Third person's pov
The shatter of glass rang through the cavernous halls of Blackwood Manor, a sound that would haunt Darius Blackwood for the rest of his life.
The world had slowed to a terrifying, disorienting speed as the car skidded across the icy road. Metal crumpled. Tires screamed. And then darkness.
When he woke, the world was gone. Gone were the familiar textures, the confident glances, the subtle power that had always set him apart.
The hospital smelled sterile and cold, the beeping monitors harsh against the silence he now inhabited. No lights pierced the shadows behind his closed eyelids. The doctors called it a "tragic accident," but Darius knew better. Accidents did not befall a man like him without reason.
He controls half of Russia.
Even blind, he was still Darius Blackwood.
He remembered the cold, creeping sensation of helplessness that the world assumed would consume him.
Rumors had already begun to spread, whispers in the boardrooms and society circles suggesting that the untouchable billionaire had finally fallen. Weakness, vulnerability, loss. They did not understand him. They never did.
Blindness did not diminish his power; it honed his mind and sharpened his precision. The accident had taken his sight, yes, but it had not broken him. If anything, it has made him more dangerous.
The mansion had grown quieter since his return, its once-effortless flow of servants now reduced to a meticulous rhythm, where each step, murmur, and closing door echoed under his scrutiny. Darius listened, cataloged, and calculated. He remembered. His home, once a place of comfort and dominance, had become his chessboard. And every piece, every servant, every whisper of a plan fell under his scrutiny and even in darkness, he commanded the mansion.
The scent of polished wood and leather lingered in the study, mingling with the faint trace of cigar smoke that clung stubbornly to the air. Detail was memorized, the angle of a table leg, the placement of a chair, the subtle vibrations in the floor as someone walked across the hall. He could no longer see, but he could feel. He could anticipate.
Outside, the world thought him weak. That was their first mistake. Inside, he was far from it.
Every employee, even his closest allies, approached with a hesitance that was both amusing and satisfying. His presence, even without sight, radiated authority. The sharp tilt of his head, the tilt of his body in perfect balance. The controlled cadence of his voice reminded anyone who dared to cross him that power was not solely about vision. It was about perception, awareness, and ruthlessness.
And perception, Darius had learned, was something he wielded like a weapon. The accident had left more than darkness, it had left questions. Who wanted him out of the game? Who had orchestrated the fall that would have toppled any lesser man? The answers were hidden in shadows, in whispers, in the smallest details that most would overlook and Darius would find them all. He knew. He is calculative. Strategic. His power speaks. No one dared to tell him and stayed alive.
In the quiet of his study, he could hear the mansion breathing. The floors creaked in familiar places, the walls whispered secrets, and the wind that brushed against the large windows carried distant city noises, faint traffic, and muffled conversations.
The hum of life continued, unaware of the storms inside Blackwood Manor. He remembered the cold metal of the guardrails, the crunch of ice beneath tires, the way the world had tilted and threatened to consume him. He never bowed to the past, the present, and the future were his to command. Step, sound, and interaction were part of a larger game, and Darius never lost. The mansion was more than a home; it was a fortress built with authority, and every fortress required vigilance.
The staff knew better than to approach him carelessly. They had learned that the slightest misstep, the faintest disrespect, or the whisper of disloyalty could have consequences far beyond their imagination. Despite being blind, he could feel everything. The weight of presence in the hallway, the tension in the air, the rhythm of people's hearts in the quiet moments when they thought he was asleep. They did not know that Darius Blackwood's mind had sharpened in darkness, that every sound, every vibration, every scent was logged and interpreted with terrifying accuracy. This was no longer a life of careless dominance, it was a life of strategic control. And he thrived in it.
Tonight, the mansion was silent, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace in the study. The city outside was shrouded in snow, muted under the weight of winter's stillness, yet within these walls, a storm was quietly building, one that Darius could sense long before it arrived.
He knew what was coming, a ripple in the calm, a disturbance in the familiar pattern. He felt it in the faintest shifts in air pressure, in the subtle vibrations of footsteps he could sense even before they entered the foyer. This was not ordinary. Thursday was never new, and he was ready.
For a man who had lost his sight, Darius had gained something far more valuable, awareness, intuition, and the certainty that he would never be vulnerable again. Whoever or whatever approached the mansion would learn quickly that darkness had not weakened him. It had refined him. Made him sharper. More dangerous.
He leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The world outside may have thought him broken, but he knew the truth. Power had many forms, and even in blindness, Darius Blackwood was untouchable. For in the darkness, Darius had discovered a new kind of authority, one carved from silence and sharpened by rage, with it came dominance, precision, and a hunger he would never deny again. The darkness had only taught him how to hunt.
He remembered. He had sensed her long before she ever stood within his reach. He knew her even if she never knew him. Darius Blackwood had never mistaken instinct for coincidence. When something caught his attention, he claimed it. Willingly… or by force. There was no other outcome. From the moment she crossed into his awareness, she was his.
A shadow of a smirk curved his lips, slow, deliberate, dangerous. "Lila Morgan."
~ ~
Lila Morgan stood at the edge of the small driveway, the cold wind biting at her cheeks, tugging at the hem of her coat like it wanted to push her back inside. Her hands clenched the strap of her bag so tightly that her knuckles whitened, and her stomach twisted with a mixture of dread and determination. Behind her, the modest house she had called home all her life seemed impossibly small, fragile, as if it could no longer protect her from the world she was about to enter.
"Be careful, Lila," her sister Ella called from the doorway, her voice trembling with worry.
"And… remember, you're doing this for us… to survive."
"I know, Ella," Lila replied softly and swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a reassuring smile she didn't feel, knowing her sister had no idea how dangerous things really were.
The comforting smells of her home, the faint perfume from her mother's cabinet, the lingering scent of Ella's cooking clung to her like a lifeline she would soon have to let go. She had spent her life surrounded by the gentle rhythms of small-town life, and now she was stepping into a world that thrummed with danger, power, and secrets far beyond her imagining.
She had heard about the accident yesterday, a hushed mention at the café where she worked. Darius Blackwood, the untouchable billionaire of Russia, had suffered a crash that left him blind. Some said it was an accident. Others whispered darker truths. Either way, she was walking straight into his world, which demanded obedience, caution, and more than a little courage, a world of power secrets, and peril.
Lila took a deep breath, pressing her lips together.
Every choice from this moment on could cost her more than she had ever imagined. She glanced one last time at her small house, at the life she was leaving behind, and stepped into the waiting car, her heart hammering like a warning drum.