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The gates inch open, a silent admission granted by Julian's guards. Their scrutinizing eyes follow every move as my car purrs onto the vast estate. Surrounding me is an expanse of manicured lawns dotted with sculptures that would seem more at home in a museum than the front yard of his stronghold.
His house rises from the ground, a modern fortress clad in dark stone and glass, a stark contrast to the warmth of the grounds. Lights seep through the expansive windows, casting a golden glow that beckons with false promises of refuge. I don't let the grandeur fool me for a second. Julian's home is as much a lion's den as any back alley in his domain. The lavishness is just a prettier cage for the beast that dwells within.
I'm under no illusion about the man who commands this place. Julian may offer a smile with one hand while the other holds a dagger. As I step out of the vehicle, I'm acutely aware of the fact that he could be watching, assessing whether to greet me with a handshake or a bullet. His unpredictability is the only constant in a life governed by his peculiar code. He could decide my fate on a whim, that is, if I were any ordinary man trespassing in his domain.
However, fear has no grip on me here. Caution, yes, but not fear. My name alone carries a legacy that bends the rules of engagement. I don't give a damn about Julian's fickle nature. I’m a Blackhart, born to rule, not to bow. In this chess game of power, I'm the king who moves across the board unfettered. Julian knows this. I know this. I don't get ruled. I rule.
Before me, the butler approaches. His back is as straight as his years would allow. The silvery vestiges of his hair catch the luminescence from the porch light as he leans in with the whisper of strength left in his voice.
"Mr. Blackhart, it is a pleasure to see you. Mr. Warren is waiting for you in his office," he intones with a reverberation that seems to imitate the prestige of the house behind him.
I mask my urge to chuckle with a simple nod. The pleasantry is unnecessary for two acquaintances whose circles rarely intersect by choice.
"Lead the way, Thomas," I say, the name rolling off my tongue with ease born from the few interactions we've had over the years. Thomas half-bows, a movement limited by old age, and turns to guide me through the maze corridors of Julian’s mansion.
My lips almost curve with amusement. Formalities for the sake of appearances are a game for the public eye, not ours. We're far from friends, Julian and I, but the courteous veneer is just another play in the theatre of power. My footsteps resonate on the floor, a staccato rhythm marching me toward whatever pretense of civility Julian has prepared for this meeting.
The door to Julian's office swings open, and I catch the first glimpse of him, poised behind his desk as if he's the master of all he surveys. A nudge from Thomas breaks my brief fixation, and with that discreet prompt, the old butler takes his leave. I step into the room, and the air feels charged, heavy with unspoken omens. I gaze at the butler disappearing through the doorway and can't help the sardonic lilt in my voice.
"I see you're capable of being civilized," I remark, gesturing to Thomas's retreating back. "Not so animalistic after all."
Julian's lips twist into his signature sinister smile with a mixture of amusement and hidden barbs. "Only when the need calls for it," he replies smoothly. With a tilt of his head, he regards me with sharp, assessing eyes. "What brings you here, Damien?"
I stride across the room and sink into the chair opposite him. My hands come to rest before me, fingertips tented, and I waste no more time with pleasantries. "Cut the shit, Julian," I say. "You know damn well why I'm here."
Julian picks up a file and tosses it to me. The file lands with a soft thud on the polished wood between us, and I can't stop my hands from reacting as I spread it open. Inside, there's a collection of documents, and a photograph sits on top. A recent one, of Isabella, taken without her awareness.
My fingers tighten involuntarily, and the edges of the photo crinkle ever so slightly in the grip of my sudden tension. It's a visceral reaction, one that I hasten to quell by easing my hold on the image before Julian can register the effect it has on me. With deliberate slowness, I adjust the photograph, setting it gently back into the file with my face betraying nothing of the storm that rages inside at the sight of her.
I look up at Julian with irritation creeping into my furrowed brow. "What does this have to do with anything?" I demand evenly, but my hands betray the urgency I feel.
Julian leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as if he were about to unveil a plot twist in a melodrama.
"Isabella's father," he starts with a slow, measured tone. "He’s a man whose vice for gambling left her with nothing but debts and regrets. He often found himself in hot water. A predicament from which only Isabella could get him out of.”
I clench my jaw as my patience wears thin. "What does this have to do with Jackson?" I probe sharply.
Julian’s eyes glint with a knowledge that suggests he knows more than he should.
"You must wonder why a man like him marries a woman like Isabella. It wasn't just a simple affair of the heart, Damien. Her father's connections, albeit to some rather unsavory characters, might have been... valuable to Jackson.”
"Word on the street," Julian continues, and the smirk on his lips grows wider. "Is that your brother tried to off you. But, as fate would have it, someone got to him first."
I curse under my breath, clamping down on the swell of irritation. "Who else knows about this?" My voice is edged with the menace that comes from being cornered.
Julian narrows his eyes like a predator enjoying the moment right before the kill.
"No one," he states coldly. "I made sure to cut out his tongue myself. I can't have rumors going around about the Blackharts. We may not be friends, but our power balances each other's rule. If some were to think there's a rival amongst you, they'd be gunning for your power. Then they'd come for me. I like where I am, and I want to keep it that way with as little bloodshed as possible. Not that I mind killing."
"So you think Isabella knows something?" I ask before narrowing my eyes to read Julian's expression.
He shakes his head, a motion dismissive and confident in its finality. "No, I don't think she knows anything, but someone does. Jackson was supposed to get a lot of money from somewhere, and his marriage to Isabella is no coincidence."
The revelation hits me like a physical blow, and in an instantaneous reaction fueled by a blend of fury and fear, I hop out of the chair. The sound of it skidding across the floor is a distant echo to the thunderous beat of my racing heart.
"Someone will try to kill her?" I shout, my composure shattering audibly like fragile glass on concrete.
Julian's laugh is mirthless and taunting like scythes through the tension.
