22 - Between Duty and Desire
Scarlett lay motionless on her bed, one arm flung across her eyes to block out even the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through her curtains.
The room had grown darker as the night deepened, shadows pooling in the corners like gathering secrets.
The steady ticking of the antique clock on her wall—a sixteenth birthday present from her grandmother—counted down the seconds with merciless precision, each tick amplified in the stillness of her room.
She'd changed into her silk pajamas, the cool fabric a small comfort against her flushed skin, but sleep remained elusive. Her father's words played on repeat in her mind, a haunting refrain that offered both hope and despair.
"If, at any point, you feel like you can't go through with this, just tell me."
If only it were that easy. If only there weren't millions of dollars at stake. If only her family's legacy, her father's life's work, didn't hang in the balance.
She turned onto her side, drawing her knees closer to her chest and hugging her pillow tightly.
The dinner conversation replayed in her mind—her mother's excited planning, her forced smiles, the fake enthusiasm she'd mustered—it had drained her completely.
Everyone had their roles to play: her mother was excited, Adam was looking forward to being part of a grand spectacle, and her father, though worried for her happiness, still needed this marriage to happen for the sake of their family's survival.
And then there was Ethan.
Scarlett scoffed under her breath, the sound harsh in the quiet room.
She had only met him a handful of times, always in formal settings surrounded by lawyers and business associates.
Each encounter had left her feeling smaller, insignificant against the backdrop of his imposing presence.
He was undeniably handsome in that cold, patrician way—sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass—but his demeanor had been as frigid as winter.
Polite, yes, because Ethan Blackwood was nothing if not impeccably mannered.
But distant. Businesslike. His eyes had swept over her as if assessing property—which, in essence, she supposed she was.
A business acquisition. An asset. It was clear he had no more interest in this marriage than she did, yet he was going through with it just like her, bound by family obligations and business necessities.
She wondered what he was doing right now. Probably buried in work in some sleek, minimalist office, not giving this engagement a second thought. Perhaps reviewing contracts or finalizing deals, his mind occupied with profit margins and stock options rather than wedding preparations and cold feet.
The thought made her chest tighten painfully, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil within. Her breath caught as reality crashed over her anew.
Was this really how her life was going to be?
A loveless marriage with a man who saw her as nothing more than an obligation?
Waking up each day next to a stranger whose world revolved around corporate takeovers and profit margins?
Christmas dinners with stilted conversations and separate vacations?
Children who would inherit their father's empire but perhaps also the coldness that seemed to define the Blackwood dynasty?
She sighed deeply, the exhale catching on the lump forming in her throat. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed sleep to take her—to provide a few hours of escape from the reality that awaited her.
But it never came.
Across the city, in the grand Blackwood estate perched high on the hillside overlooking the twinkling cityscape, Ethan sat alone in his private study.
The space was a testament to power and old money—dark mahogany paneling, leather-bound books lining built-in shelves, and a massive desk that had belonged to his grandfather.
A thick silence blanketed the room, broken only by the occasional creak of the leather chair as he shifted his weight and the soft hum of the heating system fighting against the night's chill.
The warm amber glow of his desk lamp created a small island of light in the darkened room, casting long shadows on the walls and highlighting the neatly arranged files and documents spread before him.
A crystal tumbler of untouched scotch sat at his elbow, the expensive liquor catching the light like liquid amber.
Yet, despite the work demanding his attention, he wasn't reading any of the meticulously prepared reports. His gaze remained fixed on the blank screen of his laptop, the cursor blinking accusingly at him—a digital metronome counting the seconds of his uncharacteristic distraction.
His jaw tightened, the muscle there twitching visibly as he clenched his teeth. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised to continue working on the merger that would consolidate Blackwood Industries' hold on the East Coast market. It was important. Crucial, even. And yet...
He was thinking about her.
Scarlett Landon.
The realization made his hand clench into a fist, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. He brought it down onto the polished desktop with restrained violence, not enough to make a sound but enough to feel the impact reverberate up his arm.
Why? Why the hell was she in his head?
