Married to my father's enemy

I should have walked away like any normal person would have, but I didn't.

Here I was with a mysterious black door in the middle of a billionaire's mansion, a husband who barely tolerated my existence and a warning that sounded less like a threat and more like a promise. Yet somehow, my feet refused to move.

Every rational thought in my head screamed at me to turn around, to go back to my room, to pretend I hadn't seen anything. 

On the other side of the door, silence swallowed the hallway.

Cold sweat prickled across my back as I stared at the silver handle, my fingers tightening around the photograph I'd found on the floor.

Without another thought, I spun around and hurried back down the corridor. But just as I turned the corner, the black door creaked open behind me.

"Mrs. Blackwood." Ethan's voice echoed through the empty hall.

I froze.

A cold shiver ran down my spine as I slowly looked over my shoulder.

 He stood in the doorway with one hand gripping the frame and his gray eyes fixed on me.

"You have a habit of ignoring instructions."

I tried to sound casual though my voice betrayed me with a slight trembling. "You have a habit of acting like a serial killer."

For a moment, his expression didn't change, then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You should sleep."

"And you should stop disappearing into creepy rooms in the middle of the night."

"Curiosity gets people into trouble."

"Good thing trouble and I are old friends."

His eyes dropped to my hand, to the photograph still clutched between my fingers. His expression shifted, "When did you find that?" He asked with a look of concern.

I glanced down at it. "It was lying on the floor."

He slowly walked toward me and every instinct in my body screamed at me to step back, but I stayed rooted to the spot.

Without a word, he took the photograph from my hand and slipped it into his pocket.

"Go to bed, Aria."

"Who is she?" I was pried.

His jaw tightened. "I said go to bed."

"Is she Isabella Blackwood?"

For the first time since we'd met, something flashed across his face. Pain. But it disappeared almost instantly.

"I won't ask again."

The coldness in his voice caught me off guard. For a second, neither of us moved, then he turned around and disappeared behind the black door and this time, the lock clicked.

I stood there for another minute before finally retreating to my room. But sleep never came.

****

The next morning, I woke up convinced that the previous night had been some bizarre dream but then I saw the wedding ring on my finger, I knew it was definitely not a dream.

Sunlight poured through the windows as I climbed out of bed and for a moment I forgot where I was. Then reality struck me, I was in Blackwood Manor. Stuck in a contract marriage with an emotionally unavailable billionaire husband.

After getting dressed, I wandered downstairs in search of coffee and possibly answers. The dining room was already occupied, Ethan sat at the end of the enormous table, reading the newspaper while drinking coffee, Richard stood nearby.

"Good morning," I greeted.

Richard smiled. "Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood."

Ethan didn't even look up. I bit my lip, pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.

"So, is ignoring your wife before breakfast another house rule?"

Ethan folded the newspaper without lifting his eyes. "Good morning."

I stared at him. "Such enthusiasm."

He took another sip of coffee. "You're very talkative this early."

"I'm compensating for your lack of personality." I talked back.

Richard nearly dropped the teapot and for the first time, Ethan actually looked at me, there was something dangerously amused in his expression.

"Be careful, Mrs. Blackwood." He warned, although he didn't sound stern.

"Or what?"

"You'll start thinking we're friends."

I snorted. "That seems unlikely."

For a brief moment, silence settled over the table then Richard cleared his throat.

"Mr. Blackwood, your father called." Ethan's expression darkened instantly. "He wants you both at dinner tonight."

"Both?" I asked.

Ethan folded the newspaper and stood. "Unfortunately."

"Your family sounds lovely." I smiled.

"They're not," he frowned and with that he left the room.

****

By noon, boredom had officially declared war on me. The Blackwood Manor was beautiful, but it was also enormous and strangely empty. And every corridor eventually led back to one place.

The west wing. I stopped at the velvet rope blocking the entrance. Never enter the west wing, rule number one. Naturally, I wanted to know exactly what was hidden inside.

