Alexander sat alone in his study, the amber light of dusk bleeding through the tall windows and painting long shadows across the bookshelves. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the clouds, and the world outside faded into a subdued haze of gold and grey. Within the room, silence reigned—broken only by the faint scratch of pen against parchment.
He hunched over his massive oak desk, shoulders tight with effort, his large hand clenched around a fountain pen of dark amber and gold. The ink it bled onto the paper was rich, viscous, and unforgiving—deep black against the ivory page. His handwriting was jagged, uneven, almost desperate in its urgency. It was not for lack of intelligence, nor discipline. No—Alexander Blackwood was a man of formidable power, both in stature and in will. But if there was one task for which he had no natural grace, it was writing.
He could endure the strain of war rooms, boardrooms, and brutal negotiations. He could crush a man's hand with a single shake or fill a room with silence through a single look. And yet, after several uninterrupted hours hunched over contracts and correspondence, his hand ached with a dull and relentless throb. His knuckles protested, his wrist stiffened, and the ink smeared from the dampness of his own exhausted palm.
Still, the paperwork kept coming.
The upcoming ball had placed immense pressure on the company. Reports, finances, guest registries, security assessments—it all flowed toward his desk like a tide that refused to recede. Normally, he would have delegated much of this to Johnathan, whose sharp mind and preference for control made him a natural aide in these affairs. But today, Johnathan was notably absent. He had claimed to be handling errands on the far side of the city.
That in itself was... odd.
Johnathan was not the errand-running type. He was the kind of man who had grown up surrounded by luxury, accustomed to having others bow to his every whim. A man with a retinue of staff ready to fulfill the smallest of his requests. And yet here he was, allegedly braving the city streets himself.
Alexander rubbed the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his leather chair, eyes drifting upward to the elaborate ceiling fresco—a swirling composition of mythic beasts and ancestral warriors, all painted in cool blues and aged golds. He exhaled a long, weary breath.
He was tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the bone-deep, soul-heavy weariness of a man who had carried the same burdens for too many years. He was tired of the forms, the titles, the decisions. Tired of the immense, glittering machine that was Blackwood Enterprises. Once his dream—now his cage.
His true desire, though he would never speak it aloud, was a quiet retirement far from the clamor of the city. A modest home nestled in the countryside, where vineyards stretched into the hills and the air smelled of old wood and fresh rain. There, he would dine on ripe grapes, aged cheeses, and sip fine wines by a crackling fire with no deadlines, no expectations, no masks.
But that future would never come to pass.
It wasn't simply unlikely—it was impossible. For it to happen, he would need to appoint a successor. And that—above all else—was the decision he dreaded most.
As soon as he uttered the name, there would be chaos. Whether he named Johnathan or Layla, the consequences would be the same: division, heartbreak, and bitterness. He tried to convince himself it didn't have to feel like a loss for the one not chosen. He wanted to believe it could be handled with grace. But deep down, he knew the truth.
It would be a loss. A profound one.
The loser—no, the unchosen—would resent the winner. Possibly forever. And that was what Alexander feared more than death itself. Because ever since that tragic spring afternoon—the day Johnathan and Layla's parents were taken from them—he had seen them as his own. His blood or not, they were his children. Equal in worth. Equal in his heart.
But how could he claim to see them as equals while choosing one over the other?
He knew that when the day came, there would be calls for a duel to settle the matter. Tradition would demand it. The elders, the nobility, perhaps even the family council, would insist that blood be spilled to prove one's right to lead. And that would be a tragedy.
Not only would it fracture their bond irreparably, but it would strip away the very fairness he sought. If Johnathan and Layla were to fight, the outcome would be inevitable—and it would not be a contest. Johnathan, for all his cunning and polish, would overpower her. And Alexander could never forgive himself for orchestrating that.
"Enough thinking about the future," he muttered aloud, voice low and heavy as he straightened in his chair. The leather groaned beneath his weight.
He reached for another pile of documents, but his hand halted midair. His eyes caught on something unusual—a slender envelope half-buried beneath the paperwork. Curious, he pulled it free.
The envelope was plain, unmarked except for a faint lavender scent that clung to its surface like memory. He turned it over between his fingers. That perfume—he recognized it. One of the newer maids had worn it. Her name escaped him, but the detail lingered.
He broke the seal and withdrew a single, neatly folded letter. The handwriting was careful. Familiar.
Dear Alexander,
I have no idea how to even start to write this, because frankly I shouldn't be. I shouldn't be reaching out to you after so many decades of silence. Because I wronged you, and I'm sorry.
All I wish for is a chance to repair our relationship. Meet me at the Silkymire Bar. You know which one—the bar that Father used to take us to all the time. Meet me there at 9 p.m. today. Let's talk this out. Like men. No—like brothers.
Sincerely,
—Your brother, Seymour Blackwood
For several minutes, Alexander remained motionless, his towering form locked in place as though carved from granite. The letter trembled ever so slightly in his grasp, its delicate creases catching the amber glow of the desk lamp. His eyes, sharp and weary, traced the inked lines again and again, not merely reading but interrogating them—as if, buried between the strokes of penmanship, there might lie some latent confession or insidious intent.
At first, there was only silence. A silence made heavy by disbelief. The sheer audacity of it—Seymour, his estranged brother, reaching out after decades of pointed silence, of exile and betrayal. The words on the page were so uncharacteristically contrite, so surgically composed, that for the briefest of moments Alexander felt the tremor of hope stir in his chest. A foolish hope. A child's hope.
But as swiftly as it came, that fragile flicker was extinguished. His mind, practiced in discernment and discipline, began to turn with mechanical precision.
The details didn't add up.
The tone was off. The language too careful. And most damning of all—the apology.
"I have to give it to you…" he murmured, voice low and edged with something like contempt. His words echoed faintly in the vast emptiness of the study. "Whoever you are."
He rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate motion, the old leather creaking beneath him like the groan of some ancient beast. The letter, now trembling with suppressed fury in his grip, curled at the edges as his fingers tightened.
"You almost had me fooled," he said through clenched teeth. "Almost."
He turned and crossed the room with deliberate steps, his heavy boots thudding softly against the ornate rug. As he reached the hearth, he cast the envelope aside, watching as it fluttered weightlessly down onto the ashen remnants of old fires. It landed like a ghost—pale, silent, and out of place.
"But you got one thing wrong," he growled, his gaze fixed on the cold grate as if Seymour himself might emerge from its shadows.
A silence fell again, thick and full of memory.
He pivoted slowly, facing the desk once more, his broad shoulders heaving with the slow rhythm of suppressed emotion. The fury in him hadn't yet exploded—it smoldered, banked like embers beneath the surface.
"You forgot the most essential truth about Seymour Blackwood," he said, voice low, clipped.
He narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening.
"Seymour has never—not once in his miserable, selfish life—apologized for anything."
The final word struck the air like a verdict. He stood there for a long moment, hands clenched at his sides, the silence of the room stretching around him like a noose.
Some lies were crafted to deceive.
Others were crafted to lure.
And this one, he realized, might be both.