The Morning After
1707 Words
When Clara opened her eyes, the space beside her was empty.
She ran her hand over the sheets on the right side of the bed. They were cold. Lucian had been gone for hours.
For a moment, lying in the silence of the massive Queen’s Suite, she wondered if the previous night had been a dream. The wedding, the kiss, the confession about his dead fiancée in the dark... it all felt too surreal to be true.
Then the sunlight caught the diamond on her left hand, fracturing into a dozen rainbows on the ceiling.
It wasn't a dream. She was Mrs. Blackwood.
Clara sat up, pushing her messy hair out of her face. On the nightstand, where Lucian had slept, there was no love note. No "Good morning, beautiful."
There was a black credit card and a brand-new smartphone.
Clara picked up the phone. It was already on, unlocked. There was only one number saved in the contacts: Lucian.
A text message was waiting on the screen.
Sent 5:30 AM:
"I have business at the Tower. Martha has your schedule. Do not leave the house. - L"
Clara stared at the screen. "So romantic," she muttered, tossing the phone back onto the mattress.
She got out of bed and padded across the cold marble floor to the bathroom. After a quick shower, she walked into the closet. The rows of designer clothes that had been delivered yesterday were still there, staring at her like soldiers. She ignored the silk dresses and chose the simplest thing she could find: a pair of black trousers and a cream cashmere sweater. It was soft, expensive, and practical.
She wasn't going to play the doll today. She was going to find out exactly what the parameters of her cage were.
The mansion was eerily quiet.
Clara walked down the grand staircase, her hand trailing along the polished banister. She found the dining room empty. The long table where she had eaten yesterday was bare, polished to a mirror shine.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood."
Clara jumped. Martha materialized from a side door, her hands clasped in front of her stiff black dress.
"Martha," Clara breathed, pressing a hand to her chest. "You scared me."
"Breakfast is served on the terrace," Martha said, ignoring the comment. "Mr. Blackwood instructed that you are to eat outdoors today. The weather is... acceptable."
"I can make my own toast," Clara offered, trying to smile. "Really, you don't have to wait on me."
Martha’s expression didn't flicker. "It is not my job to wait on you, madam. It is my job to run this house. And in this house, the lady does not make toast. Follow me."
Clara followed her through the French doors onto a stone terrace overlooking the lake. The view was breathtaking. Lake Michigan stretched out like an ocean, the water chopping against the cliffs below.
A small table was set with silver platters of fruit, pastries, and eggs. Standing next to the table was not a waiter, but a man.
He was huge. He had a shaved head, a thick scar running through his left eyebrow, and he was wearing a gun in a shoulder holster over his white dress shirt.
"Clara," Martha said, gesturing to the giant. "This is Dante. He is the Head of Security."
Dante didn't smile. He nodded once, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the garden before landing on her. "Ma'am."
"Is... is he joining me for breakfast?" Clara asked, confused.
"He is guarding you," Martha corrected. "Mr. Blackwood has raised the threat level to Red following the wedding. Dante will be with you at all times."
"All times?" Clara repeated.
"All times," Dante rumbled. His voice sounded like gravel in a blender. "Except the bathroom and the master bedroom. I stay outside the door."
Clara looked from Martha to Dante. The beautiful view suddenly felt suffocating.
"I'm not a prisoner," Clara said, her voice rising slightly. "I'm his wife."
"Exactly," Dante said. "Which makes you the most valuable target in Chicago right now. Sit down, ma'am. Your eggs are getting cold."
Clara sat. She picked at her food, her appetite gone. She felt Dante’s eyes on her. He watched her lift her fork. He watched her sip her juice. It was maddening.
"I want to go for a walk," Clara announced, dropping her napkin.
"The perimeter is secure," Dante said. "You can walk in the rose garden."
"I want to go out," Clara insisted. "I want to go to the city. I need to pick up the rest of my things from my apartment."
"No," Dante said simply.
"Excuse me?"
"Mr. Blackwood gave strict orders. No exiting the gates. If you need items, you make a list. We fetch them."
Clara stood up, anger flushing her cheeks. "I am calling Lucian."
