HIS TO RUIN

THE BEGINNING TO AN END

CHAPTER TWO

The first sign that something was wrong came on a Thursday morning.

Richard Blackwood had left the house earlier than usual, his phone pressed against his ear as he walked towards his car. His expression was serious, and the conversation he was having seemed important enough that he barely acknowledged the housekeeper who greeted him at the entrance.

Eleanor watched from the doorway.

"Richard?"

He turned.

"Yes, darling?"

"Are you going to be home for dinner?"

Richard paused, glancing at his watch.

"I'll try."

She gave him a knowing look. "That's what you said yesterday."

A small smile appeared on his face.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Eleanor approached him and straightened the collar of his jacket.

"You've been working too much."

"Just a few things I need to settle."

"Business?"

"Unfortunately."

She sighed, but there was no real anger in her expression. She had been married to Richard long enough to recognise when something was troubling him, even when he tried to hide it behind a reassuring smile.

"Whatever it is, don't forget that you have a family waiting for you at home."

Richard's expression softened.

"I could never forget that."

He kissed her forehead before stepping outside.

Neither of them knew that those ordinary words would become a memory Eleanor would never get the chance to make again.

---

At the Brent residence, Vincent was having a very different morning.

He stood inside his private study, staring at the financial reports scattered across his desk. Several documents carried figures that no longer matched the projections he had presented to Richard weeks earlier.

The business venture they had entered together was in serious trouble.

It had seemed like a brilliant opportunity at first. The potential returns were enormous, and Vincent had been convinced that the risks were manageable. But as the project developed, expenses increased, expected payments failed to arrive, and the financial pressure grew.

Richard had trusted him.

That was the part Vincent couldn't stop thinking about.

His friend had invested more than money. He had placed his company's reputation, resources, and future at risk because he believed Vincent knew what he was doing.

Now Vincent was running out of explanations.

His office door opened.

Catherine entered, closing it behind her.

"Have you spoken to Richard?"

Vincent didn't answer immediately.

"Vincent?"

"I said I'd handle it."

"And what exactly does that mean?"

He looked up sharply.

"It means I'm trying to find a solution."

Catherine crossed her arms.

"You told me that last week."

"Because there was still a solution last week."

"And now?"

Vincent looked down at the reports.

The silence answered her.

For several seconds, Catherine said nothing. She had known about the business venture from the beginning. She had listened to Vincent describe the opportunity, watched him become increasingly confident in its success, and encouraged him to believe that their family's future would be secure.

She had never expected things to reach this point.

"What happens if Richard finds out how bad it really is?" she asked.

Vincent rubbed his forehead.

"He already knows something is wrong."

"Then tell him everything."

"And destroy both our companies in the process?"

"He's your friend."

"I KNOW THAT!"

His voice came out louder than he intended.

Catherine flinched slightly.

Vincent looked away, breathing heavily.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Then Catherine spoke again, more quietly.

"We cannot let this destroy our family."

Vincent stared at the documents.

He had spent years building a life that appeared untouchable. Wealth, influence, a beautiful home, and children who had never needed to worry about the things that kept him awake at night.

He couldn't bear the thought of losing it all.

"I'll speak to Richard," he finally said.

Catherine searched his face.

"And if you can't fix it?"

Vincent didn't answer.

He already knew that some decisions couldn't be undone.

---

That evening, Richard returned home later than expected.

Marshal was in the living room with Adrian when his father entered. The boys had been arguing about a football match, although Adrian was doing most of the talking.

"Father," Marshal greeted him.

Richard stopped beside the sofa.

"Still here, you two?"

Adrian looked offended.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I expected you to have found something more interesting to do."

"Nothing is more interesting than watching Marshal pretend he doesn't enjoy my company."

Marshal didn't look away from the television.

"He's mistaken."

Richard laughed quietly.

It was a small sound, but Marshal noticed the tiredness behind it.

"Everything all right?" Marshal asked.

Richard turned towards him.

"Of course."

Marshal studied his father's face.

He had inherited Richard's habit of noticing details other people overlooked. The faint crease between his eyebrows, the way his shoulders seemed heavier than usual, and the brief pause before he answered.

