Chapter One: White Walls, Black Coffee
798 Words
Four years.
That’s how long it had been since Adaya Alaster last wore color, smiled like she meant it, or opened her heart to anyone. Not since her world cracked beneath her heels in satin stilettos on what should’ve been her wedding day. Not since betrayal became the scent she wore—thicker than her perfume, more lasting than the vows she never got to say.
Now, she wore white. Every day.
White silk. White blazers. White heels.
A living irony, considering how stained her heart felt.
From the thirtieth floor of Alaster Tower, Adaya sat behind her smoked glass desk, framed by towering windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Adelaide glimmered below, bathed in a soft morning haze. Her city. Her cage. Her kingdom.
She stirred the contents of her matte-black mug—two fingers, slow, steady.
Black coffee. No sugar. No cream.
Bitterness was easier to swallow when it matched your mood.
The walls of her office were a soft ivory, minimalist, elegant. The shelves were lined with glass awards and antique hardcovers she’d never read. A silent orchestra of success that meant little anymore.
Her phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then again.
Shantel.
Her personal assistant. Fiercely loyal. Stylishly nosy. Practically family.
> “Morning, Boss. Final RSVP numbers for tonight’s Blackwood merger gala. I’ll text you the dress options I laid out. PS: Don’t murder me, but your father is coming. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell her I retired, not died.’”
Adaya’s lips twitched, just barely.
Her father never did understand boundaries. Retirement hadn’t dulled his charm—or his habit of guilt-tripping her into public appearances.
She set the phone down and stared at her reflection in the black surface of the coffee. Sharp cheekbones. Almond eyes, dark and unreadable. Not a single wrinkle, yet she felt older than time. Her therapist—who she fired after one session—called it emotional stagnation.
Please.
She called it survival.
The Blackwood gala.
She’d signed off on the partnership last week—a merger between Alaster Logistics and Blackwood Trans-Logistics. She hadn't met the family yet. The name was familiar in power circles. Wealthy. Discreet. Rumors tied them to darker dealings, but nothing ever stuck. No paper trail. No witnesses.
Adaya didn't care for rumors.
But she did respect mystery.
---
That evening, the city glittered like a diamond in flame as she stepped out of the limousine.
The gala was being held at The Rothbury—a grand hotel with black marble floors, crystal chandeliers that dropped like falling stars, and violins playing in corners like ghosts too elegant to haunt. The air smelled of power, money, and perfume she’d never wear.
Her gown was custom white satin, slit high at the thigh, neckline modest but suggestive. She wore no necklace—her collarbones were decoration enough. Her signature red lipstick had long been replaced with nude. Clean. Sharp. Detached.
Every step she took was deliberate.
Every glance returned was coated in awe—or fear.
She didn’t do small talk. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t linger.
Until he stepped into her path.
Tall. Black tailored suit. Charcoal tie. The kind of jawline that sculptors dream of. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. Just looked at her like he’d seen her in a dream he wasn’t supposed to have.
Salvatore Blackwood.
Introductions were made by someone she didn’t remember—some councilman with too many teeth and too few boundaries. But the second Salvatore spoke, the world around her stilled.
“Miss Alaster,” he said, voice like aged bourbon. Smooth. Dangerous. A hint of threat behind the elegance. “Or do you prefer Ice Queen?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Do you melt easily?”
The corner of his lip curved. Just a little. Enough to make her breath catch before she could stop it.
“You don’t look like a woman who plays with fire,” he said.
She leaned in slightly, voice a whisper made of velvet. “That’s because I don’t play. I burn.”
A pause. Then a chuckle. Dark. Amused. Like she’d passed some invisible test.
And just like that, the air shifted. Electricity, unspoken and undeniable, thrummed between them.
---
By the end of the night, she learned three things:
One—Salvatore Blackwood didn’t do small talk.
Two—he wasn’t just here for business.
Three—those eyes weren’t just watching her. They were reading her. Memorizing her. And he wasn’t the kind of man who left things he wanted behind.
She should’ve walked away.
Should’ve cut it short.
Should’ve known better.
But she didn’t.
And she wouldn’t.
Because for the first time in four years, her heart didn’t feel frozen.
It felt like glass—cracked... but ready to break.
- Writer
