The morning after the blackout is a new kind of quiet. It's not the tense silence of our cold war, nor the blessed relief from construction. It's a heavy, humming silence, thick with the memory of what happened in the dark. The air in my bookstore feels charged, every shadow seems to hold the ghost of his presence. I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hands on my arms, the ghost of his breath against my ear.
At exactly 7:01 a.m., the hammering starts again.
But it sounds different today. Before, it was a faceless, impersonal assault. Now, every strike of the hammer feels like a deliberate message sent directly to me. I am here. I am in control. Last night meant nothing.
Liar.
I spend the morning fueled by cheap, bitter coffee and a new, diamond-hard resolve. The fear and the shame are still there, swirling in the pit of my stomach, but they've been burned away by a cold, clean fury. He thinks he has me cornered. He thinks he can break me by dragging this into some dark, physical territory where he holds all the power. He's wrong.
I sit at my laptop, my fingers flying across the keys. My target: Isabella Rossi. The address is from the public records of her foundation's board. It's a shot in the dark, but it's the only shot I have.
Subject: An Urgent Matter Regarding the Blackwood Properties Urban Renewal Project
Dear Ms. Rossi,
My name is Elara Vance. I am the owner of The Last Page, a fifty-year-old independent bookstore and the last remaining business on the historic block at the corner of Clark and Chestnut. I am writing to you today because I know of your deep commitment to historical preservation in Chicago, a commitment you proved during the development of the Arlington Tower project.
I believe you are unaware that Blackwood Properties, under the direction of Mr. Alistair Blackwood, is engaging in a campaign of aggressive tactics to force me out of my legally-held, ironclad lease so he can demolish this entire block of culturally significant buildings. He is currently subjecting my business and home to round-the-clock construction in a clear effort to make my position untenable.
I know you were instrumental in ensuring a more conscientious outcome on the Arlington project. I am hoping you might be willing to lend your considerable voice to this matter as well. My grandfather's legacy, and a piece of Chicago's history, is at stake.
Sincerely,
Elara Vance
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The email disappears into the digital ether. It's a tiny paper airplane thrown at a hurricane, but for the first time in weeks, I feel a sliver of agency. A spark of hope. I haven't just been reacting to his moves. I've made one of my own.
The hope lasts for exactly ninety-three minutes.
It's shattered by the jingle of the bell on the front door. I look up from shelving books to see a man who does not belong in my store. He's dressed in the severe, black uniform of a high-end courier service, a leather satchel slung across his chest. He looks like he delivers legal documents and bad news for a living.
"Delivery for Ms. Elara Vance," he says, his voice flat and impersonal.
My stomach plummets. I walk to the counter, my legs feeling heavy. He slides a single, terrifyingly elegant envelope across the wood. It's made of thick, black cardstock that feels like it could stop a bullet. In the corner, embossed in stark silver foil, are two words: BLACKWOOD PROPERTIES.
I sign for it with a trembling hand. The courier leaves. I'm left alone with the black envelope. It feels like a threat. It feels like a bomb.
With shaking fingers, I break the seal. Inside is not a letter. It is a summons. A single, thick white card. The text is printed in a severe, elegant font.
Ms. Vance,
Your presence is required at my office tomorrow morning.
Blackwood Tower, 90th Floor.
10 a.m.
This is not a request.
There's no signature. There doesn't need to be.
The air rushes out of my lungs. My carefully constructed hope, my little email to Isabella Rossi, it all feels so pathetic now. So small. While I was plotting a quiet rebellion, he was launching a full-frontal assault. He isn't going to fight me here, in my world, anymore. He is dragging me onto his battlefield. The lion is summoning the mouse to his den.
And the worst part? I know I have to go. Refusing would be admitting defeat. It would be an act of fear. And I will not show him my fear.
The next morning, I stand in front of my small closet, having a minor crisis. What do you wear to a meeting with the devil? What do you wear when you're walking into your own execution?
I can't wear my usual jeans and worn-out band t-shirt. That would be admitting I'm out of my league. But I don't own a power suit. I don't own anything that could compete with the world he lives in.
In the end, I choose armor. A simple, well-fitting black dress that hits just below the knee, a pair of low black heels I haven't worn in years, and my grandfather's old, worn trench coat. It's not much, but it makes me feel solid. Grounded.
The taxi ride to the city's financial district is a journey into another country. The buildings get taller, sleeker, more inhuman. The air itself seems to change, smelling less of people and more of money and ambition.
Then I see it.
Blackwood Tower.
It's not a building. It's a monument to ego. A spear of black glass and steel that pierces the clouds, so tall it seems to defy physics. It makes every other skyscraper around it look small and quaint. It is arrogant, beautiful, and terrifying. It is Alistair Blackwood in architectural form.
I pay the driver and stand on the sidewalk, craning my neck to look up. My little bookstore could fit into its lobby a hundred times over.
Taking a deep breath, I push through the revolving glass doors and step inside.
The silence hits me first. It's not a peaceful silence. It's a dead, sterile, sound-proofed silence. The lobby is a cavern of white marble and polished chrome. The only sound is the soft click of my heels on the floor and the whisper-quiet murmur of a massive waterfall cascading down a three-story marble wall. The air smells of nothing at all. It's been scrubbed clean of life.
A woman who looks more like a supermodel than a receptionist sits behind a massive white desk. She looks up at me, her expression perfectly, politely blank.
"Elara Vance for Mr. Blackwood," I say, my voice sounding small and fragile in the vast space.
"Of course, Ms. Vance," she says, her voice as sterile as the air. "He's expecting you. Please take the private elevator on your right to the 90th floor."
The private elevator. Of course.
The ride up is silent and terrifyingly fast. My ears pop as the city falls away beneath me. There are no buttons inside. Just a single, glowing panel that says 90. The elevator doesn't think I need to go anywhere else. I am cargo, being delivered.
The doors slide open with a soft, expensive hiss, revealing not an office, but another small, private lobby. Another severe-looking assistant in a black dress sits at another white desk.
"Ms. Vance," she says, standing. "Right this way. Mr. Blackwood will see you now."
She leads me down a long, white hallway to a pair of massive, frosted glass doors. She pushes one open and gestures for me to enter, then pulls it closed behind me, leaving me alone.
The office is staggering. The entire far wall is a single sheet of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a god-like, panoramic view of the entire city. My city. Laid out below him like a map. Like a toy. My little neighborhood, my bookstore, is an insignificant speck somewhere down there in the haze.
The room is vast, minimalist, and cold. A long black sofa. A few pieces of abstract art. And in the center of it all, a massive desk made of what looks like a single, polished slab of black obsidian.
And behind it, sitting in a high-backed leather chair like a king on his throne, is him.
He's not looking at me. He's looking down, signing a document with a heavy, silver pen. He's back in his uniform. A perfectly tailored charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, a dark grey tie. He is power. He is control. He is everything I am not.
He finishes his signature with a flourish, places the cap back on the pen with a soft click, and only then does he finally look up.
His cold grey eyes meet mine across the vast, intimidating expanse of his office. The man from the blackout, the raw, wanting animal, is gone. This is the god. The king. The enemy.
A slow, cold, deeply unsettling smile touches his lips.
"Welcome to my world, Elara," he says, his voice a low, triumphant rumble that echoes in the sterile silence. "Please, have a seat. We have a great deal to discuss."