Something was wrong.

But Richard had always been a man who preferred dealing with his problems privately.

"If you're sure," Marshal said.

Richard placed a hand on his son's shoulder.

"I'm sure."

Then he turned towards the staircase.

"I'll see you both at dinner."

Adrian waited until Richard had disappeared before leaning closer to Marshal.

"Your father looks tired."

Marshal nodded.

"He does."

"Maybe he needs a holiday."

"Maybe."

Adrian stretched his arms over his head.

"Your family needs to stop working so much. At this rate, I'll be the only person in this house who knows how to relax."

Marshal gave him a dry look.

"You don't know how to do anything else."

"Exactly. I'm preserving an important skill."

Marshal shook his head, but the corner of his mouth lifted.

For a few more minutes, they returned to their usual conversation.

Neither boy knew that the problems troubling Richard were about to become far more serious than either of them could imagine.

---

The following day, Richard and Vincent met privately.

It was not the first difficult conversation they had shared, but it was the first in which their friendship seemed unable to protect them from the consequences of their decisions.

Richard arrived with a folder containing the latest financial assessments. Vincent was already waiting when he entered.

"You said you had a plan," Richard began.

"I do."

"Then explain it to me."

Vincent gestured towards the chair opposite him.

"There's another investor interested in the project. If we can secure the agreement, we can recover a significant portion of what we've lost."

Richard opened the folder.

"And if the agreement falls through?"

"It won't."

"Vincent, stop giving me promises and start giving me facts."

Vincent's jaw tightened.

Richard rarely spoke to him this way. Their friendship had always allowed them to disagree without turning every disagreement into a battle.

But friendship could not erase financial reality.

Richard turned a page.

"These figures are worse than the ones you showed me last month."

"I know."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was trying to find a way to correct the situation before bringing you another problem."

Richard stared at him.

"You should have brought it to me when you first realised the situation was getting worse."

Vincent looked away.

For the first time in years, Richard wondered whether the man sitting opposite him had been honest about everything.

The thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

"We're going to resolve this," Richard said eventually. "But from now on, I want every document, every payment, and every decision reviewed properly. No more surprises."

Vincent nodded.

"Agreed."

The conversation ended without an argument.

They even shook hands before leaving.

To anyone watching, it might have looked like two old friends reaching a sensible agreement.

But something had changed.

Trust, once damaged, rarely returned to its original shape.

---

Two days later, the telephone rang at the Blackwood mansion.

It was early evening.

Eleanor was in the kitchen speaking with the housekeeper when she heard the sound. She wiped her hands and went to answer it.

"Blackwood residence."

The voice on the other end was unfamiliar.

"Good evening, ma'am. I'm calling regarding Mr Richard Blackwood."

Her expression changed.

"Yes?"

There was a pause.

Then the caller began explaining.

Eleanor listened without speaking.

At first, she seemed unable to understand the words. She asked the caller to repeat the information, then gripped the edge of the table as the terrible meaning settled over her.

When she finally put down the telephone, her hands were trembling.

Richard had been involved in a serious incident while travelling to an urgent business meeting.

His vehicle had been found after an accident.

He had been taken to a hospital.

And Eleanor needed to come immediately.

For several seconds, she stood completely still.

Then she called for Marshal.

---

Marshal found his mother near the entrance, reaching for her handbag with unsteady hands.

"Mother?"

She turned towards him.

He had never seen her look like that before.

"What happened?"

Eleanor opened her mouth, but the words seemed to fail her.

"Your father," she managed at last. "There has been an accident."

Marshal's expression changed.

"Where is he?"

"At the hospital."

"Is he hurt?"

Eleanor looked at him, and the fear in her eyes gave him no comfort.

"I don't know everything yet."

Marshal was already reaching for his keys.

"Then let's go."

The drive to the hospital felt longer than it should have.

Eleanor sat beside him, holding her handbag tightly in her lap. She tried to call the hospital again, but the information she received was limited.

Marshal kept his eyes on the road.

