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CHAPTER 9: The Edge of Loyalty
Huling Na-update:
2025-04-11 16:38:31
Emel EmeraldWhat truth had Samuel died protecting— and why did everyone believe it began with her?
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Leya gasped, looking at the burned letter, Samuel's words branded like a cancerous blessing in her mind."If they find out what you are—"What was she?All that she had seemed to roll away from her like loose marble, leaving her chilled. She balled the burned paper in her hand, heat branding the shape of her palm where ash foamed like hidden secrets.Shayla watched her with wide eyes. “Leya… what does it mean?”“I don’t know,” she whispered, though her voice was sharp, her spine steel. “But I’m going to find out.”Moments Later – Harrison’s WingThe hallway leading to Harrison’s private rooms was veiled in shadow, the sconces dimmed, casting sharp lines on the marble. Leya stormed forward, no longer caring about being silent, about being proper.She wasn’t here for answers anymore.She'd arrived in needing the truth—and she was going to get it out of him if it was the very last thing she ever drew breath.Guards to his front gate started tattling, but one glimpse at her—and off they s
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For a timeless, gasping moment, they were still.Leya's mouth was still inflated from the kiss—if one could even call it a kiss. It had not been tender. It had been claiming. A collision. A surrender that neither of them would admit to.Harrison's heat remained on her cheek. His hands remained on her hips, whether he didn't know if he should pull her into him… or push her away from him.It was he who finally spoke."You were never meant to read that letter."Leya's fists were bunched up. "Then maybe you should have incinerated it yourself."He released a brusque, guttural laugh, falling back and playing with his hair. His chest labored and collapsed against the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, which still felt ruffled from her hands."I couldn't," he growled.Why? she asked. "What is frightening about the threat of a dead man?"Harrison held the bar. Filled a glass but didn't drink. Stood there looking at the amber liquid as if it would somehow give him strength."You want the truth, L
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The bedroom door slammed shut behind Leya with a cold, unforgiving clang.She leaned back against the hallway her chest thudding in her ears. Her father was in jail. Her life had been bought. Samuel's lies went deeper than she'd known—and Harrison knew them. Not all of them, perhaps, but enough to send him to prison.And now there was another.Someone Samuel had feared.A woman who might very well still be within, even.She hadn't let her fury get the upper hand on her, though. Not yet. She insisted on answers—and her mother was going to provide them to her.But as she spun, turning to ascend the stairs, the stile slid back down the marble behind her. Leya didn't need to turn. She already knew.Eleanor.Particularly, for that so-smooth voice that was finer than had ever uttered. "Entertaining," the voice declared, "when something is amiss in this house, I catch you hanging around."Leya turned on purpose. Eleanor stood like a statue sculpted out of poison and ice. Everything about her
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The sun was still below the roofs of Rome, but Leya was already up in a black jacket and black jeans, eyes colder than the chilling air seeping down her cheeks. She did not wait for dawn. Not any longer for truth.She stood before the rented apartment of the Andersons, the apartment where her mother had moved them after her dad's "accident."And now, with the truth burning in her heart and Samuel's ghostly whisper spitting into the void, she was not present here as a daughter.She was present here as a tempest.Her knuckles pounded out on the door.There was nothing. And then hesitant footsteps. And the groan of the open door—her mother's lined, creased face."Leya?" her mother asked, belting her robe around her to tie herself together."Tonight, you come here late as if this place belongs to you?"Leya didn't resent being sent out. She climbed onto her, bursting in with the seethed rage.Her mother gently closed the door behind her. "Sweetheart, what is it?"Leya turned again, this t
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Leya departed in silence from her mother's flat. The Roman streets slumbered half-awake, the sky bruised by the heaviness of a sun yet to rise. Her boots created soft reverberations on the pavement as she walked—no direction, no destination.She needed to think.To breathe.Her father had given his life to protect something. Someone. A woman, a fund, a secret so explosive that it had pushed a man like Samuel Blackwood, a man with the power to kill with words, to fake his own death and conceal the evidence in a wax-sealed document.And now it was hers.Her mother's words reverberated in her mind:"He said to her if the truth came out… it would destroy everything."She looked at the letter again. The burned edges. The cut-off sentence.".If they find out who you are—"Who was she?Not just a wife.Not just a daughter.There was something in her blood—something buried in her family tree—that made everyone either wanting to control her… or murder her.Her hands shook.She needed that miss
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Harrison slumped over the ruin of his study desk, elbows rolled up tight, waves of tension rolling from him as he glared at the flash drive as if it would, all of a sudden, spring to life and blow his head to kingdom come.It wasn't the technology sucking the life from him.It was her.How she'd stared at him the previous evening—blinding, searing, heavy. As though she could see all her hypocrisy reflected in him. As though she no longer required him to cover for her.He fumed with anger at the way it belittled him.He fumed even more at realizing he was no longer the deadliest man in the room.The knock was hesitant. Not frightened.Weighing.Harrison stayed awake in bed as the door creaked open.And there she was.Leya.Midnight-blue jeans cinched around buffed, rosy cheeks, hair back like a woman who'd been somewhere she wasn't even allowed to be and survived—but won.And hanging on her arm—the letter.He saw it as soon as he did. Recognized the crest of Samuel's letterhead like a
