"Tied in Ink & Fire" by Yun-Shen
1546 Words
Chapter Three: The One Who Was Supposed to Be
Elina Hart had never been the type to make grand entrances.
But as the black car glided past the wrought iron gates of the Blackwood estate, her hands trembled inside her designer gloves.
Four years. Four countries.
And still—coming back here felt like standing at the edge of a memory you thought you’d buried beneath ambition.
The city skyline sparkled like a crown outside her tinted window.
But all Elina could see was him.
Victor Blackwood.
Her childhood best friend.
Her first heartbreak.
The man who never knew he broke her.
---
Then:
They were fifteen when he first held her hand.
Not romantically—just two teenagers hiding from the thunderstorm behind the conservatory, drenched and shivering.
“I won’t let it scare you,” Victor had said.
He squeezed her hand, and just like that, the sky stopped mattering.
Elina had loved him since before she had a name for it.
But the world had never been kind to soft girls with hidden hearts.
Especially not when someone like Avery Wall entered the picture.
---
Now:
The gala invitation had arrived wrapped in midnight blue silk.
She had hesitated before accepting.
But then she saw the headline two days later:
> Victor Blackwood engaged to Avery Wall: a merger of fire and legacy.
The photo was everywhere—Victor, stoic and tall in a charcoal suit.
Avery beside him, stunning in white.
They looked powerful. Deadly. Perfect.
Elina had smiled politely at the article.
Then gone to her bathroom and thrown up.
---
The Blackwood estate hadn’t changed.
Still cold marble, still stained glass windows that caught the light just so.
Still memories carved into corners.
A staff member led her in.
The gala was tomorrow—but tonight was the private dinner for “the inner circle.”
How ironic. She used to be the center of that circle.
Now she was the ghost at its edge.
---
“Miss Hart.”
Elina turned.
And there he was.
Victor.
Older, sharper. Still devastating.
He wore power like a second skin now. But something in his eyes had dulled—like he hadn’t slept in years.
“Elina.” He said her name like a confession.
She smiled—small, practiced. “Victor.”
A beat passed. Too long.
Then, awkwardly, he stepped forward, and they embraced.
His scent was the same—cedarwood, cold rain, and something impossible to name.
“You came,” he said.
“You invited me,” she replied.
---
In the golden drawing room, under dim chandeliers, everything was too formal.
She was polite. He was distant.
Until she asked, gently, “Does she make you happy?”
Victor froze.
“I didn’t marry her yet.”
“But you will.”
He said nothing.
Elina’s voice dropped lower. “You were supposed to—”
She stopped herself.
Victor’s jaw tightened. “What?”
She stepped closer, pain softening her voice. “You were supposed to marry for love, remember?”
He laughed bitterly. “I’m marrying for survival, Elina. Same as everyone else in this world.”
A silence fell between them—years long, heavy.
---
“Did I ever matter to you?” she whispered.
Victor looked at her, and for the first time, his expression cracked.
“Elina…” He said her name like it hurt.
She nodded, blinking fast. “That’s all I needed to know.”
Then she turned, her heels silent on the polished floor, leaving the question hanging—
Not just whether she was too late.
But whether she was ever truly in the race.
---
Outside, in the garden—
Avery watched from the shadows.
She had seen them. Heard them.
The softness in his voice when he said Elina’s name.
It didn’t hurt the way betrayal usually does.
It hurt the way realization does.
Like knowing the fire you lit might not be the only one burning in the room.
---
Chapter Four: The Gala of Masks
The Blackwood Annual Charity Gala was not a party.
It was a battlefield—veiled in velvet, laced in champagne.
Everyone smiled with teeth.
Everyone danced to manipulate.
And tonight, Avery Wall had to play the perfect wife-to-be.
Even if she wanted to scream.
---
Her dress was a masterpiece—midnight silk that shimmered like a second skin, dripping with delicate firefly crystals.
Her makeup? Impeccable. Her posture? Regal.
She looked untouchable.
She felt like a cracked porcelain doll holding herself together by sheer will.