He told himself that accidents happened. That his father was strong, that he would be fine, and that by the time they arrived, someone would explain everything.

He had no reason to imagine the worst.

Richard Blackwood had always seemed like a man who could solve any problem placed before him.

Marshal had never considered the possibility that there might be a problem his father could not survive.

When they arrived, a member of the hospital staff approached them.

The conversation took only a few minutes.

But by the time it ended, the world Marshal knew no longer existed.

His father was dead.

For a moment, Marshal didn't move.

He heard his mother's voice somewhere beside him, but the words made no sense. People were speaking. Someone was offering condolences. A staff member was explaining what would happen next.

All Marshal could think about was the conversation they had shared only days earlier.

Everything all right?

Of course.

He had believed him.

He had believed there would be more time.

Now there would be no more conversations, no more advice, no more opportunities to ask his father the questions he had never thought to ask.

Marshal looked down at his hands.

They were perfectly still.

He didn't cry in front of the strangers surrounding him. He didn't shout or demand explanations. He simply stood there, silent and pale, as though his mind had withdrawn somewhere no one else could reach.

Eleanor, however, could barely remain standing.

Marshal turned towards her and caught her before she sank into the chair beside them.

"Mother."

She clutched his jacket.

"Oh, Marshal."

He held her tightly.

For the first time in his life, he had no idea what to say to make anything better.

---

The funeral took place several days later.

The mansion was filled with mourners, business associates, old friends, and people who had come to pay their respects to a man whose influence extended far beyond his family.

Marshal stood beside his mother throughout the service.

He wore a black suit and maintained the same expression he had worn since the hospital.

People approached him with sympathetic words.

Some spoke about his father's achievements. Others offered advice about staying strong, supporting his mother, and carrying on the Blackwood name.

Marshal thanked them when necessary.

He remembered almost none of what they said.

Adrian stood nearby, unusually quiet. For once, he had no jokes to offer and no clever remarks to fill the silence.

When he finally reached Marshal, he pulled his friend into a firm embrace.

"I'm sorry," Adrian whispered.

Marshal closed his eyes briefly.

"Thank you."

It was all he could manage.

Adrian stepped back, looking as though he wanted to say more.

Instead, he placed a hand on Marshal's shoulder and remained beside him.

That was what friendship looked like when words were no longer enough.

A short distance away, Amelia watched them.

She had never seen Marshal so completely withdrawn.

Even at thirteen, she understood that losing a parent was something she couldn't begin to imagine. She wanted to approach him, to tell him she was sorry, to remind him that he wasn't alone.

But every time she considered moving closer, someone else stepped in to speak to him.

And Marshal answered every person with the same distant politeness.

Eventually, she found him standing alone near the garden.

The flowers were still there. The chairs had been removed, and the garden had been quiet for days, but the place looked almost exactly as it had during their last gathering.

Marshal stood beneath the old tree, staring towards the far end of the grounds.

"Marshal?"

He turned.

Amelia approached slowly.

"I'm sorry about your dad."

He looked at her for a moment.

"Thank you."

She swallowed.

"I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

His voice wasn't harsh, but it held a distance she didn't know how to cross.

Amelia looked down at her hands.

"Everyone keeps telling you to be strong."

Marshal said nothing.

"But you don't have to pretend you're okay with me."

Something shifted in his expression.

It was small enough that she might have missed it if she hadn't been watching him so carefully.

For a moment, he looked less like the distant young man everyone expected him to be and more like someone who had been asked to carry something far too heavy.

Then the expression disappeared.

"I'm fine, Amelia."

She knew he wasn't.

But she also understood that he didn't want to talk.

So she nodded.

"Okay."

She didn't ask him to explain. She didn't tell him how he should feel. She simply remained beside him for a while, allowing the silence to exist without trying to fill it.

Eventually, Marshal looked towards the house.

"I should go."

Amelia nodded again.

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

He hesitated.

"I don't know."

The answer hurt more than she expected, though she couldn't have explained why.

"All right."

Marshal gave her a brief nod and walked away.

Amelia watched him leave.

She wanted to follow him, but something told her that he needed space more than he needed another person asking him to be okay.