"You're thinking about it, aren't you?"

I jumped. Richard stood behind me, carrying a stack of books.

"Thinking about what?"

"Breaking the rules."

I smiled innocently. "I would never."

"Mrs. Blackwood, I've worked here for forty years." Richard shook his head and walked away but before disappearing down the hall, he turned back. "Whatever you do, don't ask Mr. Blackwood about his mother."

"Why?"

His face grew serious. "Because some wounds never heal." Then he left.

And somehow, I felt even more curious than before.

****

That evening, I found Ethan in the library. He sat alone in an armchair with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a book in the other. For someone who acted like a robot, he looked surprisingly human in the soft light.

I leaned against the doorway and asked casually. "So, you read?"

He didn't look up so I continued. "I thought billionaires just counted money for fun."

"Only on weekends."

I blinked. "Was that a joke?"

"Don't get used to it." He murmured loud enough for me to hear it.

I walked farther into the room. "What are you reading?"

He closed the book before I could see the cover. "Something that doesn't concern you." He snapped.

"Do you ever answer questions?"

"No."

For a moment, silence settled between us. Then my eyes landed on a framed photograph on the shelf beside him, it was the same woman from last night. Dark hair, a bright smile and young Ethan standing beside her.

I picked it up.

"She was beautiful."

The room instantly went cold and Ethan stood up quickly, staring at me like someone who had no feelings whatsoever.

"Put it down." His voice wasn't angry, no, it was much worse, it was empty.

I slowly lowered the frame and asked. "She was your mother, wasn't she?"

He crossed the room in three strides and took the photograph from my hands.

"I told you not to ask about her."

"I was just curious."

"Curiosity isn't always harmless."

I swallowed but I didn't give up. "Did something happen to her?"

His expression hardened and for a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. Then he spoke quietly.

"She died."

I gasped lightly. "I'm sorry."

He stared at the photograph but before I could say anything else, his phone rang.He glanced at the screen, and whatever softness had appeared in his face vanished immediately.

"Excuse me." He walked toward the door.

"Ethan." I yelled out.

He stopped. "What?"

I hesitated then finally I asked. "Why did you marry me?"

For several seconds, he didn't answer, then he looked over his shoulder and replied. "That's the wrong question."

I frowned. "Then what's the right question?"

This time, he turned and for the first time since I'd met him, there was something strange in his expression. It wasn't anger nor annoyance. It felt like regret.

"You should be asking why I chose you."

Before I could respond, he walked out of the library. I stared after him with my heart pounding. Why did I choose you? The words echoed in my mind long after his footsteps disappeared.

Curiosity got the better of me again, I crossed the room and looked at the bookshelf Ethan had been standing beside. Something white was sticking out from between the books, so I pulled it out. I was a newspaper clipping, the headline read.

BLACKWOOD GROUP FOUNDER'S WIFE DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT

Beneath the headline was the same woman from the photograph. Isabella Blackwood. My eyes moved to the date, it was fifteen years ago, I turned the clipping over. Three words had been scribbled on the back in black ink.

Find the truth.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Heavy and fast, coming straight toward the library. I shoved the clipping back into the shelf, my heart racing, my hands shaking. I barely had time to step away before the door burst open. I was caught in the act, I guess.

Ethan stood there, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with something that looked like panic. His gaze immediately fell on the bookshelf, on the spot where I'd been standing, and genuine fear flashed across his face.

"Did you touch anything?"

I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay steady. "No." I lied.

He stared at me for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether I was lying, then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said.

"Stay away from my mother's room."

Before I could ask where it was, Ethan turned and walked away. Only after he disappeared did I notice something tucked beneath the armchair.

It was a silver key and hanging from it was a small tag. WEST WING.

I stood in the library for a long time after he left, the key clutched in my trembling hand.

The west wing. Rule number one. Never enter the west wing.

But I'd never been good at following rules.