10 - The Forced Blind Date
Scarlett didn't dress to impress.
The floral dress she pulled from her closet was soft, simple, and deliberately not the shimmering blue one laid out on her bed. That dress whispered wealth, expectations, and legacy. This one spoke only of her—unapologetically unpolished.
She moved through their modest home with practiced ease, the hem of the fabric brushing against her knees. Her mother trailed behind, worry etched deep into every movement.
"You should really wear the blue one," Emma said, wringing her hands. "The Blackwoods expect a certain... standard."
Scarlett met her gaze in the mirror, pausing as she added a faint sweep of mascara. "Then they'll be disappointed."
Her dark curls fell freely, wild around her face. No hairspray, no heels. Just tinted lip balm and quiet defiance.
"Scarlett—please. This isn't just about—"
"It is about Dad. I know Mom. I will never disappoint you" Her tone softened. She turned, gently taking her mother's hands in hers. "I'm going. But I'm not pretending to be something I'm not."
Emma looked like she wanted to say more, but she didn't. She simply nodded, her eyes shining with things unspoken.
—
Forty minutes later, Scarlett stood outside a dead mall.
The building loomed like a relic from another era—tall glass windows streaked with grime, half-lit signs clinging to forgotten storefronts.
Faded sale posters still hung inside, their cheerful fonts dulled with dust. The parking lot was a sea of cracks and silence, broken only by the presence of a sleek black Tesla parked near the entrance.
She checked her phone again. Right address.
Her breath fogged in the evening chill as she pulled her jacket tighter. This had to be a mistake. Or a test. Either way, she didn't like it.
She tapped the number that had texted her.
It rang once.
"You're here?" The voice was low, smooth, and entirely devoid of warmth.
"At the entrance," she said. "But—"
"Seventh floor. West side. First room."
Then he hung up.
Scarlett lowered the phone and stared at the screen. Seriously?
She should turn around. She should tell him where to shove his mysterious summons. But then she pictured her father's pale face, the quiet strain in her mother's voice—and stayed.
The glass doors opened easier than expected. The air inside hit her like a wall: stale, dry, with the faint scent of dust and neglect. A blue emergency glow bathed the empty corridors in a surreal hush.
She moved through the mall like a ghost, her footsteps echoing as if she didn't belong—and she didn't. The place felt abandoned, suspended between its past and something not yet born.
The elevator waited, doors open, lights flickering above like a hesitant pulse.
Scarlett stepped inside and pressed the button for the seventh floor. As the doors slid shut, she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall—chin high, eyes steady. She wasn't afraid.
Not exactly.
—
The elevator stopped with a soft ping.
Even before the doors fully opened, she heard the sound of a man's voice—deep and commanding, issuing clipped instructions.
She stepped out into a long, silent hallway lined with closed doors, some hanging slightly ajar, others sealed tight. A dusty directory on the wall told her this used to be the administrative level. Now, it was nothing but echo and shadow.
One door near the end glowed with warm light beneath it. The voice grew clearer.
"The renovation starts next week," it said. "I want preliminary designs by Monday. No delays."
Her heels tapped softly against the marble as she walked, each step steady but cautious. As she reached the lit doorway, she slowed.
The door stood half-open. Through the gap, she saw blueprints spread across a temporary desk, a scale model of a new complex in progress—clean lines, mirrored towers, rooftop gardens.
Ethan Blackwood stood with his back to her, gesturing to the plans. He wore a tailored black suit, one hand in his pocket, the other moving decisively. Another man—older, graying, deferential—listened intently.
The man next to Ethan spotted her first. He is John, Ethan's assistant. He knows about Ethan very well. His eyes flicked toward the door and gave the smallest nod.
Ethan turned.
Scarlett froze.
Recognition hit like ice water.
The same face from the charity gala a month ago—the man who had ripped into her for banged onto home while walking. The man who hadn't let her explain. Who'd looked at her like she was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
His steel-blue eyes locked on hers. If he recognized her, he didn't show it.
Only a slight narrowing of his gaze. A subtle shift of his mouth. Maybe a smirk.
"Don't you know how to knock?" he said coolly.
Scarlett's spine straightened. Seriously? Again?
She stepped fully into the doorway, voice like glass. "I knocked, you didn't hear. So I entered after a pause?"
That flicker in his expression—was that amusement?
John cleared his throat. "Sir, I'll leave you two to talk," he said quickly, gathering papers and heading for the door. He offered Scarlett a sympathetic glance on his way out.
Now they were alone.
Silence thickened between them. The only sound was the faint hum of the ventilation system above, struggling to keep a heartbeat in the corpse of this building.
Scarlett folded her arms. "So, this is how you greet your fiancée? In a dead mall?" She glanced around pointedly. "Charming."
Ethan took her in without flinching—eyes sweeping over her from her wild curls to her plain dress. He made no effort to hide the inspection.
"You're late," he said.
Scarlett's jaw tensed. "I was thinking whether this was worth my time."
His lips curled slightly, the ghost of a smirk forming. "You should've gone with your instincts."
She took a step forward, narrowing the distance. "If this is your idea of a first impression, you're failing. Spectacularly."
He turned to the model, brushing his fingertips over the edges of the miniature buildings. "This will be Blackwood Plaza. Luxury things. Retail. Office space." His voice was smooth again, layered with pride. "I wanted you to see it."
"Why?"
He looked up, meeting her eyes. "Because it's the future. And apparently, we're supposed to have one together."
Her breath hitched. Not from emotion—just pure disbelief.
"You didn't answer the question," she said. "Why here?"
Ethan's chuckle was low, dark. "Because this isn't a romantic gesture, Ms. Landon. This is business."
Scarlett didn't flinch at his condescension. "You make it sound like I walked into a boardroom, not an engagement."
"That's exactly what this is," he said. Then, quieter: "I don't do love.For me this is a Business. Terms. Benefits. Expectations. Nothing more."
He was close now. Not looming, but present. The air seemed heavier between them, charged.
"If that's going to be a problem," he continued, "we should end this now."
Scarlett stared at him, reading him as he tried to read her.
And smiled—sharp and cold.
"Trust me, Mr. Blackwood. Love is the last thing I expect from a man like you."
His eyes flickered with surprise.
"I have my reasons for agreeing," she said. "Just like you do. So let's not pretend either of us is a martyr here."
Another pause. Longer this time. Then Ethan—his expression unreadable—extended a hand.
"Then we understand each other."
Scarlett looked at it for a beat before taking it. His grip was firm. Warm. The contact sent a strange jolt through her that she didn't let show.
"Not yet," she said quietly. "But maybe we will."