Chapter 3
The private jet hummed steadily as I gazed out the window at clouds drifting below. My borrowed Valentino gown hung in the cabin closet—a lifeline thrown by my father's assistant after I'd called in tears about my stolen heirloom dress. Two days had passed since Madison's theft, and the hollow ache in my chest hadn't subsided. But something else had taken root alongside the pain: determination.
I was going to Manhattan. To the Blackwood Foundation Charity Gala. To meet the man who might become my husband.
"Ms. Martinez, we'll be landing in twenty minutes," the flight attendant informed me with a practiced smile.
I nodded, straightening in my seat. The tabloids had been relentless since the news of my "upgraded engagement" broke. Ryan had called seventeen times. I'd blocked his number after the third. Whatever we had was dead—killed by his betrayal and Madison's cruelty. Now I needed to focus on what lay ahead.
My fingers absently traced patterns on the armrest, like I was playing piano keys. A ghost of the life I'd abandoned for Ryan. I wondered if Alexander Blackwood knew about my Juilliard scholarship, or if he only saw me as the society princess his grandfather had arranged for him to marry.
* * *
The Blackwood Foundation Gala transformed the Metropolitan Museum's Temple of Dendur into a glittering wonderland. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across ancient stone, while New York's elite navigated the space in designer finery. I stood just inside the entrance, fighting the urge to flee.
"You must be Isabella Martinez."
The voice came from behind me—deep, measured, with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being heard. I turned and found myself looking up into the most penetrating gray eyes I'd ever seen.
Alexander Blackwood was taller than I'd expected. The photos I'd studied hadn't captured the commanding presence he projected, nor the subtle intelligence in his gaze as it swept over me, assessing but not invasive.
"Mr. Blackwood," I managed, extending my hand.
He took it, his grip warm and firm. "Alexander, please." His eyes flickered to the journalists hovering nearby. "Would you prefer somewhere quieter?"
I nodded, relief washing through me. He placed his hand lightly at the small of my back and guided me away from the crowd, skillfully deflecting those who tried to intercept us. The simple act of protection—so foreign after years with Ryan—made my throat tighten unexpectedly.
"You're trembling," he observed as we reached a less populated corner.
"I'm sorry, I—" My voice faltered. The carefully rehearsed introduction I'd practiced on the plane evaporated.
Instead of pressing, Alexander simply waited, his expression patient. When a waiter passed with champagne, he intercepted the tray but paused before taking any.
"Do you drink champagne?" he asked quietly.
The question caught me off guard. Such a small thing—asking rather than assuming—yet it pierced straight through my defenses.
"Not... not during my cycle," I admitted, then immediately regretted the intimacy of the disclosure.
Alexander nodded without embarrassment. "Water, then? Or perhaps tea could be arranged?"
"Water would be perfect."
He signaled to a staff member, who returned moments later with sparkling water garnished with lime. As I sipped it gratefully, I realized Alexander was creating a buffer between me and the curious stares of the other guests.
* * *
After the formal program ended, Alexander led me to an elevator. "The terrace is quieter," he explained as we ascended. "We can speak more freely there."
The Manhattan skyline sparkled around us as we stepped into the night air. The hotel's rooftop garden was artfully lit, empty except for us. Alexander loosened his tie slightly—the first hint of informality I'd seen from him.
"Our grandfathers have arranged quite the merger," he said, a trace of dry humor in his voice.
"Is that how you see it? A merger?"
"Isn't that what it is?" He turned to face me, moonlight silvering his features. "Two dynasties, joining forces through a convenient union."
I looked away, my fingers finding the empty space at my collarbone where my grandmother's pearls should have been. "I suppose it is."
"What happened?" he asked suddenly. "With Thompson."
The direct question stripped away my pretenses. Under the vast night sky, with this stranger who might become my husband, the truth spilled out—Ryan's betrayal, Madison's cruelty, the stolen heirlooms that represented the last connection to my mother.
When I finished, Alexander was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "I'm not in the habit of making promises I can't keep, Isabella. But I can promise you this: if you choose to go forward with this arrangement, you will never be treated that way again."
Something in his steady gaze made me believe him. For the first time since collapsing on that karaoke lounge floor, I felt a flicker of hope.
What I didn't notice was the figure watching us from the shadows of a neighboring building, camera in hand, hatred burning in familiar eyes.