THE BLACKWOOD HEIR

Episode 3-The Last Goodbye

Lena

I didn't sleep.

The blue room was exactly as I remembered it—pale walls, white trim, a bay window overlooking the frozen gardens. My childhood books still sat on the shelf. A faded quilt my grandmother had made was folded at the foot of the bed. Someone had placed fresh flowers on the nightstand: white roses, my favorite.

Harold's doing, probably. Even from the grave, he was taking care of me.

I lay beside Jonah, listening to his soft breathing, and stared at the ceiling until the first gray light of dawn crept through the curtains.

Caleb knew.

The thought looped through my mind, relentless and terrifying. He had a swab kit. He had done the math. He had been planning this for years.

I should have been angry. I was angry. But underneath the anger, beneath the fear and the hurt, something else pulsed quietly.

Relief.

I hated myself for it.

For seven years, I had carried the secret of Jonah's parentage alone. I had told myself it was safer this way. That Caleb didn't deserve to know. That his family would only poison my son the way they had poisoned everything else.

But lying there in the dark, with my son's small hand curled around my finger, I couldn't pretend anymore.

Jonah deserved a father.

And Caleb—despite everything—deserved to know he had a son.

After the funeral, I had told him.

That gave me a few hours to prepare.

---

Caleb

He watched the sunrise from the cemetery.

Blackwood Memorial stood on a hill behind the manor, a private plot where four generations of his family had been laid to rest. The January sky was pale and cold, streaked with pink and gold, and the frost on the grass glittered like crushed diamonds.

His father's grave was already dug.

The funeral was set for eleven. By noon, Harold Blackwood would be in the ground, and Caleb would be the head of an empire he wasn't sure he wanted anymore.

"You're up early."

He didn't turn around. He knew that voice—cool, polished, dripping with false concern.

Celeste.

His stepmother walked across the frost-covered grass in black heels that should have sunk into the earth but somehow didn't. She wore a black dress, simple and expensive, and her blonde hair was swept into a elegant chignon. At fifty-two, she looked forty. At fifty-two, she had never once looked at him with genuine warmth.

"The groundskeeper said you've been here since five," she continued, stopping a few feet away. "That's devotion, Caleb. Your father would have appreciated it."

No, he wouldn't. Harold had despised sentimentality. He would have called this morbid and told Caleb to go back to work.

But Caleb didn't say that. He had learned long ago that arguing with Celeste was like arguing with a mirror—she only reflected what you gave her, and nothing ever changed.

"Lena arrived last night," he said instead.

Celeste's expression didn't flicker. "I heard."

"Did you also hear that she has a son?"

A pause. So slight that anyone else would have missed it.

"I assumed she would have moved on by now," Celeste said smoothly. "She was always... eager for affection."

Caleb turned then, slowly, and looked at his stepmother with cold eyes.

"Her son is six years old. He has dark hair and brown eyes. And he looks exactly like I did at his age."

The silence stretched between them, sharp as a blade.

Celeste's smile never wavered. "What are you suggesting, Caleb?"

"I'm not suggesting anything." He tucked his hands into his coat pockets and walked past her, toward the manor. "I'm telling you that after the funeral, Lena and I are having a conversation. A long one. About seven years ago."

He didn't look back to see her reaction.

He didn't need to.

He had seen the flash of fear in her eyes before she masked it.

Good.

---

Lena

Jonah woke at eight, bright-eyed and hungry, with no memory of the stranger who had knelt in the doorway the night before.

"Mama, can we have pancakes?"

"After the funeral, baby. We'll find a diner."

"What's a funeral?"

I knelt in front of him and smoothed his dark hair, buying myself a moment to find the right words. Jonah was smart. Too smart for fairy tales and sugarcoating. But he was also six, and the truth was heavy.

"It's a way of saying goodbye to someone who died," I said gently. "Harold was... a friend of mine. A good man. We're going to a church to honor him."

"Was he your daddy?"

The question caught me off guard. "No. He was my stepfather. Kind of. It's complicated."

Jonah accepted this with a six-year-old's pragmatism. "Will there be food after?"

I laughed despite myself. "Yes, baby. There will be food."

"Okay. Then I'm ready."

I dressed him in a small black sweater and dark pants—thank God I had thought to pack something appropriate—and put on my own funeral clothes. A black sheath dress, modest and simple. Pearl studs that had been my grandmother's. Low heels that wouldn't sink into the grass.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize the woman staring back.

She looked strong. Composed. The kind of woman who had never been broken by men with whiskey eyes and cruel fiancées.

Fake it, I told myself. Fake it until it's real.

A soft knock on the door made me jump.

I opened it to find an elderly housekeeper I remembered from my girlhood. Mrs. Holloway. Her gray hair was thinner now, her face more lined, but her eyes were kind and wet with tears.

