43 - The Glass Fortress
Blackwood Enterprises towered above the city like a glass-and-steel monolith—seventy stories of mirrored ambition catching the last flare of afternoon sun.
Below the gleaming facade, Scarlett drove into the underground parking garage, headlights slicing through shadows.
The security guard waved her through without hesitation the moment she flashed the Blackwood family pass.
The one Ethan had given her "for emergencies only."
This definitely qualifies, she thought, fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
The moment she stepped out of the car, purpose replaced hesitation.
She strode toward the lobby elevator, the cold click of her heels echoing against concrete and steel.
Inside the lift, she smoothed her emerald wrap dress with one hand while the other gripped the leather strap of her bag.
Her caramel-colored jacket hugged her shoulders, but it was her expression—stormy, focused, utterly unflinching—that announced her presence more than her clothing ever could.
The elevator deposited her into the vast marble atrium like a bullet.
Polished floors gleamed beneath towering skylights, and sleek modern art flanked either side of the entryway like silent sentinels.
People turned to look as she crossed the space, their conversations fading.
Scarlett didn't notice. Or rather, she didn't care.
She walked like a woman on a mission—heels sharp against marble, copper hair flowing in loose waves down her back, eyes hard with fury.
Behind the curved black granite reception desk, a young woman in a tailored navy suit finished a hushed conversation through her headset. Perfect posture, sleek ponytail, a face made for handling high-net-worth egos with soft control. She looked up just as Scarlett approached—and instantly froze.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," Melissa began, recovering quickly, voice pitched to professional warmth. "Welcome to Blackwood Enterprises. May I ask—"
Scarlett didn't slow. "I need access to the executive floor."
Melissa blinked. "Of course, but—do you have an appointment with an executive today?"
"No."
"Then I'm afraid I'll need to—"
Scarlett's gaze snapped to hers with lethal clarity. "I said I need access."
Melissa hesitated, eyes flicking instinctively toward the bank of elevators reserved for top-level staff—the ones secured with codes, cards, or direct authorization from the man occupying the highest office in the tower.
"Ma'am, I'm really sorry," Melissa tried again, stepping from behind the desk. "But no one can enter the executive suites without clearance. If you'd like, I can schedule—"
"I'm not interested in scheduling," Scarlett said, her tone cold enough to frost glass.
Melissa swallowed. "Then I'll have to call secur—"
Scarlett reached the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.
Executive access only.
Melissa hurried after her, heels clicking out a frantic rhythm. "Ma'am, please—this is a restricted area. You can't just—"
Scarlett turned her head, voice dropping to a razor-soft level.
"Go ahead. Call them."
The elevator chimed. Scarlett stepped in, turned, and locked eyes with the woman still advancing, flustered now, voice rising.
"You can't just—"
But the doors whispered shut, silencing her.
Alone at last in the mirrored interior, Scarlett exhaled—once. Her reflection stared back, cheeks flushed, green eyes bright with something volatile. Fury. Fear. Righteous conviction. Maybe all three.
Her jaw clenched. Was she overreacting?
Could there be some other explanation?
Ethan's voice surfaced unbidden in her memory, calm and poisonous: "You'll regret this decision, Scarlett."
No. This wasn't paranoia. It was a pattern.
And she was done playing the compliant wife.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened onto the executive level, where everything was softened to hushed tones—muted gray walls, brushed steel sconces, and plush carpeting that swallowed sound. Scarlett stepped forward.
Then came the click-click of sensible heels.
She turned. The receptionist had taken another elevator and arrived seconds after her, breath short, resolve plastered on like foundation cracking under stress.
"Ma'am," she tried again, voice strained but firm. "You can't just barge into the executive suite. I could lose my job if—"
Scarlett was already walking. At the corridor's far end, a sleek black door bore a minimalist nameplate: Ethan Blackwood, CEO.
She reached for the handle, her fingers just grazing the cool metal when a hand clamped onto her wrist.
"I said you can't go in there!"
The receptionist's professional veneer had finally cracked, her tone sharp with exasperation, her eyes wide.
Scarlett turned slowly, eyes like ice. "And I said," she replied, each word low and precise, "I don't care."
The words hung there, sharp as glass.
Then—another voice cut through the tension.
"What's going on here?"
Both women turned as a tall man approached with smooth, measured steps. Charcoal suit tailored to perfection. Black hair. Calm authority etched into every feature. His gaze swept the scene: the physical standoff, the tension, Scarlett's unreadable expression.
The receptionist released Scarlett's wrist like she'd touched fire.
"Mr. Carter—sir—this woman—"
But John Carter's eyes had already settled on Scarlett. And when recognition clicked into place, the only visible sign was the briefest flicker—widened eyes, barely perceptible.
"Mrs. Blackwood," he said, quiet and certain. The name dropped like a stone into still water.
The receptionist's face turned chalk-white. "M-Mrs. Blackwood?" she stammered, stepping back. "As in..."
"Yes," John said, smoothly adjusting a cufflink. "Mr. Blackwood's wife."
The young woman's mouth opened, closed. "I—I didn't realize—I'm so terribly sorry—"
"It's fine," Scarlett said, her tone softer now, not unkind. "You were just doing your job."
Melissa nodded too many times, her movements jerky with relief. "Thank you, ma'am. I didn't mean to—I'll just—" She practically bowed before retreating down the hall, glancing back only once before disappearing into the elevator.
John turned his full attention to Scarlett. His expression was polite but guarded.
"Mrs. Blackwood," he said carefully, "may I ask what brings you to the office today?"
Scarlett folded her arms, her spine straightening. "Where is Ethan?"
John hesitated. "He's in a meeting."
"Where?"
"I'm afraid he doesn't allow interruptions. Not even for family."
Scarlett's lips curled into a smile, but it held no warmth. "Then pass him a message. Tell him to meet me. Right now."
John's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Ma'am—"
"If you won't tell him," she said, taking a step closer, voice low, "I'll find him myself. And I promise you, John, that will be more disruptive than a simple message."
Something in her tone—steel beneath silk—told him she meant it.
He sighed, his posture relaxing by degrees. "Very well. Please wait in his office."
Scarlett nodded once and turned the handle.
As she disappeared inside, John lingered for a beat, staring at the closed door. He tugged at his collar like it had grown tighter, then turned on his heel and walked briskly toward the conference room.
As he walked, he began mentally crafting the wording he'd use to interrupt Ethan Blackwood's meeting.
Something diplomatic. Something careful.
Because Scarlett Blackwood wasn't here to talk.
She was here to make war.