Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
And then Charles, ever the patient predator, finally speaks. “This is all very entertaining,” he says, voice as smooth as the whiskey in his glass. “But I think we’re all still wondering the same thing.” He turns his gaze on me, but his words are meant for her. “Why is she here?”
Rotterdam doesn’t react, but I know he’s listening closely now. He flips open his leather folder, ready to lay out the details of the inheritance. But Charles doesn’t care about legalities. He cares about power. About hierarchy. About reminding everyone at this table where they fall in the Blackwolf pecking order.
Moira squares her shoulders, her lips parting to answer, but before she can, Simon scoffs. “She shouldn’t even be here.”
That’s when I move.
Not loud. Not aggressive. Just a slow, deliberate reach for my whiskey. I swirl the glass, the scent of oak and fire curling under my nose.
“Neither should most of you,” I murmur, my voice lazy and edged with amusement. I lift the glass to my lips. “But here we are. Brothers and sister. Ladies,” I give a sardonic raise of an eyebrow Miriam’s way so she feels my sarcasm like a whip, “and gentlemen, may I introduce my wife, Moira Blackwolf.”
Moira exhales sharply beside me, irritation rolling off her in waves.
She doesn’t need me to fight for her.
But she’s realizing something now, something that’s been creeping up on her since the moment we walked into this room.
It doesn’t matter how sharp her tongue is or how fast she can strike—
Because in this world, power isn’t about speaking the loudest. It’s about making everyone else fall silent. I decide when the knife twists and when the room bends to me.
And right now, they’re learning what Moira already knows—this was never a fight. It was always a foregone conclusion.
I’m just making damn sure they know it.
Silence never lasts long in a room full of predators.
I let them have their fun. Let them snap their teeth at Moira, let them think they could toy with her, let them believe—for one last, fleeting moment—that they still hold power here.
But the game is over.
I set my whiskey glass down with a deliberate clink against the polished wood, the sound slicing through the low hum of conversation like a blade. “Rotterdam.”
The lawyer looks up, unfazed but already moving. He knows. Of course, he knows.
“It’s time.”
Moira stiffens beside me. Her fingers are curled tight against the edge of the table, white-knuckled like she’s bracing for impact. She should be. They all should be.
Rotterdam clears his throat, unfastens the leather clasp on his folder, and pulls out a thick sheaf of documents. He adjusts his glasses, scanning the first page. “As per the last will and testament of the late Bradford Blackwolf—”
The name alone sends a ripple through the table. A sharp inhale from Miriam, Charles’s jaw locks tight, and Gabriella’s fingers tighten around the stem of her wine glass. My father’s ghost is still in the room, his phantom hand still wrapped around their throats.
Rotterdam continues, his voice cool and measured. “All assets, including Blackwood Hall, all financial holdings, and controlling interest in Blackwood Enterprises are hereby transferred in full to Bane Blackwood.”
For a second, there’s nothing. Just the weight of those words settling like lead into the marrow of every person sitting at this cursed table.
Then, the explosion.
Miriam is the first to react, shoving back from the table so hard her wine glass tips, red spilling across the pristine linen. “That’s impossible.”
“Surely, there’s a mistake.” Charles’s voice is tight, but there’s an edge of desperation beneath it. “My father wouldn’t—”
“He did.” Rotterdam flips a page, adjusting his glasses. “The will was amended six months before his death. The paperwork is in order.”
Gabriella exhales a sharp laugh, dark and bitter. “So that’s it? We get nothing?”
“Correct.”
Simon is less elegant about it. “That fucking bastard!” He slams his fist onto the table, silverware rattling. “He left us scraps? What about the company? What about—”
“All holdings.” Rotterdam doesn’t even look up. “Including the company.”
“You expect us to believe that?” Charles snaps, voice finally cracking. “You expect us to just accept that Bane gets everything?”
I take my time swirling the whiskey in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. Then I meet his gaze, slow and deliberate. “Yes.”
Chaos erupts.
Miriam hisses something under her breath, venom dripping from every syllable. Gabriella is laughing again, wild and mean. Simon is half out of his chair, face red, furious, looking like he’s ready to launch himself across the table. Charles is already plotting, I can see it—the calculations running behind his eyes, searching for any loophole, any way to claw back what was never his to begin with.
Moira hasn’t moved.
She’s watching them, expression unreadable, but I can feel the tension in her body. It’s different now. Before, they were attacking her. Now, they’re devouring each other.