Victor hadn’t spoken to her since the dinner with Elina.
He’d left that night with silence.
And silence was louder than any betrayal.
---
“Miss Wall.”
Avery turned to face a line of CEOs, heirs, and socialites with practiced grace.
“Yes?”
“You and Victor make such a striking couple,” one of the women smiled. “It’s a union of titans.”
Avery’s lips curved upward. “Let’s hope it’s not a collision.”
They laughed—shallow and hollow.
Avery took a sip of champagne and let the bubbles burn down her throat.
The ballroom spun with elegance—golden lighting, live strings, and the scent of roses floating like ghosts.
And then, the doors opened.
Elina Hart walked in.
---
The room paused, like a held breath.
Elina wore pale silver, almost white.
A moonlit goddess—soft, tragic, breathtaking.
Avery didn’t blink.
She only tightened her grip around the stem of her glass.
Victor turned.
Their eyes met.
And Avery saw it.
That flicker. That ache.
It wasn’t love—at least not anymore.
It was history. Memory. The weight of what could’ve been.
And Avery wasn’t part of that memory.
---
Later, under the arch of climbing roses in the east wing, Avery found herself alone.
Or so she thought.
A familiar voice behind her: “You wear anger beautifully.”
She turned sharply.
Victor.
“You have five seconds to leave,” she said, voice low.
“I live here,” he said, stepping closer.
“That doesn’t mean you’re welcome everywhere.”
He sighed, the way he did when tired of being strong.
“You’re angry.”
“Did I not just say that?”
“No. You pretended,” he said softly. “But I’ve started learning the difference.”
---
Avery’s laugh was bitter. “Don’t flatter yourself. You barely know me.”
Victor’s eyes locked onto hers. “You think I don’t see you?”
She stepped back, heels clicking. “You see Elina. The one who floats like poetry. Who doesn’t make you flinch.”
He didn’t deny it.
And that hurt worse.
“You think I wanted this?” she asked, voice breaking at the edges. “I was happy building my empire. I didn’t ask to be someone’s Plan B dressed in Dior.”
“You’re not a Plan B,” he said quickly.
“Then what am I, Victor?”
Silence again.
Avery looked at him—his storm-colored eyes, his clenched jaw.
“I don’t want your pity,” she whispered. “I want a reason to stay.”
---
Before he could answer, a photographer appeared with a smile. “Mr. Blackwood, Ms. Wall—pose, please?”
They turned, instincts kicking in.
Victor slid an arm around her waist.
Avery smiled—cold, flawless.
The flash went off.
And in that moment, Avery realized something cruel.
The camera would capture the perfection.
But not the way Victor’s hand trembled slightly where it touched her.
Not the way she leaned away from him, ever so slightly.
They looked like a love story.
But this… this was a slow war in formalwear.
---
Meanwhile, across the ballroom—
Elina stood near the window, watching.
She wasn’t jealous.
Not in the traditional way.
But she felt like the heroine in the wrong version of her story.
The one who loved quietly. Too patiently.
Someone brushed past her shoulder.
A voice: “He used to look at you the way he looks at her now.”
She turned.
It was Victor’s father—Richard Blackwood.
A man of shadows and sharp intentions.
“Don’t mistake the marriage for affection,” she said coldly.
“Oh, I don’t,” he smiled thinly. “But I do mistake silence for surrender. You should speak up, Elina. Before someone else becomes the ending you never chose.”
---
Back in the rose arch:
Victor finally turned to Avery again.
The music swelled from inside.
“I don’t know how to love you,” he said honestly. “But I don’t want to keep hurting you either.”
Avery exhaled, her walls shivering.
“Then don’t,” she whispered.
He looked down at her. “Stay. Tonight. In the east wing.”
She arched an eyebrow. “As a guest? Or as your fiancée?”
He paused. “As someone I need to understand better.”
She nodded slowly, voice quiet now. “One day, Victor… you’ll have to choose. Not for business. Not for family. But for yourself.”
He said nothing.
But he didn’t walk away this time.
And maybe, that was a beginning.
---
To Be Continued..
- Writer