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Leya did not sleep.Not because she could not.Because she would not.Sleep was for the blissfully ignorant who still believed they were safe.She leaned over her bed desk, reclining in its cozy corner indentation—Samuel's letter, the key, and a full reproduction of the marriage contract spread out before her like war tactics on a battle map.The house was quiet. But her head was at war.She then gripped the truth.But the truth did not rescue people in this family. It rather buried them.And Eleanor?She'd bled.She'd moved first.Leya's fingers followed the stitches of a scar on her wrist. A reminder. Of where things began to go wrong. Of the day she had first refused to let the Blackwoods get their way.---Three Weeks Ago — The Morning It All SnappedIt was an accident.Leya was carrying a water tray down the hallway, attempting to circumvent Eleanor—because Eleanor had this odd sort of talent to find herself in the position where humiliation would sting the hardest.She rounded t
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Leya did not utter a single word when she walked out of that banquet hall. No victory speech. No "I told you so." No drama in asserting her throne. She left them simmering in their silence—the most lethal poison in the room. For what was more poisonous than a woman getting a grip? A woman who could get a grip… but did not. Not yet. The room reconfigured itself the moment she left it. Vivian had been holding the rim of her wineglass so hard it had broken in her hand. "She thinks she's above the law," she despised. Eleanor didn't jump, her eyes moving from the folder on the coffee table to Harrison—who didn't jump either. "She has everything, Mother." "No," Vivian despised. "She has power. They're not the same things." "To come and tell. Officially tell. It will kill us—" "She hasn't said a word outside these walls," Vivian sat up on the couch, her voice resentful. "And until then, she's bluffing. But before that." Eleanor leaned to one side and tipped her head bac
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The Morning After — Blackwood Mansion Grounds The sun tried but failed to cut through the clouds that morning, its beam yellow and subdued, as though cautioned not to burn too bright on this planet. Fog curled over the lawn in a pall, low-floating and enigmatic, over statues and fountains set out singly along the paths of the garden like forsaken memories. Leya lay among the roses, elbows resting in the soil. Not digging. Just. Being. Cold earth concentrated her. Silence gave room for thought. She'd fought to stay alive for three weeks—now she could build something out of sparks. She wasn't naive enough to hope to leave this house unscathed right off the bat. No, if she were going to break out of this house alive—really alive—then she must wait. Wait and demonstrate. And fangs. The chill seeped into the sleeves and the ends of her fingers. She did not crash to the floor, though. Not when she heard Eleanor's gentle laughter outside the west windows. Not when she caught H
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Morning came—but nothing was new. The sun struggled weakly through the curtains, filtering down to stone floors still holding remnants of the shadows cast last night. In a house like the Blackwood mansion, nothing ever really changed. Walls didn't merely hold people—They held silence, secrets, and sins. But deep within those walls, everything changed. Something had broken. Something was going to be born. West Wing Lounge – 7:00 A.M. Harrison stood before the fireplace, arms folded on his chest, watching ashes dance as dying suns. He had not slept. He did not need to. The buzz of breakfast cooking was from far down the halls, but where he sat in silence with worry. The door opened without apology. Nathaniel stood, coat still on, face unyielding. He shut the door, movements too planned, too measured. "You were with her," Harrison accused, not even bothering to turn around. Nathaniel was silent. There was no use for him to do anything else. "She's manipulating you," Harrison
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The mansion fell softly again. Tonight, silence did not frighten Leya. Tonight, permission was the formality. She dressed with purpose—not out of fear, but because she knew details were essential. Black pants. Pullover pushed high. Topcoat light for the part of the night but precisely what the message required. Not hiding. Not running. Walking proudly as if this world belonged to her at her feet. The burner phone rang again. Nathaniel: Back gate to the yard. Ten minutes. Nobody in sight. Leya stuffed the phone into her jacket pocket, smoothed her hair again, and stood before the mirror. "Back" just managed to squeeze out the word. She didn't look like the captive girl Harrison had held. She looked like something born of agony. The bruises remained—the pale yellow and blue smudges across the curve of her ribs, her collarbone, and jaw. No longer embarrassed. They were proof. Proof. She survived. She floated. Down. The. Hall. Bare feet silent. The east wing. Empty. Even
