Chapter 8
1148 Words
*Elena’s POV*
The sunlight poured softly through the pale curtains the next morning, bathing the room in a golden stillness.
Elena sat at the edge of the bed, unmoving.
She had barely slept.
Though her body was tired, her mind had traveled miles through silence — across her past with Nathan, the words she wished she’d never heard, the moment she signed her name to a contract she still didn’t fully understand.
Now she is here.
In this enormous, elegant estate with walls so quiet.
She felt small and unfamiliar.
But also strangely steady.
A knock came.
“Elena?” a warm voice called from the other side. “Breakfast is ready. Madam Beatrice would like to meet you in the garden.”
She froze.
Beatrice.
Damian’s grandmother.
Elena hadn’t expected her yet and certainly not a formal meeting. She had thought maybe the lawyer would arrive first or some assistant with the next round of legal details.
But no.
This wasn’t business.
This was family.
“I’ll be down shortly,” she called back.
Elena stood in front of the mirror, her reflection pale and too thin but no longer unfamiliar. She chose a soft grey dress with long sleeves, plain and comfortable.
She didn’t bother with makeup. No one in this house seemed interested in illusions, least of all her.
She brushed her hair and tied it loosely at the nape of her neck, then pulled open the door and stepped out into the quiet corridor.
The estate was old, yes, but regal.
She followed the soft scent of lavender and fresh grass toward the east garden.
*The East Garden — 9:12 a.m*
Beatrice Blackwood sat beneath a tall tree that stretched over the cobbled path like a canopy. She was wrapped in a cream shawl, hands folded over a porcelain teacup. Her posture was perfect. Her gaze was sharp.
She did not look old.
She looked eternal.
Elena hesitated just before stepping into the light. She took a breath.
Then another.
Then walked forward.
“Good morning,” she said softly.
Beatrice lifted her gaze.
“Elena Morgan.” She gestured to the seat across from her. “Come, sit.”
Elena obeyed, folding her hands in her lap. The chair was cushioned, old but comfortable. The table between them held a silver tea set, two cups, and a single vase of white lilies.
A maid stepped forward, silent and quick, pouring steaming tea for both women before retreating into the hedges like a ghost.
Elena wrapped her hands around the cup. The warmth was grounding.
“You’re not what I expected,” Beatrice said after a long moment of watching her.
“I suppose I’m not what anyone expects,” Elena replied gently.
That earned an approval in the old woman’s expression.
“Damian doesn’t bring women here. He doesn’t even bring friends,” Beatrice said. “Not since the accident. Not since Emma.”
Elena stayed quiet, unsure if she was meant to respond.
“You were at the hospital. I know that much,” Beatrice continued. “He doesn’t talk about it. But he came home lighter that day, as if something had been removed from his shoulders.”
Elena’s heart beat unevenly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You stayed,” Beatrice said, sipping her tea. “Sometimes that’s all a person needs.”
They sat in silence again, birds rustling in the garden. A breeze fluttered across Elena’s hair.
“I’ve seen women circle this family before,” Beatrice said after a long while. “All teeth behind smiles. All ambition masked as affection. Most of them saw Damian as a door, a title, a kingdom to conquer.”
“And what do you think I see?” Elena asked.
Beatrice’s eyes sparkled. “I don’t know yet. That’s why we’re talking.”
Elena looked down at her teacup. “I don’t want his name or his wealth. I just… I needed a place to stand.”
Beatrice watched her for a long time. “And what did you lose that made you fall?”
Elena blinked.
It was the most personal question anyone had asked her in weeks.
“My health,” she whispered. “My husband. My best friend. My trust in people. My hope, maybe. All of it.”
Beatrice nodded, slow and quiet.
“Then we have something in common.”
Elena looked up.
“I lost a son and a grandson,” she said. “And a granddaughter-in-law. I lost time with my great-grandchild. And for a while, I lost my will to speak for this family. Until Damian gave me a reason again.”
She poured herself more tea.
“So I ask again,” Beatrice said. “Do you love him?”
Elena hesitated. “No. I don’t.”
“Good.”
Elena’s brow lifted.
“Love will come, or it won’t,” Beatrice said. “But clarity? That’s rare. And that’s what Damian needs most right now. Someone who sees him and not just the empire he hides behind.”
Elena held her gaze. “He’s hard to read.”
“He’s harder to reach,” Beatrice corrected. “But if you get there, you’ll find someone worth holding on to.”
The teacups were nearly empty now.
Beatrice reached across the table and gently placed her hand over Elena’s.
“You may not be my idea of a Blackwood wife,” she said. “But I’ve lived long enough to know appearances lie. And you, Elena Morgan, are not weak.”
Elena’s throat tightened.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Beatrice smiled faintly. “Drink your tea. And tomorrow morning, walk with me. I may be old, but I still like to be seen with strong women.”
Elena smiled quietly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
*Damian’s POV — Later that Day*
He stood at the edge of the east hallway, just out of sight, watching through the glass as Elena sat beside his grandmother.
He hadn’t meant to spy but something told him this moment mattered.
Elena didn’t fidget. She didn’t shrink. She sat with dignity. Listened with focus. Spoke with honesty.
He hadn’t seen anyone treat Beatrice like that in years.
Not since…
He pushed the thought away.
A few moments later, Beatrice laughed.
Laughed.
He hadn’t heard that sound in months.
And in that moment, Damian Blackwood felt the faintest flicker of hope.
That night, Beatrice returned to her bedroom and opened a drawer she rarely touched.
Inside was an old leather journal and a photograph tucked deep between its pages — a photo of Damian’s parents, arms linked and eyes bright before tragedy reshaped the Blackwood.
She stared at it for a long time, then whispered into the silence
“Elena Morgan, you may be the last chance this family has to remember how to love.”
- Writer
