WHEN THE DEVIL CHOOSE HIS BRIDE

Chapter 3: Blackwood Manor

Blackwood Manor loomed ahead like a fortress, an ominous silhouette against the low-hanging New York clouds.

Iron gates, towering twenty feet high, seemed to guard a secret too heavy for the outside world. The stone walls, draped in creeping ivy, whispered of ancient stories and forgotten lives. Towers stretched upward, as if trying to pierce the very heavens, watching over the Hudson River like a sentinel that had long forgotten what it meant to belong.

Evelyn pressed her forehead against the cool Maybach window, the rain streaking down the glass like tears. “People actually live here?” she whispered, disbelief mingling with dread.

Damien didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the gates as if he were willing them to open.

And they did.

The car rolled up a winding driveway lined with gnarled black trees, their branches clawing at the stormy sky. There were no lights, no flowers—only stone and silence, a world apart from the city’s chaos.

As the Maybach came to a halt, the front doors swung open before they stopped. A woman in a gray uniform stood waiting, her presence as imposing as the manor itself. Late fifties, hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes flickered with an unsettling intensity.

“Mistress Evelyn,” she stated, not a question but an assertion.

Evelyn froze, a chill threading through her. “I’m not—”

“Martha,” Damien interjected, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. “She’s Mrs. Blackwood for one year. Show her.”

Martha’s mouth tightened, an unspoken protest, but she nodded. “This way.”

The foyer was breathtaking in its grandeur. Marble floors gleamed under the dim light, and a chandelier hung above, its crystals refracting the light into a million tiny rainbows. Portraits lined the walls—stony Blackwoods, their expressions cold and unwelcoming, eyes following her as if judging her very existence.

Martha ascended the grand staircase with an air of authority. “Rules of the manor, Mrs. Blackwood.”

Evelyn swallowed hard. “I’m not—”

“Rule one,” Martha continued, unfazed. “The west wing is locked. You do not enter. You do not ask about it.”

Evelyn’s throat went dry. “Okay.”

“Rule two: the old chapel is forbidden. The doors stay closed.”

“Got it,” she replied, feeling her heart race.

“Rule three.” Martha paused outside a door, her demeanor shifting to something almost menacing. “You wear the silver locket at all times. You never remove it. Not for sleep. Not for a bath. Not for him.”

Evelyn’s fingers instinctively touched the locket resting against her chest. “Why?”

Martha finally met her gaze, the pity in her eyes palpable. “Because without it, you’re not safe.” Then, louder: “Your room, Mrs. Blackwood.”

The door opened to reveal a suite larger than her entire apartment. A canopy bed loomed in the center, a fireplace flickering softly, and a desk with a view of the dark, roiling river. The closet was already filled with clothes—designer gowns, shoes that sparkled like stars, each pair more extravagant than the last.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Evelyn said, her voice trembling with indignation.

“You’re not here to ask,” Martha replied curtly. “You’re here to survive.”

With that, she left, the door clicking shut behind her. Evelyn stood alone, the contract folded in her pocket, Noah’s voice echoing in her mind: _“Don’t be scared, Evie. You’re the bravest person I know.”_

But she didn’t feel brave. She felt lost, the weight of her choices pressing down on her chest like a stone.

A soft knock broke the silence.

She opened the door to find Damien standing there, a stark contrast to the opulence around them. He had changed into a black shirt, the jacket discarded, hair still damp from the rain. He looked less like a powerful CEO and more like a man running on fumes, exhaustion etched across his features.

“Did Martha give you the rules?” he asked, his tone serious.

“Yes.”

“Then you know three of them.”

Evelyn crossed her arms defiantly. “There are more?”

“One more,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Not too close, but just within reach, tension crackling like static in the air.

“Never fall in love with me,” he stated, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

Evelyn let out a laugh that sounded foreign in the grand setting. “Don’t worry. I hate rich, controlling—”

“I’m not talking about you,” Damien interrupted, his gaze piercing through her bravado. “I’m talking about me.”

The laughter died on her lips.

He walked to the window, rain tapping insistently against the glass, the Hudson below a dark, swirling abyss. “My mother died in this house,” he said, voice flat. “Twenty years ago. In the hallway outside that door.” He pointed to the left, toward the west wing.

Evelyn’s stomach twisted, a knot of fear tightening within her. “Damien—”

“She told me to find the girl with the silver locket,” he continued, not meeting her eyes. “She said it would save me. Or destroy me.”

He turned to face her, and for the first time, she saw beyond the billionaire facade. She saw the boy he once was—tired, haunted, a child burdened by a prophecy that had cost him everything.

“I spent twenty years looking for you,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m not letting you go now.”

“But you don’t love me,” she whispered, the words feeling heavy and hollow.

“No,” he agreed, his expression hardening. “And I can’t. Because if I do, whoever killed her will come for you next.”

Silence enveloped them, thick and suffocating.

Then, footsteps echoed down the hall—fast, urgent. They stopped outside her door.

A note slid beneath it, white paper stark against the dark floor.

Evelyn bent to pick it up, but Damien was quicker, snatching it first. He unfolded it, his face going completely blank, the kind of blank that screamed danger.

Three words were typed on the page.

_SHE SHOULDN’T BE HERE._

Damien’s expression turned icy, the warmth of their earlier conversation evaporating. He looked up at Evelyn, eyes filled with a fierce intensity.

“Welcome to Blackwood Manor, Mrs. Blackwood,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “The game just started.”