"Go ahead," Dante said, looking bored.
Clara grabbed the new phone from her pocket and dialed the only number. It rang once. Twice.
"Blackwood," a voice answered. It was clipped, cold, and busy.
"Lucian," Clara snapped. "Your gorilla won't let me leave the house."
There was a pause. She heard the sound of papers rustling in the background.
"Dante is not a gorilla," Lucian said calmly. "He is a former Navy SEAL and the best bodyguard money can buy. If he says you stay, you stay."
"I am not a child, Lucian! I need to go to my apartment. I left my dad's photo albums there. My books. My life."
"Your life is here now," Lucian said. His voice dropped an octave. "Clara, listen to me. Uncle Marcus was angry last night. When Marcus is angry, he gets sloppy. He gets violent. Until I have neutralized the threat, you do not step foot off that property. Do you understand?"
"Neutralized the threat?" Clara whispered. "What does that mean?"
"It means doing my job," Lucian said darkly. "So I can come home to my wife."
"Lucian—"
"I have to go. Be a good girl, Clara. Don't make Dante chase you. He hates cardio."
The line went dead.
Clara stared at the phone. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the device into the lake.
"He said no, didn't he?" Dante asked.
Clara spun around. "I am going to the library."
"Good choice," Dante said, falling into step behind her. "It has no windows."
The rest of the day was a test of wills.
Clara went to the library. Dante stood by the door.
Clara went to the kitchen to get water. Dante followed her and poured the glass himself.
Clara went to the bathroom. Dante stood in the hallway, his shadow visible under the crack of the door.
By 6:00 PM, Clara was vibrating with frustration. She felt like a tiger pacing in a zoo enclosure.
She was sitting in the living room, pretending to read a book, when she heard the front door open. The energy in the house shifted instantly. The maids straightened their aprons. The air grew heavier.
Lucian was home.
He walked into the living room, tossing his keys onto a side table. He looked exhausted. His tie was gone, his top button undone, and there was a smear of something dark—was that blood?—on his white cuff.
He stopped when he saw her. His eyes swept over her form, checking for injuries.
"You're still here," he said.
"Where else would I be?" Clara snapped, closing her book loud. "Dante practically handcuffed me to the radiator."
Lucian smirked. It was a tired, crooked smile. "Dante takes his job seriously."
He walked over to the wet bar and poured himself a drink. He didn't offer her one. He downed the amber liquid in one swallow and poured another.
"Did you... neutralize the threat?" Clara asked, her eyes fixed on the stain on his cuff.
Lucian followed her gaze. He calmly rolled up his sleeve, hiding the spot.
"Let's just say Uncle Marcus will be taking an extended vacation," Lucian said. "In the Bahamas. Without his phone."
"You exiled him?"
"I spared him," Lucian corrected. He turned to face her, leaning back against the bar. "Because it is my wedding week, and I am feeling generous."
He walked toward her, the glass of scotch loosely held in his hand. He sat down on the sofa next to her—too close. The scent of him washed over her: whiskey, rain, and metallic danger.
"Did you miss me, wife?" he asked softly, his grey eyes searching hers.
"I missed my freedom," Clara retorted.
Lucian chuckled. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were cold.
"Freedom is overrated," he murmured. "Safety is better."
"Is that what this is?" Clara gestured to the empty room. "Safety?"
"For you? Yes." Lucian’s gaze dropped to her mouth. The atmosphere shifted. The argument died, replaced by a sudden, thick tension.
"We have a dinner to attend tomorrow," Lucian said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The Governor’s Ball. You will need a new dress."
"Another performance?" Clara whispered.
"The biggest one yet," Lucian said. He leaned in. "But tonight... tonight we have the house to ourselves."
Clara’s breath hitched. "And what does that mean?"
Lucian set his glass down on the table. He didn't look away from her.
"It means," he said, standing up and offering her his hand, "that I am going to teach you how to shoot."
Clara stared at his hand. "What?"
"If you are going to be a Blackwood," Lucian said, his face deadly serious, "you need to know how to hold more than just a bouquet. Come with me, Clara. Let me show you what you really married into."
(To be continued...)
- Writer
