The invitation arrived on heavy, cream-colored stationery, sealed with a black wax crest of an elegant raven. It wasn't a request—it was a summons.
"Dinner at the Blackwood Estate. 7 p.m. sharp. Formal attire."
There was no signature, no polite flourish, just a time, a place, and an unspoken warning.
Clara knew exactly who had sent it. Alexander's parents—the elusive Blackwoods. Society knew them as an old-money family with power in every political and business corner. Clara knew them as something far more dangerous: the people who raised Alexander into the calculating, dangerously charming man he was today.
The Gown That Spoke Louder Than Words
By 6:30 p.m., Clara was staring at herself in the mirror, the hem of her crimson silk gown skimming the floor like liquid fire. Alexander had insisted on sending her something "appropriate," and this had been delivered in a garment bag with a note that simply read: "Wear this. Trust me."
The gown's back plunged scandalously low, the neckline daring without being vulgar, and the skirt slit high enough to whisper trouble. Around her throat rested a diamond choker—minimalist, but in a way that screamed old wealth.
Her reflection looked nothing like the woman Damien once controlled. She was sharper now. Colder. And tonight, she would need every ounce of that armor.
Alexander entered her suite without knocking, dressed in a charcoal tuxedo that looked like it had been sewn directly onto him. He gave her a slow once-over, his expression unreadable.
"You look…" He paused, eyes flickering with something dark. "…perfect. Dangerous. Just the way my family likes it."
She arched an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted me to be charming."
"I do," he said, offering his arm. "But charming in a way that makes them wonder if you'll slit their throats after dessert."
Arrival at the Estate
The Blackwood Estate was not a house. It was a fortress disguised as a mansion—three stories of stone and glass sitting on acres of manicured grounds. Long driveways curved past gardens illuminated by warm golden light, and security was everywhere, dressed so discreetly they almost blended into the shadows.
Clara noticed how Alexander's grip on her arm tightened as they stepped out of the car. This was his territory, but his body was tense, as if bracing for a fight.
The massive double doors swung open before they even reached them. A butler—tall, thin, with a face carved in polite disapproval—bowed slightly.
"Mr. Blackwood. Miss…?"
"Clara," Alexander said smoothly. "My wife."
The butler's left eyebrow twitched—just barely—but he stepped aside. "Right this way. They're expecting you."
The Blackwood Table
The dining hall was cathedral-like, with ceilings so high Clara had to tilt her head back to see the chandeliers. The table stretched nearly the length of the room, set with crystal, fine china, and silver so polished it gleamed like moonlight.
At the head of the table sat Jonathan Blackwood, Alexander's father. His presence was heavier than the silence that fell when they entered. His steel-gray hair was perfectly combed, his suit blacker than night, and his eyes—sharp, assessing—missed nothing.
Beside him was Vivienne Blackwood, Alexander's mother, elegant in emerald silk and pearls, her smile a work of art that didn't reach her eyes.
"Alexander," Jonathan said, voice low and deliberate. "You didn't mention you'd married."
"That's because I didn't," Alexander replied without a trace of apology. "Clara and I prefer our privacy."
Vivienne's gaze slid to Clara like a blade. "I see. And what does one do to… catch the attention of my son?"
Clara smiled sweetly, taking her seat without waiting to be offered one. "Oh, nothing dramatic. Just refused to be intimidated by him."
For the first time, Jonathan's mouth twitched, as if amused. Vivienne's didn't.
Testing the New Blackwood
The first course arrived—lobster bisque, delicately garnished. The conversation was polite at first, but Clara could feel the weight of the unspoken questions pressing against her skin.
"So," Jonathan began, spoon pausing midair, "tell me, Clara, where exactly do you come from?"
Alexander's hand brushed hers under the table—warning, or reassurance, she couldn't tell.
"I was married before," Clara said evenly. "To a man who underestimated me. He made a mistake. I made sure he paid for it. Now, I'm here."
Vivienne tilted her head, studying her like a rare specimen. "And you're with Alexander because…?"
Clara's lips curved into a faint smile. "Because I know a good thing when I see it. And because Alexander needed someone who wouldn't crumble under pressure."
Silence. Heavy. Evaluative.
Finally, Jonathan chuckled once, deep and sharp. "Well, she certainly speaks the language."
An Unexpected Interruption
Halfway through the main course—perfectly seared duck breast—one of the butlers leaned down to Jonathan and murmured something. Jonathan's expression darkened.
"Excuse me," he said, rising from the table. Vivienne's gaze followed him, then flicked briefly to Alexander before returning to her plate.
Alexander's jaw tightened.
"What's going on?" Clara murmured.
"Business," he said, but his tone was laced with warning. "Stay calm. No matter what you hear."
It wasn't until dessert was served—a decadent chocolate soufflé—that Jonathan returned. His gaze swept over Clara with renewed sharpness.
"I see now why my son brought you," he said slowly. "You might be useful after all."
Clara didn't blink. "I'm glad my potential is already being recognized."
Jonathan's smile was cold. "Let's hope you survive long enough to make good on it."
The Walk Through the Garden
After dinner, Vivienne insisted on showing Clara the gardens. It was less a stroll and more an interrogation disguised as politeness.
"You're clever," Vivienne said finally, her voice low enough that Alexander—walking a few paces ahead—couldn't hear. "Clever women survive in our world. Foolish ones… don't."
Clara met her gaze without flinching. "I'm not foolish."
Vivienne's lips curved faintly. "Then you might just make it. But understand this—marrying into the Blackwoods is not protection. It's an invitation to war."
As they rejoined Alexander, Vivienne's mask slipped back into place, her smile flawless.
The Ride Back
In the car, Alexander poured them each a glass of whiskey from the minibar. "You handled them better than I expected."
Clara sipped, her eyes on the dark road ahead. "They wanted to know if I'm weak. I told them without telling them that I'm not."
He glanced at her, his smirk almost proud. "Good. Because from now on, you're not just my wife for show, Clara. You're a Blackwood target."
Her pulse didn't quicken out of fear—it was anticipation.
If this was a game, then tonight was just the opening move.
And she intended to win.