The Blackwood estate is exactly as pretentious as I expected.
Wrought iron gates that probably cost more than most people's cars. A driveway longer than some city blocks, lined with perfectly manicured hedges. The house itself is a monument to old money—three stories of granite and glass, with columns that scream "we've been rich since before you were born."
Marcus pulls his BMW up to the front entrance like he owns the world. Which, technically, his family kind of does.
"Home sweet home," he says, killing the engine.
I don't move. Can't move. Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to get out of this car. Not to follow him into that house where he'll eventually decide I'm too dangerous to live.
"Second thoughts?" His voice is casual, but I catch the edge underneath. He's testing me again.
"Just tired." I force myself to open the car door. "It's been a hell of a day."
That's the understatement of the century.
The front door opens before we reach it. A woman in her fifties appears, silver hair pulled back in a bun, wearing a black dress that screams "head housekeeper." She looks like she stepped out of a Victorian novel.
"Master Marcus," she says with a slight bow. "Your father is waiting in his study. Miss Sterling, welcome to Blackwood Manor."
"Thanks, Mrs..." I trail off, realizing I don't know her name.
"Hendricks. I've prepared the blue guest room for you. Third floor, east wing."
East wing. As far away from Marcus's room as possible, probably. Smart woman.
"That's perfect," I say. "Thank you."
Marcus hands his keys to Mrs. Hendricks like she's a valet. "Tell Dad I'll be up in a minute. I want to show Bella around first."
The last thing I want is a guided tour from my future murderer, but refusing would look suspicious.
"Lead the way."
He takes my elbow—such a gentleman—and steers me through the front hall. Marble floors so shiny you could use them as mirrors. Crystal chandelier the size of a small car. Oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors watching from gilded frames.
"The usual rich people stuff," I mutter.
He laughs. "You say that like the Sterling mansion isn't just as ridiculous."
Fair point.
We walk through room after room. Library with books that probably haven't been touched in decades. Dining room with a table that seats twenty. Living room with furniture that looks like museum pieces.
All of it designed to impress. To intimidate. To remind visitors exactly who they're dealing with.
"This is where the magic happens," Marcus says, pushing open double doors to reveal his father's study.
Gregory Blackwood looks up from his desk, a bandage covering the stitches on his forehead from this morning's glass explosion. His smile is cold, calculating.
"Isabella. Welcome to our home."
"Thank you for having me, Mr. Blackwood. I'm sorry about your... injury."
He waves it off. "Occupational hazard of sitting on the Council. These things happen."
These things. Like getting caught in supernatural explosions is totally normal.
"I trust you'll be comfortable here," he continues. "We've had the guest room prepared with everything you might need. Security is, of course, our top priority."
Security. Right. More like surveillance.
"I appreciate that."
"Excellent. Marcus, perhaps you could show Isabella to her room? It's been a long day for everyone."
Translation: get her settled so we can start watching her every move.
Marcus nods. "Come on, Bella. I'll grab your bag."
I don't have a bag. Everything I own is back home, in the house where my supposedly dead parents are probably wondering what the hell just happened to their daughter's life.
"Actually," I say, "I should probably head home first. Get some clothes, toiletries, that kind of stuff."
"Already taken care of." Gregory's smile gets sharper. "Your mother packed a suitcase. It's already in your room."
Of course it is. Because apparently my life isn't my own anymore.
"How thoughtful."
"We'll leave you to get settled," Marcus says. "Dinner's at seven if you're hungry. Otherwise, just rest. Tomorrow's going to be interesting."
Interesting. I hate when people say that.
Mrs. Hendricks appears like she was waiting in the hallway. "Right this way, Miss Sterling."
The blue guest room is actually pretty nice. Four-poster bed, antique furniture, windows that look out over the gardens. It would be perfect if it weren't essentially a very comfortable prison cell.
"Will there be anything else tonight?" Mrs. Hendricks asks.
"No, I think I'm all set. Thank you."
She nods and leaves, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
I'm alone.
For the first time since this morning's disaster, I have a moment to actually think. To process everything that's happened.
I'm not who I thought I was. The tests proved that much. But if I'm not really an Omega, what am I? And why was my true nature hidden?
More importantly, who hid it?
I walk to the window, looking out at the perfectly manicured grounds. Somewhere out there, people are going about their normal lives. Working, eating dinner, watching TV. None of them know about the secret world that exists right alongside theirs.
None of them know that everything they believe about reality is wrong.
A movement in the garden catches my eye. Someone walking along the hedge maze, keeping to the shadows. Tall figure in dark clothes, moving with predatory grace.
Security patrol, probably. The Blackwoods take their privacy seriously.
But something about the way this person moves seems familiar. Purposeful. Like they're not just patrolling—they're hunting.
I press closer to the window, trying to get a better look. The figure stops directly below my window, and for a split second, I swear they're looking up at me.
