Blackwood will not see me coming

Chapter 4

The room was as still as a pond on a calm morning. No one spoke a word, and there was a hush that seemed to stretch like the shadows in the late afternoon sun. My father stood just inside the boardroom doors, his shoulders as square and firm as a well-stacked pile of bricks. He had not aged much since I last saw him, still sharp-eyed and dressed as if he were on his way to a royal banquet. Yet, a different shade played on his face, something I recognized all too well.

Disappointment.

Not anger, mind you. Not that fretful worry. Just a simple, heavy disappointment.

“Mr. Blackwood,” he said with a voice that flowed like a river—steady and unyielding, as if the current could sweep aside anything in its way. He ignored me as if I were just a piece of furniture. “May I have a word with you?”

Blackwood leaned back in his chair, a lazy smile dancing on his lips, as if he were lounging in a hammock on a lazy Sunday afternoon. “This is an executive meeting,” he replied, cool as a cucumber. “If you have business with me, do schedule it properly.”

My father’s jaw tightened like a vise. “This concerns my daughter.”

A murmur rippled through the room like the wind rustling through the leaves. Every eye seemed to turn my way, making me feel as small as a mouse in a cat's gaze. My stomach twisted, a wretched little knot forming in my belly, but I stood straighter. I would not shrink back.

Blackwood stole a brief look at me—just a flicker of a glance—before returning his focus to my father. “Your daughter’s personal issues are not my concern,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “She’s here in a professional capacity. Barely.”

Ah, “barely.” The word landed with the impact of a heavy stone thrown into a still pond.

I swallowed hard, my nails digging into my palm beneath the table. “She is still your wife,” my father snapped like a whip.

Blackwood smiled, but it was the kind of smile that sent chills down one’s spine.

“For now.”

The air in the room stilled, as though even the dust motes were afraid to move. I felt something within me rupture.

Then my father turned to me, really looking at me for the first time. His eyes traced my face, lingering on the faint marks beneath my makeup, on the tension in my shoulders.

Realization seemed to dawn late, like a farmer desperate for rain.

“Elena,” he said slowly, as if searching for lost words. “What have you done?”

The question hung in the air, thick and heavy. Not, “What has he done to you?” Not, “Are you alright?” Only, “What have you done?”

I opened my mouth, but silence was all that came out.

Then Blackwood stood, his shadow looming over the table. “If this little family reunion is finished, I’d like to get back to business. Some of us have real responsibilities.”

My father stepped forward, fierce and unyielding. “You cannot just brush this aside. Not after”

“After what?” Blackwood snapped back, cutting my father off sharply. “After she embarrassed herself in my building? After she caused emotional distress to a pregnant woman carrying my child?”

I flinched at the mention of his child. Never did he say “our” marriage or “my” wife only ever “his” legacy.

My father’s face turned stormy. “Is that true?”

Slowly, I stood, feeling all eyes on me while my insides churned, but at that moment, I felt a flicker of resolve igniting within me.

“She didn’t deserve it,” I said softly, “but neither did I.”

Blackwood’s eyes narrowed, dark pools of irritation. “You’re speaking out of turn.”

“I’ve been silent for years,” I shot back, though my voice wobbled like a bicycle on a rainy day. “One more sentence won’t kill you.”

Some board members shifted, their discomfort palpable. This was not how it was meant to go. I wasn’t supposed to speak; I was meant to endure. But somewhere deep within me, endurance had taken a little holiday.

“She came to me,” I pressed on. “Not the other way around. She wanted absolution. I refused. That was my crime.”

Blackwood laughed, but it was a brittle, sharp sound. “You think refusal makes you innocent?”

“I think cruelty makes you guilty,” I countered, letting my voice echo in the tense air.

My father inhaled sharply; I could almost feel his heart quicken. Blackwood’s face hardened like iron.

“You forget your place,” he said coldly. “Sit down.”

“No,” I replied, perhaps more boldly than I intended.

“I will not sit down,” I continued, my heart racing now like a train barreling down the track. “Not while you rewrite the truth. Not while you make me the villain for having survived you.”

Surviving. That word seemed to ignite something in Blackwood. He moved so quickly that the chair behind him fell with a clatter. He was in front of me in mere moments, his hand slamming against the table, his face perilously close to mine.

“You exist because I tolerate you,” he hissed, his voice low and menacing. “Do not confuse patience with weakness.”

I met his gaze, unflinching for the first time in years.

“Then stop tolerating me,” I whispered. “Let me go.”

The room fell utterly still, as if even the clocks had paused to listen.

Blackwood straightened, a strange look passing through his eyes, before his face settled into a calculating calm.

“If that’s what you want,” he said evenly, “be careful what you wish for.”

He turned to the board, wielding his words like a sword. “Effective immediately, Elena Blackwood is relieved of her executive duties. She will no longer represent this company in any capacity.”

My ears rang as if a bell had tolled, loud and disconcerting.

“What?” my father barked, astounded.

“You can’t,” I began to protest.

“I can,” Blackwood interrupted swiftly. “And I have.”

The board members remained silent, neither objecting nor resisting. At that moment, it dawned on me, they had already chosen their side.

Blackwood turned back to me once more. “You’ll remain my wife in name only,” he said quietly, his tone devoid of warmth. “Until I decide otherwise. Leave the building.”

My legs felt as though they were encased in lead. Yet, I walked out, head held high, heart shattered into a million pieces.

I didn’t cry in the elevator, nor did I cry in the car. I didn’t cry when I stepped back into the penthouse that had now become foreign and unwelcoming.

I cried when Margaret folded my dresses for the suitcase, each fold a little farewell.

“This isn’t fair,” she whispered, concern etched on her face.

“It never was,” I replied.

That night, I sat on the balcony, alone with the city lights twinkling like stars caught in a net. For the first time, the future didn’t frighten me.

It terrified him.

Because I wasn’t begging.

I wasn’t pleading.

I was leaving.

And Blackwood, blissfully unaware, had no inkling of the cost that such freedom would entail.