Chapter 8
The Blackwood mansion rose before her like something out of a different era all stone walls and iron gates, polished until they gleamed even in the overcast morning light. The kind of place that carried weight just by existing. Old money. Old power. The kind that didn't need to announce itself because everyone already knew.
Emily's car rolled up the long driveway, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires. She sat in the back seat, perfectly still, but her eyes were everywhere. Guards stationed near the main entrance four visible, probably more she couldn't see. Cameras positioned along the stone walls at calculated intervals. Even the landscaping was strategic: clear sightlines, nowhere to hide, everything designed to be watched.
She cataloged it all silently. Every detail mattered. Every piece of information was a weapon waiting to be used.
Jack had arranged everything quietly, efficiently. The car pulled around to a side entrance, away from the main hall a deliberate choice, she suspected. Timothy Blackwood was the kind of man who controlled everything, including how and where people entered his domain.
The car stopped.
Emily waited a beat before the driver opened her door, then stepped out with measured grace. Her heels touched the stone courtyard, and she paused, letting her gaze sweep the perimeter one more time. Not a battlefield of swords and shields, no. But the strategy was the same. The stakes just as high.
A house steward appeared older, quiet, the kind of servant who'd spent decades perfecting the art of being simultaneously present and invisible.
He offered a slight bow, then gestured for her to follow.
Emily did, her footsteps echoing softly through the entrance.
Inside, the mansion breathed wealth. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Subtle lighting that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The faint scent of sandalwood mixed with something else old wood, maybe, or the particular smell of a place where power had lived for generations.
The steward led her through corridors that twisted and turned, each one revealing new details she filed away: the hierarchy of the staff evident in how they moved and looked at each other, the way certain doors were guarded while others stood open, the strategic placement of artwork that was probably priceless but served double duty as landmarks.
Finally, they stopped at a door near the end of a long hallway.
"Your suite, Miss Emily," the steward said quietly, opening it for her.
Emily stepped inside.
The room was larger than her entire bedroom back at the Smith estate. Floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall, letting in pale afternoon light. A four-poster bed that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of dark wood. Furniture that managed to be both elegant and understated. Everything carefully chosen, carefully placed.
She set her bag down and turned slowly, studying the space the way a general studies a map. No obvious threats, but there were details that made her pause: a vase positioned just slightly off-center on a table, a mirror angled to reflect the doorway, surfaces polished so perfectly they'd show fingerprints immediately.
They're watching, she thought. Or they want me to think they are.
Either way, she needed to be careful.
The steward had disappeared silently, leaving her alone. Emily moved to the window and looked out at the grounds stretching behind the mansion manicured gardens, a distant fountain, walls that seemed decorative but were probably reinforced.
A gilded cage. Beautiful, expensive, and utterly controlled.
She could work with that.
Night fell like a curtain being drawn. Emily waited until the house had settled into its evening rhythm servants finishing their duties, lights dimming in distant wings, the subtle shift in atmosphere that came with darkness.
Then she left her room.
She moved through the hallways like a shadow, her steps silent against the polished floors. The guards were still present but less visible now, positioned at key junctions rather than every corner. The staff had mostly retired for the night. Perfect.
Emily mapped the mansion in her mind as she walked. The main staircase led down to what was probably a formal dining room. A side corridor branched off toward what smelled like a kitchen. Another hallway, darker and quieter, likely led to private offices or studies.
She paused at each intersection, listening. The creak of old floorboards settling. The soft rustle of curtains moving in air currents from the ventilation system. The distant sound of a door closing somewhere deep in the house.
All of it painted a picture. All of it gave her information.
Timothy Blackwood hadn't appeared yet, but his presence was everywhere. In the way the staff moved with unconscious deference. In the careful organization of the space. In the quiet efficiency of a household that ran like a well-oiled machine because anything less would be unacceptable.
She'd heard his reputation: ruthless, calculating, feared by business rivals and allies alike. But reputations were just stories until you met the person behind them.
Emily found herself curious despite everything. What kind of man built an empire like this? What kind of mind worked behind those cold calculations?
She'd find out soon enough.
Back in her suite, Emily finally allowed herself to relax though "relax" was a relative term. She stood by the window, looking out at the darkness beyond. The city lights glowed in the distance, painting the night sky in muted shades of orange and gray.
Her mind drifted back to earlier today. To the Smith estate and the barely concealed relief on Stephanie's face. The tremor in Blackwood's smile that spoke of fear and triumph mixed together.
Then further back, to memories that weren't quite hers. To the pain of waking up in a body that had been pushed down stairs. To the echo of a girl's desperate hope for love from people who would never give it.
"To the girl they murdered," Emily whispered to the empty room.
She would keep her promise. Revenge for the other Emily the one who'd died quietly, unmourned, forgotten. That was the least she could do for inheriting this life.
Emily pulled a small notebook from her bag half-filled already with observations and strategies written in a code only she understood. She added new notes: guard positions, staff hierarchies, the layout of the mansion, her initial impressions of the security systems.
She paused, pen hovering over the page, thinking about Timothy Blackwood. He hadn't approached her directly yet, but she could feel him somehow. Like a shadow at the edge of her vision. Watching. Waiting. Calculating just as she was.
What would he notice about her? What would he suspect?
The thought sent a small thrill through her not fear, exactly, but anticipation. She'd played games of strategy before, in another life. This was just a different board with different pieces.
Late into the evening, Emily finally prepared for bed. She changed into simple sleepwear, then stood one more time at the window, looking out at the grounds now fully dark except for strategic lighting along the paths.
The mansion hummed with quiet activity even at this hour. Distant footsteps. The faint sound of voices from some far wing. The house was alive, breathing, never truly sleeping.
Emily smiled faintly at her reflection in the dark window glass.
She was no longer the weak, betrayed figure she'd been in either of her lives. She was Princess Emily of Norvale a warrior who'd fought battles and survived betrayal. Dealing with people like Stephanie and Patricia would be child's play compared to court intrigue and battlefield strategy.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Timothy Blackwood would eventually appear, and she'd have to navigate whatever test he'd designed for her.
But tonight, she was ready.
Outside in the darkness, unbeknownst to Emily, Timothy Grant stood in his private study on the opposite wing of the mansion. He'd been watching the security feeds not constantly, but enough to note her movements through the halls earlier.
Interesting. Most people would have stayed in their rooms the first night, nervous and uncertain in unfamiliar territory.
But Emily had explored. Quietly, carefully, but deliberately.
She was mapping his house. Learning its rhythms.
Timothy's lips curved into a smile the kind that would make anyone who saw it feel their blood run cold.
"Fascinating," he murmured to the empty room.
This was going to be far more entertaining than he'd anticipated.