Ivy's POV
It had been three days since that night. Three days since he showed up at my door, breathless and trembling, his arms wrapping around me before I could even speak. He hadn't said what happened — and I hadn't dared to ask.
Since then, Mr. Blackwood had been distant, buried in work, leaving the mansion early and returning when the moon was already fading. Every encounter since then had been brief — a few words exchanged at breakfast, a quiet nod in the hallway, his eyes unreadable behind that mask.
But tonight was different. Tonight was the gala — the first public appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Adrian Blackwood.
The news had already spread like wildfire. My phone hadn't stopped buzzing since morning — dozens of texts and missed calls from colleagues, classmates, and even old friends.
"Ivy, is this true?"
"You married Adrian Blackwood? The billionaire?"
"Girl, please tell me this isn't one of those fake news things—"
I didn't reply to any of them. What could I even say? That it was all a misunderstanding? A contract? A desperate bargain for my father's life?
The dress waiting for me on the bed shimmered beneath the light — black velvet with a slit running high and a neckline that made me blush. The heels beside it looked more expensive than my entire medical school tuition.
As I stared at my reflection, the thought crossed my mind: I didn't marry him. I signed a paper. But to the world, that difference wouldn't matter.
A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts.
"Mrs. Blackwood," came the butler's calm voice. "The car is ready. Mr. Blackwood is waiting."
I took one last look in the mirror before stepping out of the room. The sound of my heels echoed softly against the marble as I descended the grand staircase, each step slower than the last.
The chandelier lights caught on the black velvet of my dress, and for a fleeting second, I felt like someone else entirely — someone who belonged here.
At the base of the stairs stood Adrian Blackwood.
He was dressed in a fitted black suit, every line of it sharp and deliberate. His gloves were on, mask still covering the lower half of his face, but even then, there was something about the way he carried himself — calm, composed, yet commanding.
When his gaze lifted to meet mine, the air shifted.
For a moment, I could swear I saw something flicker in those dark eyes — not warmth, not even admiration — but a brief, startled recognition. Then it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by that unreadable calm that always made me feel small.
"You look…" His voice trailed off, smooth but restrained. "Presentable."
I wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a compliment, but I took it anyway.
The butler appeared quietly by the door. "The car is ready, sir."
Adrian gave a single nod and gestured for me to follow. The ride to the venue was quiet — too quiet. I could feel the weight of his presence beside me, the faint scent of clean soap and cologne cutting through the silence.
When we arrived, the flashing lights and distant chatter of reporters flooded the night air. Cameras, people, noise — everything I'd spent my life avoiding was suddenly in front of me.
Adrian exhaled softly, then tugged off his gloves one by one, setting them aside. His mask followed, revealing the sharp lines of his jaw and the kind of beauty that could silence a room.
He turned to me, extending his bare hand. "Take my hand," he said, voice low but firm. "You are to hold on to this hand throughout the gala."
I hesitated, staring at his hand — the very thing he'd always hidden. But before I could think twice, his fingers closed gently but securely around mine.
The door opened.
And the world began flashing in white.
The car door opened, and the night exploded in light.
Camera flashes burst like fireworks, blinding and relentless. Shouts rose from every direction — reporters, photographers, voices overlapping in a chaotic blur.
"Mr. Blackwood! Over here!"
"Adrian, is it true you're married?"
"Who is she? What's her name?"
"How long have you two been together?"
"Sir, is this your wife or your caretaker?"
The questions came too fast to process, a wall of sound pressing in on all sides.
I froze for half a second, but Adrian's grip on my hand tightened — firm, grounding, possessive. He didn't slow his stride.
He walked through the chaos with measured composure, expression unreadable, every step purposeful. His silence was its own statement, and the world seemed to devour it.
The crowd erupted again, shouting as camera lenses zoomed closer, capturing every detail — the way his hand held mine, the contrast between his black suit and my dark velvet gown, the look in his eyes that seemed to command the air itself.
For years, the press had called him the ghost heir — a man who ran empires from the shadows, too reclusive, too private, too sickly to be seen. And now, here he was — unmasked, alive, holding the hand of a woman no one had ever heard of.
I could feel the awe ripple through the crowd, the whispers building as we moved.
"Who is she?"
"She's beautiful—"
"No one knows her name."
"She must be someone important if he's showing up with her."
Beside me, Adrian's hand tensed again, his knuckles brushing mine. I glanced up at him — his jaw was clenched, the faint muscle ticking there betraying what his calm demeanor didn't.
He hated this. Every second of it.
The cameras followed us up the crimson carpet and through the tall glass doors. Only when they closed behind us, sealing the noise outside, did he finally exhale — a low, quiet breath that barely reached me.
Inside, the ballroom glittered beneath chandeliers, full of faces that turned the moment we entered. And for the first time, I realized — this wasn't just a gala.
It was his unveiling.
And I was part of the spectacle.
Inside, the gala was all glass, gold, and power.
The air shimmered with expensive perfume and whispered politics. A slow classical tune flowed from the orchestra in the corner, nearly drowned out by the hum of conversation.
Heads turned as we entered. Every movement stopped for a heartbeat, and then — like a current — the room shifted toward him.
"Mr. Blackwood."
"Adrian, it's an honor."
"So good to finally see you in person."
Men in tuxedos and women glittering in diamonds gathered fast, their smiles too polished, their laughter too loud. They extended hands, leaned too close, and spoke words that meant nothing.
Adrian's expression didn't change. He accepted handshakes with careful precision, his voice low, composed — every answer rehearsed yet cutting.
"Blackwood Holdings has outperformed everyone again this quarter."
"Impressive numbers, Adrian. What's your secret?"
He smiled faintly — cold, polite. "Discipline."
From where I stood beside him, holding his hand as instructed, I could see it — the masks beneath the smiles. The greed, the envy, the way everyone wanted something from him.
For once, I understood why he was the way he was.
Why his words were measured.
Why his touch was always guarded.
He was surrounded by people who would devour him the moment he faltered.
Still, something didn't make sense.
He'd shaken a dozen hands already. And yet — no reaction. No sign of pain, or discomfort, or the illness that haunted him so fiercely.
Was he… getting better? Or was he just pretending?
Then it happened.
Someone called his name from behind, and in the quick motion of turning toward them, I accidentally loosened my grip.
Our hands parted — just for a second.
But that second was all it took.
He froze. His breath hitched, sharp and quiet, like the air itself had turned to glass in his lungs. The calm that usually wrapped around him shattered.
"Adrian?" I whispered, stepping closer.
His fingers twitched, his jaw tightening as his body stiffened, eyes darkening. His bare hand — the one I'd been holding — trembled visibly.
"Ivy…" he managed, voice low, strained. "Don't—"
Then his body jerked once, almost imperceptibly, as though pain tore through him like electricity. He steadied himself against the nearest table, his breath coming faster now.
A few people began to notice — the music faltered slightly, heads turning.
"Mr. Blackwood?" someone called, confusion lacing their tone.
Adrian's gaze snapped up, sharp and warning. "Keep playing," he said hoarsely, voice low but commanding enough to make the musicians obey.
I rushed forward, my hand finding his again. The moment my skin met his, the trembling eased — slowly, but visibly. His breaths steadied, though his eyes stayed shut for a long second.
When he finally opened them, they locked on mine — fierce, unreadable, and somehow both furious and relieved.
He didn't speak.
He just reached for me, his grip firm, and said through gritted teeth, "We're leaving."
And before I could ask anything, he pulled me through the crowd — silent, focused, his jaw set. The whispers followed us like smoke, the air heavy with confusion, awe, and fear...