It was the last time she would see him in the garden before he left.

---

The tragedy did not end with Richard's death.

Within weeks, Eleanor's health began to deteriorate under the strain of grief. She tried to maintain her usual routines, but the mansion had become unbearable in its silence.

Richard's study remained untouched.

His favourite chair stood empty.

And every room seemed to contain a memory that reminded her of what she had lost.

Marshal watched his mother grow quieter with each passing day.

He did what he could. He arranged appointments, handled immediate family responsibilities, and began reviewing the business matters his father had left behind.

He was only nineteen, but grief offered no exemption from responsibility.

Then, one evening, Eleanor collapsed.

Marshal was home when it happened.

He heard the sound from the hallway and found her on the floor.

"Mother?"

He dropped beside her.

"Mother, can you hear me?"

She didn't respond.

For the second time in a matter of weeks, Marshal found himself rushing through hospital corridors, waiting for strangers to tell him whether someone he loved would survive.

This time, he refused to believe the worst.

He sat beside her bed, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, and remembered all the times she had comforted him as a child.

He wanted her to wake up.

He wanted her to tell him that everything would be all right.

He wanted his father to walk through the door and complain about how everyone was making too much fuss.

But Richard was gone.

And Eleanor was slipping further away.

The doctors eventually explained that the combination of her existing health problems and the strain she had endured had left her critically ill. Despite their efforts, she died days later.

Marshal received the news alone.

He listened to the doctor without interrupting.

Then he thanked him.

He walked back into the room and stood beside his mother's bed.

For a long time, he didn't move.

He had already learned what it meant to lose a parent.

He had not understood that it was possible to lose the other one before he had even begun to recover.

When he finally left the hospital, he carried his mother's belongings in a small bag.

He did not cry in the corridor.

He did not speak to anyone on the drive home.

He simply stared out of the window, watching the world continue as though nothing had happened.

Something inside him had closed.

And this time, he didn't know how to open it again.

---

The Blackwood mansion became a place Marshal could barely bear to enter.

Everywhere he looked, he saw the lives his parents had built together.

Their photographs remained on the walls. Their books were still arranged in the study. Eleanor's favourite flowers continued to bloom in the garden.

But the people who had given those things meaning were gone.

Adrian visited whenever he could.

He tried to convince Marshal to spend time with him, to eat properly, to leave the house, to do anything that might help him feel less alone.

Sometimes Marshal agreed.

More often, he declined.

He wasn't angry with Adrian. He simply had nothing left to give anyone.

The business required attention, and the responsibility of managing the immediate affairs of the Blackwood estate was becoming overwhelming.

His aunt in France eventually offered him a place to stay.

She had been concerned about him from the beginning, and she believed that a change of environment might help him rebuild his life.

Marshal accepted.

He told himself that France would give him space to think, to study the business from a distance, and to prepare for the responsibilities waiting for him.

He did not tell anyone that part of him simply wanted to leave the house where his parents had died in everything but name.

He could not bear another morning of waking up and remembering they were gone.

He could not bear another evening of sitting at a table where two chairs would remain empty forever.

And he could not bear the thought of becoming accustomed to their absence.

So he decided to leave.

---

The news reached the Brent family the following afternoon.

Vincent and Catherine were sitting in the living room when Marshal arrived to tell them himself.

Adrian was there, sitting near the window.

Amelia had been upstairs, but she came down when she heard his voice.

"I'm leaving for France," Marshal said.

Adrian straightened.

"What?"

"My aunt has offered to let me stay with her."

"For how long?"

Marshal looked at him.

"I don't know."

Adrian stood.

"You can't just leave."

"I can."

"Marshal, your parents have only just—"

He stopped.

The words seemed to catch in his throat.

Marshal's expression hardened.

"I know."

The room fell silent.

Adrian looked away, running a hand through his hair.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"I know what you meant."

"Then don't make this harder than it already is."

For the first time, Marshal's composure seemed to crack.

"Harder?"

His voice was quiet, but the word carried more pain than anger.

"You think staying here is easy?"

Adrian fell silent.