"Oh, Miss Lena," she whispered, pulling me into a hug before I could protest. "You came back. You came back to us."

I hugged her back, harder than I intended. "I'm sorry I stayed away so long."

"Don't you apologize. Not to me." She pulled back and cupped my face in her weathered hands. "You look beautiful. And this little man—" She looked down at Jonah, who was watching her curiously. "—you must be Jonah. You have your mother's eyes."

"Everyone says that," Jonah said.

Mrs. Holloway laughed, a sound like rusty bells. "Because it's true. Now come. The cars are waiting."

---

Caleb

The church was full.

Caleb stood at the front, beside the closed casket draped in black velvet, and stared at the sea of faces. Business partners. Distant relatives. People who had never known his father, not really, but who had showed up to pay respects to the idea of Harold Blackwood.

Serena Vane sat in the second row, dressed in head-to-toe black, her platinum hair gleaming under the candlelight. She caught his eye and offered a small, sad smile—the perfect expression of grieving almost-daughter-in-law.

Caleb looked away.

He had broken off their engagement three years ago, after discovering she had been embezzling from a company subsidiary. But she had spun the story, made herself the victim, and Harold—too ill to fight—had let her stay in their orbit.

After today, Caleb promised himself. After today, she's gone.

The church doors opened.

Every head turned.

Lena walked down the aisle with Jonah's hand in hers, her dark hair loose, her chin high, her black dress flowing like water. She didn't look at anyone. She didn't acknowledge the whispers that followed her—is that Lena Marshall? I thought she was banished. Who's the boy?

She looked straight ahead.

At the casket.

At Caleb.

And for one terrible, beautiful moment, the rest of the world fell away.

Lena.

The wolf surged forward, desperate and aching. Seven years of absence, and she was more breathtaking than ever. Stronger. Fiercer. His.

She stopped at the end of the first pew, Jonah beside her, and finally met his gaze.

Her eyes were dry.

But he saw the grief beneath the surface. The loss. The love she was trying so hard to bury.

I'm sorry, he mouthed.

She looked away.

The service began.

---

Lena

I didn't cry during the eulogy.

I didn't cry when the pastor spoke of Harold's kindness, his business acumen, his devotion to family—family being a generous word for the collection of vipers he had surrounded himself with.

I didn't cry when Celeste rose to speak, her voice trembling with manufactured grief, her eyes dry as dust.

I didn't even cry when they lowered the casket into the frozen ground and Caleb stepped forward to throw the first handful of dirt.

But when Jonah tugged on my sleeve and whispered, "Mama, why is that man crying?"—pointing at Caleb, whose face was carved from stone but whose eyes glistened with unshed tears—I felt my own throat close.

"He lost his father," I whispered back.

"Oh." Jonah was quiet for a moment. Then: "Mama, can I give him a hug? He looks sad."

My heart cracked.

"No, baby. Not now."

But Jonah, as always, had his own ideas.

---

Caleb

The reception was held at Blackwood Manor, in the grand ballroom where Lena had been humiliated seven years ago.

Caleb stood by the fireplace, accepting condolences he didn't want, shaking hands with men who had tried to steal his company, and watching Lena across the room.

She was talking to Mrs. Holloway, a plate of untouched food in her hand. Jonah was beside her, quietly eating a cookie, his dark eyes scanning the room with curiosity.

My son.

The words still felt foreign. Impossible. And yet—

A small hand tugged on his pants.

Caleb looked down.

Jonah stared up at him with those brown eyes—Lena's eyes—and said, "Mama said not to, but you looked sad at the hole place."

"The... funeral?"

"Yeah. That." Jonah held up a slightly squashed cookie. "Do you want this? It's chocolate chip. It makes me feel better when I'm sad."

Caleb's throat closed.

He knelt down—this small, fierce boy who looked so much like him—and took the cookie.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rough. "That's... that's very kind of you."

Jonah shrugged. "Mama says kindness is free. You should give it to everyone."

"Your mama is very smart."

"I know." Jonah tilted his head, studying Caleb with that too-intelligent gaze. "Are you really my family? Like you said last night?"

Caleb's heart stopped.

Across the room, Lena had gone pale. She was staring at them, frozen, a glass of champagne halfway to her lips.

Say something, the wolf demanded. Tell him the truth.

But Caleb had made too many mistakes. He would not make another one without Lena's permission.

"Your mama and I used to live in this house together," he said carefully. "A long time ago. She was very important to me."

"Are you her family too?"

"I... I'd like to be."

Jonah considered this. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied, and said, "Okay. You can have another cookie if you want. But don't tell Mama I gave you the first one. She said to stay away from you."

Before Caleb could respond, Jonah turned and ran back to Lena, who scooped him up and held him tight, her eyes locked on Caleb over her son's shoulder.

She looked terrified.

She also looked like she was beginning to understand the truth.

Some bonds cannot be broken.

No matter how hard you try.