blackwoods can save us—save your father."
The Blackwoods. Titans of industry. A name she'd only heard in passing, wrapped in rumors and reverence.
Her gaze drifted back to her father's sleeping face, taking in every crease, every detail, as though she could etch it into memory. He didn't know about the arrangement. Not yet. Not entirely.
Is this my fate now? To be traded like an asset in a boardroom?
The thought made her stomach twist. And yet...
What choice did she have?
None. Not when the alternative was watching her slip away.
Blackwood Enterprises Penthouse, Sunset
Ethan Blackwood stood at the top of the world.
His penthouse office stretched high above the city, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a skyline painted in fire and gold. The setting sun lit the steel and glass towers below, but he didn't see beauty—he saw conquest. Territory. Leverage.
One hand rested in the pocket of his charcoal suit, the other on the cool glass. His jaw remained tight, a muscle ticking beneath a day's worth of stubble.
A knock broke the silence.
"Enter," he said without turning.
The door opened. He caught his Mother's reflection in the window as she stepped inside—blond hair in a sleek twist, movements precise, heels soundless on the floor. She carried a manila folder.
"The Landon file," Sarah announced, dropping it onto his desk. "Everything you need to know about your future bride."
Ethan turned. "This is unnecessary. The merger can go through without dragging marriage into it."
Sarah didn't flinch. "Grandfather disagrees. So does the board. This marriage stabilizes our Southwest holdings and cleans up the Landons' debts in the process. It's strategic."
"It's archaic," Ethan replied, but he opened the folder anyway.
A single photo slid out—Scarlett Landon.
Dark hair curled across her shoulders, eyes sharp with defiance even in stillness. She didn't look like a socialite or a debutante. There was grit behind that gaze. Something that didn't belong in a family scrambling to stay afloat.
He studied the image longer than necessary.
Sarah smirked. "Caught your interest?"
He snapped the folder shut. "Marriage is a distraction. This is a business, nothing more."
"Then treat it like one," she said crisply. "But Grandfather was clear—no marriage, no succession."
Ethan turned away again, jaw hard. "I don't like being forced."
Sarah tilted her head. "Then don't call it force. Call it negotiation."
Silence stretched.
Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Fine. One meeting."
Sarah's eyes glittered. "Knew you'd come around."
Blackwood Estate Tea Room, The Next Afternoon
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the east wing tea room, gilding every surface in gold. The scent of jasmine tea mingled with polished wood and blooming orchids.
Sarah set her porcelain cup down with a soft clink. "You haven't even met the girl and you're already impossible."
Ethan lounged across from her, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the antique table. The family ring on his hand caught the light—platinum, engraved with the Blackwood crest.
"I agreed to a meeting," he said coolly. "Let's not pretend this is anything more than theater."
Sarah leaned forward. "It doesn't need to be a romance novel. But you could at least try not to scare her off."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "I thought the whole point was that she had no choice."
She turned to Ethan. "This is more than optics. The girl is desperate. Her father's dying. They're drowning. You don't have to love her. You don't even have to like her. But you will show up, make a good impression, and you will play your role."
Ethan stood, buttoning his jacket. "Send the details. I'll be there."
Elder Blackwood watched him leave, concerned furrowing her brow. "Do you really think this will work?"
Sarah smiled faintly, sipping her tea. "They're both proud. Both stubborn. That's a start."
Hospital Room, That Evening
The night shift had settled in. The hallway outside Scarlett's room had quieted. Her father slept fitfully, murmuring now and then. Machines hummed their constant lullaby.
Scarlett scrolled through emails without really reading them, her eyes heavy. Her phone buzzed.
Scarlett didn't move at first. Just stared at the message, her jaw tight.
Another buzz.
That was it. No greeting. No explanation. Just a location. A time.
Scarlett scoffed under her breath. "Charming."
A nurse passing by gave her a quick glance, but Scarlett ignored it. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, loaded with retorts:
What am I, a summons?
You could try asking, not ordering.
Thanks for the warm welcome, fiancé.
But her father stirred again, murmuring her name.
Scarlett's shoulders dropped. She slipped the phone back into her pocket.
She would go.
But she wouldn't go quietly.