Shady love

Chapter One: The Man Who Trusted No One Xander Blackwood learned early that silence was safer than love. The Blackwood estate was massive—too massive for a child who had learned to count his footsteps just to feel less alone. Marble floors echoed every sound, including the ones that haunted him most: his mother’s heels walking away, the door closing, and the hollow quiet that followed. She had left him when he was eight. No goodbye. No explanation. Just absence. His father’s death followed two years later, sudden and brutal, leaving behind a broken boy and an old man who refused to let grief destroy what little family he had left. His grandfather, Theodore Blackwood, became everything—guardian, teacher, disciplinarian. Love, however, was rationed like a scarce resource. Theodore believed softness made men weak, and weakness had no place in the Blackwood bloodline. So Xander grew into steel. At thirty-two, he stood at the glass wall of his penthouse office, overlooking the city that bowed to his name. The Blackwood Group dominated real estate, technology, and private investments. Power flowed effortlessly through him now, like second nature. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored black suit that matched the darkness in his eyes. His face was sculpted sharp—high cheekbones, a jaw clenched permanently as if he were always preparing for war. Women often said he was devastatingly handsome. Xander found the compliment useless. Beauty was a weapon people used to hide their lies. “Sir, the board is waiting.” His assistant’s voice pulled him back to the present. He turned slowly, his gaze icy and unreadable. “They can wait another five minutes,” he said. His tone was calm, controlled—the voice of a man who never rushed, never begged. The assistant nodded quickly and disappeared. Xander returned his attention to the city below. Every building reminded him of what he had built alone. No handouts. No emotional weakness. Just strategy, intelligence, and ruthless discipline. Women had tried to break through his walls over the years. Models. Socialites. Ambitious interns. Women who smiled too sweetly and laughed too loudly. Women who pretended not to care about his money while calculating how to spend it. He had learned to read them all. Every woman wanted something. Love, to Xander, was a transaction dressed up as emotion. And he refused to participate. ⸻ Across town, in a small flower shop tucked between a café and a bookstore, Ivy Monroe was fighting a very different battle. “Careful,” she muttered to herself as she adjusted a vase of white lilies. “Please don’t fall. I swear I don’t have the patience today.” The vase stayed upright. Ivy sighed in relief. Her shop, Petals & Thorns, smelled like fresh roses and eucalyptus. Soft sunlight filtered through the front window, catching dust particles in the air. It was small, imperfect, and hers. Ivy wiped her hands on her apron and glanced around. She had opened the shop two years ago after walking away from a job that crushed her spirit daily. It hadn’t been easy. Some weeks were terrifying. Others barely paid the bills. But it was honest. And honesty mattered to her. She was twenty-six, with warm brown skin, expressive eyes, and a quiet strength that came from surviving disappointment without becoming bitter. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face. She wasn’t glamorous. She was real. The bell above the door chimed. “Good morning,” she said automatically, turning with a practiced smile. The man who walked in did not belong in her shop. He was tall—commanding—wearing a dark suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent. His presence sucked the air out of the room, as if the space itself recognized authority. Ivy froze. Xander Blackwood scanned the shop slowly, his eyes sharp and assessing. Flowers lined the walls, soft colors clashing violently with the hardness he carried. This place irritated him immediately. Too warm. Too alive. “I need flowers,” he said. Ivy blinked. That was it? No greeting? No please? “What kind?” she asked, keeping her voice polite. “Funeral,” he replied flatly. Her expression softened slightly. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He didn’t respond. She gestured toward the back. “White lilies, orchids, or roses are common choices.” “I don’t care,” he said. “Just make it appropriate.” Ivy felt something stir—annoyance, maybe. Or curiosity. She moved toward the flowers, selecting stems carefully. “Who are they for?” “My grandfather,” he answered after a pause. That caught her attention. She glanced back at him. For the first time, she saw the tension beneath his control. His shoulders were rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. “How old was he?” she asked gently. Xander’s eyes snapped to her. “That information isn’t necessary.” Ivy inhaled slowly. “It helps,” she said calmly. “Flowers tell a story.” His jaw tightened. “Eighty-seven,” he said finally. She nodded and turned back to her work, choosing deep white roses and subtle greenery. She worked in silence, hands moving with care. Xander watched her despite himself. There was something different about her. She wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t impressed. Wasn’t trying to impress him. It unsettled him. “How much?” he asked when she finished. She named the price. He pulled out his card without hesitation. As she processed the payment, she glanced at the name. Xander Blackwood. Her heart skipped. She knew the name. Everyone did. She looked up, startled. “You’re—” “Yes,” he interrupted. “That person.” The way he said it made her pause. “Okay,” she said simply, handing him the receipt. No awe. No sudden warmth. No change in behavior. Xander frowned slightly. He took the arrangement and turned to leave. “Mr. Blackwood,” Ivy said before she could stop herself. He paused. “I hope the flowers bring some peace,” she said quietly. He studied her face, searching for deception. He found none. “Peace,” he repeated, as if the word were foreign. Then he walked out. ⸻ That night, Xander stood alone at his grandfather’s empty house, staring at the flowers placed beside the casket. They were perfect. Too perfect. And he hated that they made his chest ache. He thought of the woman who had made them. Her calm voice. Her steady hands. For reasons he didn’t understand, he remembered her eyes. And that disturbed him more than grief ever could. Because Xander Blackwood trusted no woman. And yet, for a moment—just a moment—one had seen through his armor. ⸻