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The whisper had stopped. But the silence that followed wasn't silence. It was charged. With purpose. With intent. Leya did not lie well once the voice had stopped—her body outstretched on the bed, back tense against the headboard, every hair on her arms bristling not due to fear, but due to awareness. Not every step is a threat. But there are warnings. And the one that had named her tonight. It hadn't been trying to scare her. It had been trying to communicate something. That she was still being watched. And perhaps—perhaps—that someone still cared that she was worth at least something. That cut deeper at her chest than splintered ribs. She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, seething an angry glare at where the door had existed once in the darkness. Someone had whispered her name as if it still held meaning. And that was what disturbed her most. Because it meant there was someone in this house who still thought she was worth whispering about. And that? That m
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The voice continued. Soft. Tuned. Familiar—and otherwise. "Leya…" A breath—neither cold nor warm. Did not command, did not scold. Was. Like a stretched bowstring pulled taut behind her at her back. She blinked, sight blurring through fever and weariness, but her backbone firmed—beneath, a little. Her fingers clenched into a blanket on her lap, fine cloth now armor, her foothold in the world. > Who was it? They didn't knock the second time. Didn't stir. I just stood there long enough for her to regain her breath. Long enough for her to realize this hadn't been a mistake. And then, nothing. A withdrawal in silence. The steps light. Stealthy. Commanding. No squeak of the door. No sound of retreating feet. But the tension beyond had changed. As if something had looked at her. Listened to her. Comprehended her. And that had scared her. Not because it had threatened. But because it hadn't. Because for the first time in what had seemed like forever… Someone had said her
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Nathaniel was awake. Not that night. After he'd left Leya at the mansion, her silence armor, he'd headed to the east wing. Where the paintings were, where the button-down-bloke blokes with dead eyes in frames—false gods in frames. He didn't switch on the hall light. Didn't switch it on. The weight of her words fell behind him like footprints. I don't need saving, Nathaniel. I need respect. He stood beside the bed, suit jacket still buttoned, tie open but not yet undone. He gazed at the floor for what had to be minutes or maybe hours. He imagined Leya's bruised cheek. Imagine her shaking hands from exhaustion. Recall her eyes—not wide with terror, but level with fire. If she was a fake, then she was the family's finest work. But in a part of him, he knew she wasn't. Still… in the Blackwood house, believing wasn’t enough. You had to be certain. --- The Next Morning – Nathaniel’s Study The morning sun didn’t warm him. He made the call anyway. “St. Delacroix University,
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The alley reeked of desperation and stale beer. Leya's shift had run past closing time—again. The night had crawled, but Reed had stayed with her an hour past closing to clean up a spilled drink and split tips. She didn't mind. The more hours she worked, the less she was herself. As if she were somebody else. Somebody free. Somebody who didn't owe the Blackwoods. And then the bar door slammed shut behind her and she was alone in the dark. Zipper up as far as it would go around her neck, purse on her shoulder, and still buzzing hands against sock lining—where tip envelope folded back warm along her ankle. One block down. Just one. Then— A scrape. Heavy feet, too heavy to be mistaken. She shook her head over it, looking back over her shoulder. Two black figures. Too close. Too close by design. Her heartbeat came a little quicker. Muttered voice in the distance. "Hey now… what's a fine-looking girl like you doing way out here by herself?" She stood for military attenti
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The voice remained on.Low. Controlled. Familiar—and not."Leya…"A murmur—icy or gentle, neither. A sound that did not request requested not. It remained just so without her leave. Like a thread pulling at her beyond the door just so.Her own eyes dim with fever and exhaustion, she blinked, but sat up a little more in her backroom bed—a little.Her fists clenched in the blanket spread over her lap, thin blanket now buckler, a lifeline to something sacrosanct.> Who was it?They did not knock again.Didn't move.Stand there, long enough for her to catch her breath. Long enough for her to get a grip on this wasn't an accident.And then, nothing.Silent retreat.The footsteps were careful. Light. Measured.No creak of any door. No patter of feet.But tension at the table had changed.As if whatever had been listening to her.Had seen her.Had known her.-----And that was scaring her.Not by threat of harm which it had seemed to do before.But because it wasn't there.Because for the fi
Scarred Hearts: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Chapter 29: The Night That Should Have Been Boring
The house slept. That deep, heavy sleep money buys. No bedlam. No alarms. But only endless corridors with silent sconces and floors that shone without a creak. Leya was rigid in the center of her bedroom. She spent there once a minute or two—or so—rigid, inaccessible, just staring at the spread on her bed. Same hoodie. Same jeans. The same black sneakers that never creaked on marble. Her ritual. Her uniform for the other existence. The one she had. --- Getting Ready Slid out of her silk nightgown and into jeans with the knees worn soft at the frayed hems. Pulled the hoodie over her battered shoulders. Tied back her hair in a tight braid. Stuffed the crumpled money into her sock—never her purse. The purse got grabbed. She'd learned that. And she looked in the mirror. No makeup. No perfume. No hint of the woman Harrison used to know. A face carved out of determination. Eyes that wouldn't blink. She stuffed the pocket knife into her sleeve and closed the drawer. Just in c
