HIS TO RUIN

THE MAKING OF A COLD HEART

CHAPTER THREE

France welcomed Marshal Blackwood with grey skies and unfamiliar streets.

He had imagined that leaving home would make things easier. A new country, a different house, and distance from the memories that haunted him seemed like everything he needed.

He was wrong.

His aunt, Isabelle, lived in a beautiful home on the outskirts of Paris. She welcomed him with open arms, arranged a room for him, and did everything she could to make him comfortable.

But comfort was not what Marshal wanted.

He wanted his father back.

He wanted to hear his mother's voice calling him downstairs for breakfast. He wanted to walk into the family study and find Richard sitting behind his desk, reading through reports and pretending not to notice when Marshal stole his favourite pen.

Instead, he had silence.

And silence was something he was beginning to understand too well.

"Your dinner is getting cold," Isabelle called one evening.

Marshal sat at the dining table, staring at the untouched food in front of him.

"I'm not hungry."

"You've said that three times today."

"Then you should know my answer by now."

Isabelle sighed and took the seat opposite him.

"Marshal, I know you're hurting."

He continued staring at his plate.

"I'm not asking you to forget what happened. I'm only asking you to take care of yourself."

"I'm taking care of myself."

"You're barely sleeping, you hardly eat, and you spend every waking hour working."

He finally looked at her.

"What else am I supposed to do?"

The question was quiet, but the pain beneath it made Isabelle's expression soften.

For a moment, she reached across the table as though she wanted to take his hand. Then she stopped, sensing that he wasn't ready for the gesture.

"You don't have to figure everything out immediately," she told him.

Marshal looked away.

"I do."

He rose from the table and carried his plate towards the kitchen.

Isabelle watched him leave, her heart aching for the boy who had arrived at her home carrying more grief than he knew how to express.

She hoped that, with time, he would allow someone to help him.

She didn't yet understand that Marshal had begun to associate vulnerability with helplessness—and helplessness with loss.

He had no intention of feeling powerless again.

---

The months that followed were difficult.

Marshal enrolled in business courses and began studying the structure of Blackwood International Group in greater detail. His father had built the company over decades, and Marshal knew that inheriting its name would mean little if he couldn't prove himself capable of protecting it.

He studied financial management, corporate strategy, negotiations, and the decisions that separated successful businesses from failing ones.

He was relentless.

While other students attended parties or spent their weekends exploring the city, Marshal remained at his desk, reviewing reports and learning everything he could about the corporate world.

He rarely complained about being tired.

He rarely asked for help.

And he never spoke about his parents unless someone asked him a direct question.

Even then, his answers were brief.

"How are you finding France?" one of his classmates asked him after a lecture.

"It's fine."

"Do you miss home?"

"Sometimes."

"Are you planning to go back soon?"

Marshal closed his notebook.

"When I'm ready."

The conversation ended there.

People soon learned that Marshal Blackwood wasn't someone they could easily draw into personal discussions. He was polite when necessary, but his distance made it difficult to become his friend.

He didn't seem to care.

Friendship had never brought him any closer to understanding why his parents were gone. Kindness hadn't protected them. Love hadn't stopped tragedy from entering their home.

He began to believe that the safest thing he could do was depend on himself.

It was a belief that would shape almost every decision he made in the years ahead.

---

By his twenty-first birthday, Marshal had changed considerably.

The boy who once sat quietly beside Adrian, occasionally allowing a rare smile to escape him, had become even more reserved.

His aunt noticed it most during family dinners.

"Do you remember when you used to argue with your father about everything?" Isabelle asked him one evening.

Marshal continued cutting his food.

"Not everything."

"Almost everything. You would disagree with him over the smallest things, and then the two of you would spend an hour discussing something neither of you had cared about in the first place."

A faint smile appeared on her face.

"Your mother used to laugh at you both."

Marshal's knife stopped moving.

Isabelle realised her mistake too late.

"I'm sorry."

He placed his cutlery down.

"You don't have to apologise for mentioning them."

"I know. I just don't want to upset you."

"You won't."

But he had already withdrawn into himself.

Isabelle watched him carefully.

"Marshal, grief doesn't make you weak."

He looked at her.

"I never said it did."

"No. But you've been living as though having feelings is something you need to overcome."

His expression hardened.

"Feelings don't solve problems."