Marshal looked towards the window.

"I can't keep walking through that house and pretending I'm going to see them again. I can't sit in my father's office and act as though he's coming back to finish what he started. I can't—"

He stopped.

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Marshal drew a slow breath and straightened his shoulders.

"I'm leaving next week."

Adrian stared at him.

"You could have told me sooner."

"I only decided yesterday."

Adrian looked as though he wanted to argue, but the words never came.

Finally, he nodded.

"Fine."

It wasn't fine.

Neither of them believed it was.

But Adrian understood that his friend had already made his decision.

---

Amelia found Marshal outside later that evening.

He stood near the garden gate, looking towards the road beyond the property.

She approached quietly.

"You're really leaving?"

Marshal turned.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Next week."

She looked down.

"That's soon."

He didn't answer.

Amelia had spent days trying to think of something she could say that would make him feel better. She had considered telling him that his parents would want him to be happy, that France might be good for him, and that everything would eventually become easier.

But the words sounded meaningless even inside her own head.

So she chose the only thing she could honestly say.

"I'm going to miss you."

Marshal looked at her.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he replied, "You'll still have Adrian."

Amelia frowned.

"That's not the same."

"No," he admitted. "It isn't."

She hadn't expected him to agree.

It left her unsure of what to say next.

"Will you call?"

"I'll try."

"Will you write?"

Marshal looked away briefly.

"Amelia—"

"Just answer me."

There was no anger in her voice. Only the quiet determination of a thirteen-year-old girl who didn't want someone she cared about to disappear from her life.

Marshal studied her face.

He remembered her laughing in the garden, asking questions he didn't want to answer, and somehow managing to draw small reactions from him when everyone else had given up trying.

She had never demanded that he explain his grief.

She had simply stayed beside him.

And he was grateful for that, even if he had never said so.

"I'll write," he told her.

Amelia's expression softened.

"Promise?"

Marshal hesitated before nodding.

"I promise."

She smiled, but it was a small, uncertain smile.

"Good."

Neither knew whether the promise would survive the distance between them.

For now, it was enough.

Amelia stepped forward and gave him a brief, awkward hug.

Marshal went still.

He wasn't accustomed to being comforted anymore. For weeks, he had endured sympathetic looks and well-meaning words while feeling completely detached from the people offering them.

But Amelia didn't ask anything of him.

She simply held on for a moment before stepping away.

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

Marshal looked down at her.

"I will."

It was the closest thing to reassurance he could offer.

Amelia nodded and turned towards the house before he could see how upset she was.

Marshal watched her go.

He wanted to call her back.

He wanted to tell her that he didn't know what his life would look like without the people he had loved, that he was afraid of what awaited him in France, and that leaving the only home he had ever known felt like losing his parents all over again.

But he said nothing.

He had already learned to keep the most important things to himself.

And he was beginning to believe that silence was the only way to survive.

---

The day Marshal left, the sky was grey.

Adrian accompanied him to the airport, talking about everything except the reason they were there.

He complained about the flight, asked whether Marshal had packed enough clothes, and insisted that France was overrated.

Marshal listened without responding much.

When the time came to leave, Adrian pulled him into a hug.

"Don't disappear on me," he said.

Marshal gave him a firm pat on the back.

"I won't."

"You'd better not."

"I'll call."

Adrian stepped away, trying to smile.

"Good."

Marshal picked up his bag and turned towards the departure gate.

He didn't look back immediately.

He had learned that looking back made leaving harder.

But just before he disappeared into the crowd, he turned once.

Adrian was still standing there.

Marshal raised a hand in farewell.

Then he walked away.

France was waiting.

So was the future he had never planned for.

He was nineteen years old, grieving both parents, and suddenly responsible for a family legacy he wasn't ready to carry.

He had no idea that eight years would pass before he returned.

He had no idea that the business he would one day lead contained the beginnings of a secret that had helped destroy his family.

And he had no idea that the girl who had promised to miss him would one day become the woman capable of reaching the parts of him he believed were beyond saving.

For now, Marshal Blackwood had only one goal.

Survive.

Everything else could wait.