She was nobody. A necessary complication. The daughter of a failing business associate whose company held one vital patent that Blackwood Industries needed. She was just a name, a face, a contract to fulfill. A means to an end.
And yet, ever since their last meeting—a formal dinner where legal teams had outnumbered family members—something about her lingered in his mind like a splinter he couldn't extract.
The way she had looked at him across the table, those sharp, defiant hazel eyes masking a vulnerability she refused to acknowledge.
The subtle lift of her chin when his father had mentioned the "beneficial arrangement.
" The slight tremor in her hand as she'd signed the preliminary agreement, quickly disguised by the firm set of her shoulders.
Most of all, the way she had spoken to him afterward, when they'd been momentarily left alone on the terrace. Unafraid. Unimpressed. Completely unaffected by his wealth or the power of his family name.
"Let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is, Mr. Blackwood," she had said, her voice low but steady. "A business transaction with a lifetime contract."
Most women in Boston's elite social circles fawned over him, eager to be associated with the Blackwood name and fortune. They laughed too loudly at his mild jokes, agreed with his every opinion, and looked at him with transparent hunger—for his money, his influence, his family connections.
But not Scarlett Landon.
She had seen through the facade to the cold truth underneath. And rather than being cowed by it, she had named it without flinching.
And for some godforsaken reason, that irritated him beyond measure.
He leaned back in his chair, the expensive leather creaking softly as he exhaled sharply through his nose. A glance at his watch—a Patek Philippe that had been his graduation gift—showed that he'd wasted nearly an hour on these pointless ruminations.
He was Ethan Blackwood. He didn't get distracted. He didn't waste time thinking about people who didn't matter. He didn't allow emotions—especially not curiosity or irritation—to interfere with his work. And yet, here he was, unable to shake the thought of her from his mind.
The realization made his frustration boil over like a pot left too long on the stove.
His fingers curled around the expensive fountain pen in his hand—a Mont Blanc his father had given him when he'd made his first million—gripping it so tightly he could feel the metal pressing painfully into his palm.
With a controlled movement that betrayed the violence of his emotions, he tossed it onto the desk.
The sound echoed in the quiet room like a gunshot, the pen rolling across the polished surface before coming to rest against his closed laptop.
This was beyond ridiculous. It was becoming intolerable.
She was nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.
A responsibility forced upon him by his father's strategic business decisions.
In a few weeks, she would become Mrs. Blackwood—a title, a position, an accessory to his public image—and that would be that.
She would fulfill her role, he would fulfill his, and their personal feelings or lack thereof were entirely irrelevant to the arrangement.
The fact that she was occupying even a second of his thoughts was unacceptable. Unprofessional. Weak.
His expression darkened, blue eyes turning glacial as his lips pressed into a thin line.
If she was going to be a distraction, he would turn that irritation into something more useful—something he was familiar with. Something he could control.
Hate.
Yes. That was easier. Cleaner. More productive.
He hated her for making him lose focus. He hated that she had managed to invade his thoughts, even if only for a moment.
He hated her directness, her lack of pretense, the way she had looked at him with those clear eyes that seemed to see too much.
And most of all, he hated that, deep down, beneath layers of practiced indifference, a part of him was curious about her.
With a deep breath that did nothing to calm the storm brewing inside him, Ethan shut his laptop with more force than necessary and stood up in one fluid motion. The chair rolled back, hitting the bookcase behind him with a dull thud.
Enough of this nonsense.
He straightened his tie—a habitual gesture that grounded him in the familiar—and gathered the scattered papers into a neat stack.
Tomorrow, he would review the final prenuptial agreement his lawyers had drafted.
Tomorrow, he would finalize the merger that would cement Blackwood Industries' dominance in the market.
Tomorrow, he would be the man his father had raised him to be—focused, disciplined, and utterly unmoved by sentiment.
This marriage was a transaction, nothing more. And if Scarlett Landon thought she could affect him in any way—could make him question the path laid out before him, could distract him from what truly mattered—she was wrong.
Very wrong.
And he would make sure she understood that from the moment she became his wife.