"No, but they remind us that we're human."

He stood.

"Goodnight, Aunt Isabelle."

She didn't stop him.

She had learned that pressing him only made him retreat further.

Marshal returned to his room, closed the door, and stood beside the window overlooking the garden.

For a moment, he allowed himself to remember his parents.

His father's steady voice.

His mother's laughter.

The warmth of their home before everything changed.

Then he pushed the memories away and returned to his desk.

There was work to do.

And work, unlike grief, had rules he could understand.

---

Amelia Brent became a memory he rarely allowed himself to examine.

At first, he had intended to keep his promise.

He had told her he would write, and for a short time, he considered sending a message. He even opened a blank email one evening and stared at the screen, trying to decide what he could possibly say.

How are you?

It seemed inadequate.

I miss home.

It seemed too honest.

He thought about telling her that he had started his studies, that his aunt was taking care of him, or that France wasn't as wonderful as people imagined.

But every sentence felt like an invitation to discuss things he wasn't ready to face.

So he closed the email without sending it.

He told himself he would write another day.

Days became weeks.

Weeks became months.

Eventually, the silence between them grew so familiar that breaking it seemed harder than maintaining it.

He didn't know whether Amelia had tried to contact him. He had changed his number during his first year in France and kept his circle small. His attention was consumed by his studies and the growing responsibilities connected to his family's business.

He did not deliberately sit around thinking about her.

But occasionally, something reminded him of the garden at the Blackwood mansion.

A familiar laugh from across a room.

A teasing remark from a classmate.

The sight of two friends arguing over something completely unimportant.

Whenever that happened, he remembered a thirteen-year-old girl who had once told him he didn't answer enough questions.

He wondered whether she still asked too many.

Then he returned to work.

Amelia continued growing up in England, surrounded by her family and the life Marshal had left behind.

She didn't understand why his promises had faded into silence.

At first, she waited for the letters he had promised to send. Later, she stopped expecting them.

She still remembered him, but she gradually accepted that the boy she had known might never return as the person she remembered.

Neither of them knew how much the years apart would change the way they saw each other.

---

By twenty-three, Marshal had begun taking a more active interest in Blackwood International Group.

He reviewed company reports, attended meetings remotely, and studied the decisions made by the executives responsible for managing his father's legacy.

He was quick to notice inconsistencies, impatient with excuses, and unwilling to accept explanations unsupported by facts.

One afternoon, during a meeting with a senior executive, he interrupted a lengthy presentation.

"Your figures don't match the financial report."

The executive glanced down at his papers.

"There may have been an error in the initial calculations."

"Then correct it."

"Of course, Mr Blackwood."

Marshal closed the folder.

"And don't bring me another report until you've verified every figure."

The executive nodded, visibly uncomfortable.

After the meeting, Isabelle found Marshal reviewing documents in his study.

"You're becoming rather intimidating," she remarked.

He didn't look up.

"Is that a problem?"

"Not necessarily. But you seem to have forgotten that people work better when they aren't afraid of you."

"I'm not responsible for their feelings."

"You're responsible for the way you treat them."

Marshal finally raised his eyes.

"If they do their jobs properly, they have nothing to fear."

Isabelle studied him.

"You sound very much like a man who believes money and power can prevent every unpleasant thing from happening."

His expression went cold.

"They can prevent quite a few things."

"And what can't they prevent?"

He said nothing.

Isabelle didn't need him to answer.

They both knew.

---

At twenty-five, Marshal had earned a reputation for being difficult to impress.

His business education was nearly complete, and he had gained the respect of people who initially doubted whether a young heir could handle the responsibilities attached to the Blackwood name.

He was disciplined, analytical, and rarely sentimental in negotiations.

He listened carefully, asked difficult questions, and never made promises simply to please someone.

When a deal failed to meet his standards, he walked away.

When a colleague made a mistake, he expected them to correct it.

When someone tried to manipulate him, he recognised the attempt and refused to entertain it.

His confidence came from preparation rather than charm.

People admired his intelligence, but few felt comfortable around him.

Marshal preferred it that way.

He had no interest in becoming the sort of man who needed everyone to like him.

He wanted competence.

Control.

Security.

Above all, he wanted to ensure that nothing he built could be taken from him as easily as his childhood had been taken.

Yet the harder he worked to secure his future, the more his private life narrowed.