Then they melt back into the shadows like they were never there at all.
A chill runs down my spine. Who the hell was that?
I need air. Need space. Need to get out of this house before I suffocate on all the hidden agendas and secret plans.
I grab a jacket from the suitcase Mom packed—apparently she knows my wardrobe better than I thought—and head for the door.
The hallway is empty. No guards, no Mrs. Hendricks, no Marcus lurking around corners. The Blackwoods are either very trusting or very confident in their security measures.
I make my way downstairs, staying quiet on the marble floors. The front door is probably alarmed, but there has to be another way out. Kitchen entrance, maybe. Or a side door.
I find what I'm looking for in the back of the house. A door that opens onto a stone terrace, with steps leading down into the gardens. No alarms that I can see. No cameras pointing this direction.
Perfect.
The night air is cool against my skin. October in New York, with that crisp edge that promises winter isn't far behind. I pull my jacket tighter and start walking.
The gardens are huge. Formal flower beds, carefully trimmed hedges, gravel paths that wind through perfectly arranged sections. Everything designed and controlled, just like the people who own it.
I follow one of the paths toward what looks like a small pavilion tucked between two rows of hedges. A good place to sit and think. To figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do next.
But I don't make it that far.
"Going somewhere?"
I spin around, heart hammering. A man steps out of the shadows between two hedges, tall and lean with dark hair and ice-blue eyes. He's wearing all black—jeans, leather jacket, boots that don't make a sound on the gravel.
He's gorgeous in a dangerous, bad-boy way that would have made my teenage self stupid with want.
Now all I feel is the urge to run.
"Who are you?" My voice is steadier than I expected. Good.
"Someone who's been watching you." He steps closer, moving like a predator. Controlled. Graceful. Ready to strike or flee at a moment's notice. "You're not safe here."
"Yeah, well, that makes two of us who think so."
He almost smiles at that. "Smart girl. Smarter than I expected."
"Expected from what? You don't know me."
"Don't I?" He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Isabella Sterling. Twenty-three years old. Raised as an Omega by parents who may or may not be telling her the truth. Recently discovered she can level buildings with her emotions."
My blood turns cold. "How do you know that?"
"I know a lot of things about you. Things that would surprise you."
"Like what?"
"Like the fact that someone's been suppressing your true nature since birth. Like the fact that the people you trust most are probably the ones who've been lying to you your entire life."
The words hit me like physical blows. Because deep down, I've been thinking the same thing.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" He reaches into his jacket, and I tense, ready to fight or run or whatever it takes to survive.
But all he pulls out is a business card. Thick, expensive paper. The kind that screams money and power.
He holds it out to me.
I don't take it. "What is it?"
"A way to contact me when you're ready for the truth."
"What truth?"
"All of it. Who you really are. What they did to you. Why they did it." His eyes are intense, hypnotic. "And what's coming for you if you don't start fighting back."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." He takes another step closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine. "You've been having dreams, haven't you? Memories that don't quite fit? Moments where you know things you shouldn't know?"
My heart stops. He knows. Somehow, this stranger knows about the time travel. About the memories.
"I don't—"
"The white roses," he says softly. "You knew what they meant before he even gave them to you."
I stagger backward. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" He holds out the business card again. "When you're ready to stop running from what you are, call me."
This time I take the card. My fingers brush his as I do, and electricity shoots up my arm. Not metaphorical electricity—actual energy, like touching a live wire.
He feels it too. His eyes widen slightly, and he pulls his hand back like I burned him.
"Interesting," he murmurs.
I look down at the card. Heavy paper, expensive feel. No name, no company. Just a phone number and a single line of text:
Truth awaits those brave enough to seek it.
When I look up, he's gone.
Vanished into the shadows like he was never there. The only proof I have that he existed at all is the card in my hand and the lingering scent of his cologne.
I stand there for a long moment, heart racing, trying to process what just happened.
Someone else knows my secret. Someone who's apparently been watching me, waiting for the right moment to make contact.
Someone who might have answers to questions I'm afraid to ask.
I look at the card again. The phone number is local. Manhattan area code.
Truth awaits those brave enough to seek it.
Am I brave enough? After everything that's happened today, do I have the courage to dig deeper into secrets that might destroy everything I thought I knew about my life?
A light comes on in one of the house's upper windows. Marcus's room, probably. Time to head back before someone notices I'm gone.
I slip the card into my jacket pocket and start walking back toward the house. But with every step, I can feel the weight of it against my chest. Like a promise. Or a threat.
By the time I reach the back door, I've made my decision.
Tomorrow, I'm making that call.
Tonight, though, I need to survive sleeping under the same roof as the man who's going to kill me.
And figure out how to do it without giving away everything I know about the future.
No pressure.
End of Chapter 4