Chapter 2 - Blood on the Velvet Contract
The private elevator shot up forty floors to the penthouse in pure, suffocating silence. The brass gate clattered open, revealing an opulent, darkened sanctuary filled with black leather, mahogany, and walls of floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the glittering skyline of Manhattan.
Vincent shoved me inside, slammed the reinforced steel door, and engaged three separate electronic deadbolts.
""Sit,"" he commanded, ripping off his bowtie and tossing his blood-spattered tuxedo jacket onto an armchair.
I didn't sit. I stood my ground near the center of the vast living room, breathing heavily, the crystal-encrusted sleeves of my skating dress catching the amber light of the fireplace. The adrenaline was still pumping violently through my veins, sharpening every sense I had kept buried for five years.
Vincent walked over to a wet bar, poured two fingers of amber bourbon, and threw it down his throat in a single swallow. When he turned back to me, the shadows carved his cheekbones into sharp, unforgiving edges. His midnight-blue tattoos peeked out from his unbuttoned collar, coiling around his throat like coiled vipers.
""Emily Carter,"" he said slowly, testing the name on his tongue as if it were poison. ""America's golden darling. The youngest woman to ever land a quadruple axel in international competition. Declared dead in an accidental electrical fire at Riverside Arena five years ago."" He took a slow step toward me, towering over me. ""And for the last six months, you’ve been washing my bathroom floors and serving me tea.""
""Your tea was always lukewarm, Mr. Blackwood,"" I countered coldly, refusing to let my eyes drop. ""I figured you deserved at least that much.""
A dark, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained frozen. ""You played me. You took a maid's wage, cleaned my sheets, and waited for the right moment to strike. Who sent you?""
""Nobody sent me,"" I said, stepping closer until my chest was inches from his. ""Your family took everything from me. My career, my future, my face, my mother’s peace of mind. Your father burned twenty-two people alive in that building just to silence a city council member who wouldn't take his bribe. I was collateral damage. A nuisance that happened to be training on the rink after hours.""
Vincent’s gaze darkened. ""My father is a rabid dog, but he isn't stupid. If he wanted you dead tonight, it's not because you survived a fire. It's because you know something that can bury him.""
""I don't know anything yet,"" I confessed, my voice trembling with five years of suppressed fury. ""That's why I demanded the Riverside files! I know you keep the master syndicate archives in your private safe. I needed proof. I needed names.""
Vincent stared at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, lingering on the faint, expertly hidden scar along my jawline—a permanent souvenir from the falling roof beams at Riverside.
""You want a war with the Blackwood family?"" he asked softly, lifting a gloved hand and running his thumb gently across my scar. The unexpected tenderness in his touch sent a shockwave down my spine. ""You’re a little bird with broken wings, Emily. You wouldn't survive the first hour.""
""Try me,"" I challenged, holding his gaze without blinking. ""You promised me two things if I didn't fall on that ice: one million dollars, and your hand in marriage.""
Vincent let out a low, humorless laugh that rumbled deep in his chest. ""You really want to marry the devil's son?""
""A maid is invisible, Vincent. But the wife of Vincent Blackwood is untouchable,"" I said steadily. ""Marry me, give me the files, and let me tear your father's empire apart from the inside. In exchange, I give you what you’ve been wanting for three years—a legitimate reason to take Arthur’s crown without sparking a civil war among the five families.""
Vincent stopped. His icy eyes narrowed, calculating the angles with cold, ruthless intelligence. ""You're not just an athlete,"" he murmured, his voice laced with reluctant admiration. ""You're a strategist.""
He walked over to his massive mahogany desk, pulled open a drawer, and threw a heavy gold signet ring onto the desk alongside a black leather dossier stamped with a crimson crest.
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""We sign the registry tonight,"" Vincent decreed, his tone absolute. ""Tomorrow morning, you are Mrs. Blackwood. But hear this, Emily: you enter my bed, you enter my war. There are no survivors who turn back.""
""I died five years ago, Vincent,"" I replied, picking up the ring. ""You can't kill a ghost.""