He had acquaintances, business contacts, and people who wanted to be associated with his name.

He had very few genuine friends.

He rarely spoke about his family.

And he never discussed the possibility of falling in love.

To him, love meant allowing someone close enough to hurt him.

He had already experienced what it felt like to lose the people he loved most.

He had no intention of placing himself in that position again.

---

When Marshal turned twenty-six, his aunt invited him to dinner.

She had arranged his favourite meal and brought out an old photograph she had kept since his childhood.

It showed Richard and Eleanor standing in the garden of the Blackwood mansion, with a younger Marshal beside them.

He looked almost unrecognisable.

His expression was softer, his smile more natural, and his eyes held none of the guardedness that had become familiar to everyone who knew him.

Isabelle placed the photograph on the table.

"I found this while looking through some old things."

Marshal stared at it.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

"You were happy," Isabelle observed gently.

"I was young."

"Those aren't the same thing."

He picked up the photograph and studied it more closely.

His father had one arm around his mother. Eleanor was smiling towards the camera, while Marshal stood beside them with the confidence of someone who believed the people he loved would always be there.

He remembered that day.

He remembered complaining about having to stand still for the photograph. He remembered his mother telling him to smile properly, and his father laughing when Marshal deliberately made an exaggerated face.

The memory was so vivid that, for a moment, he could almost hear their voices.

Then the feeling passed.

He placed the photograph back on the table.

"I have work to do."

Isabelle watched him rise.

"Marshal."

He paused.

"You don't have to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for surviving."

His expression became unreadable.

"I'm not punishing myself."

"Then what are you doing?"

He looked at the photograph one last time.

"Making sure I never have to depend on anyone again."

He left the room before she could respond.

Isabelle remained at the table, looking at the picture of the young man he had once been.

She wondered whether he understood that independence and loneliness were not the same thing.

---

By twenty-seven, Marshal Blackwood was ready to return home.

He had completed his business education, gained valuable experience, and spent years preparing himself to assume responsibility for Blackwood International Group.

The executives overseeing the company had been informed that he intended to take a more direct role in its operations. His return would mark the beginning of a new chapter for the business and the Blackwood name.

Marshal reviewed the travel arrangements himself.

His aunt stood near the doorway of his study as he closed the final folder.

"So, you're finally going back."

"Yes."

"Do you think you're ready?"

He glanced at her.

"For the company?"

"For everything."

Marshal understood what she meant.

The mansion.

His parents' memories.

Adrian.

The Brent family.

The people he had left behind.

"I've been preparing for this for eight years."

"That wasn't what I asked."

He slipped the folder into his briefcase.

"I know."

Isabelle sighed.

"You could try to be a little less difficult."

"I could."

"And?"

"I won't."

Despite herself, Isabelle smiled faintly.

There he was: the boy she had helped raise during the hardest years of his life, buried beneath layers of discipline and emotional distance.

She approached him and straightened his collar, just as his mother had once done.

"Your parents would be proud of what you've accomplished."

Marshal's expression tightened.

"I hope so."

"They would also want you to have a life beyond work."

He picked up his briefcase.

"Perhaps I'll consider it."

Isabelle knew better than to expect more.

At the entrance, he paused and looked back at the home that had sheltered him for eight years.

France had given him an education, independence, and the opportunity to build a future.

It had not given him peace.

He had learned how to manage a business, negotiate difficult agreements, and make decisions without hesitation.

He had learned how to hide his grief so thoroughly that even people close to him sometimes forgot it existed.

But he had never learned how to stop being afraid of loss.

And he was about to return to the place where that fear had begun.

Marshal stepped outside.

His car was waiting.

His future was waiting.

And somewhere in England, Amelia Brent was living a life he knew almost nothing about.

He hadn't spoken to her in years.

He had no idea what she looked like now, what she wanted from life, or whether she ever thought about him.

He told himself it didn't matter.

He was returning for his father's company, not for old memories.

Still, as the car pulled away, he found himself thinking about the garden at the Blackwood mansion.

A thirteen-year-old girl.

A quiet promise.

And eight years of silence.

He pushed the memory aside.

By the time Marshal Blackwood returned home, he would be a man who trusted his judgment, controlled his emotions, and rarely allowed anything to surprise him.

He believed he was prepared for everything waiting for him.

He was wrong.