A Brewing Storm
1472 Words
Chapter 3 : A Brewing Storm.
Liam Blackwood wasn’t a stranger to scandal.
His face had graced the covers of tabloids more times than he could count usually with a smirk, a model on his arm, and a damage control statement already drafted. But this time, something was different. This time, the silence from Amara wasn’t just quiet, it was thunderous and it made him uneasy.
He stood by the massive window of his penthouse, watching the media vans swarm like ants outside. His lawyer paced behind him, while his publicist scrolled through Twitter threads that were already catching fire.
“‘She deserved better.’
‘What a pig.’
‘Cancel Liam Blackwood’, it’s trending everywhere,” the publicist muttered.
"This isn’t going to fade with a bouquet and a fake teared interview on Morning Bliss, Liam.”
He didn’t respond.
“Do we have confirmation she’s still in the penthouse?”
“No one’s seen her and she hasn’t touched her socials in one week, that's seven whole days.”
“She’s not just staying quiet,” he said, more to himself than them, “She’s plotting.”
They didn’t understand Amara the way he did, she wasn’t the type to scream into a void or make emotional YouTube videos. She was the kind of woman who studied a chessboard in silence... then swept the king off the table with one precise move.
A knock at the door broke the tension in the room.
His assistant peeked in, nervously, “Mr. Blackwood, your father’s here.”
Of course.
In walked Richard Blackwood a man whose suits were sewn with intimidation and whose voice never needed to rise, his presence was a verdict.
“You promised me this year would be clean,” he said flatly, sitting without being offered, is this how you handle damage control?” Richard’s voice filled the room, “Whiskey and a pity party?”
Liam didn’t flinch, “nice to see you too, Dad.”
Do you know what this mess is costing the company?”
Liam rubbed his temples, “I didn’t expect paparazzi in the damn suite—”
“You didn’t expect? Liam, you’ve always been reckless, but at least before you were discreet.” He leaned forward. “And now Amara, Amara won’t pick up the phone. That girl was your PR salvation.”
“She was more than that,” Liam said quietly.
Richard's eyes narrowed, “then why treat her like disposable collateral?”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
“Do you have any idea how this looks? Investors are calling me, not you. The foundation’s board wants a statement by noon.”
“Then give them one,” Liam tossed back the rest of his drink. “You’re good at making things disappear.”
Richard’s gaze hardened. “You think I built this empire so you could torch it over some pretty girl with a chip on her shoulder?”
“She wasn’t just a pretty girl.” Liam’s voice was low, dangerous, “and I didn’t cheat, that video...whatever it shows, it wasn’t what it looked like.”
Richard scoffed, “You don’t need to explain to me, I don’t care if it was real, but you gave the world a c***k to crawl into, and now they’re feasting.”
Liam stood up, “Maybe if you hadn’t taught me to hide behind money and spin, I’d know how to fix this like a human being instead of a corporation.”
Silence filled the room again, a beat passed, then another.
Richard’s voice was softer this time, but no less cold. “Feelings are a luxury, son. You want love? Get a dog. You want legacy? Learn to control the narrative.”
Liam’s hand tightened around the glass, "And what if I want both?”
“You don’t,” Richard said simply. “Because men like us don’t get both.”
There it was, the Blackwood doctrine. Legacy over everything, love was a weakness and vulnerability was a liability. Richard had married twice, divorced twice, and built an empire of stone in between.
But Liam had wanted something else, he wanted Amara.
And he’d lost her.
It had been a week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours of radio silence that screamed louder than any press statement ever could. The world kept spinning, headlines kept churning, but Amara Reyes had become a ghost in her own life.
They hadn’t heard a word from her, not a tweet or an i********: post, or a single story.
Her apartment was quiet, her phone? Off, calls unanswered, messages left on read and Liam’s PR machine was spinning with apologies and doctored statements, but Amara remained exactly where she wanted to be....gone.
She stood barefoot on the balcony of the Windsor’s penthouse suite, wrapped in one of Zoey’s silk robes. Below, the city glittered - all those oblivious lights, happy people going about their happy lives. The evening breeze carried the scent of rain and distant traffic, but all Amara tasted was copper. The metallic tang of brewing vengeance.
Inside, Zoey emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of wine and that familiar guarded look in her eyes. She set them on the coffee table and lowered herself onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her.
“Still no word from anyone?” she asked.
Amara gave a slight shake of her head. “No, and I like it that way, let them think I’m broken.”
Zoey raised a brow,“You kinda were. But now you’re looking a little more like uhmmm what’s the word...unhinged hot?”
The ghost of a smirk touched Amara’s lips, “Better unhinged than naive right.”
They fell into silence for a while. The kind of silence only real friends share uncomfortable in its truth, but not unwelcome.
Finally, Zoey leaned forward, her voice quieter, “You really want to do this?”
Amara turned her wine glass slowly, watching the legs streak down the sides. "He didn't just break my heart, Zo. He made me a laughingstock, he gave the internet a week's worth of memes at my expense." Her voice dropped to a whisper, "I want him to choke on that."
“I get it, babe, trust me I do. But going after his father? That’s another level of revenge.”
“That’s exactly the point,” Amara replied, her eyes glinting, “Liam thinks he’s untouchable right , so what better way to destroy a man than to make him watch everything he holds dear burn, starting with his last name?”
Zoey let out a long breath, picking up her wine, “Alright, walk me through it again.”
Amara sat beside her, legs crossed, her voice low and sharp. “Richard Blackwood. Power-hungry, politically connected, and morally bankrupt. But one thing about men like him, they can’t resist the thrill of control. He doesn’t know me, so which means I can be whoever I need to be.”
“A girl with a mysterious background, a hunger to rise, and just enough ambition to make him think she’s dangerous but useful,” Zoey added.
Amara nodded, “I get close to him, let him mentor me and think he’s molding me into something loyal and sharp.”
“And then?”
“And then I take everything,” Amara whispered “His empire, his pride, his peace and when Liam finally crawls to him for support, he’ll find me sitting on his father’s lap.”
Zoey choked on her wine, “Damn, Amara.”
But the chill in Amara’s smile was unshakable, “He f****d around and now he gets to watch me f**k up everything around him.”
Zoey set her glass down with deliberate care, "Richard Blackwood eats ambitious girls like you for breakfast."
"Good." Amara's smile could have frozen hell, "Then maybe he'll choke on me too."
They both turned to Amara’s laptop, open to a dozen tabs, each one digging into the Blackwood corporation, their subsidiaries, board members, and shell companies, but nothing open to outsiders.
“No gaps,” Zoey muttered, “No internships, no job postings, nothing. It’s like they exist in a vacuum.”
“I just need a c***k,” Amara said. “One c***k, and I’m in.”
As if summoned by the universe, her email pinged.
Zoey leaned over, eyes narrowing as the subject line popped up:
“BLACKWOOD CORP – Spring Internship Applications Now Open (By Referral Only)”
Their heads snapped toward each other in silence.
Amara’s voice was steady.
“There’s our opening.”
Zoey smiled slowly, “Looks like fate wants blood.”
Amara picked up her wine glass, clicked
it against Zoey’s, and whispered, “Then let’s make them bleed beautifully.”
- Writer
