Chapter 6: The Devil's Leverage.
---
The next morning began with silence.
Not peace.
Just the thick, breathless silence that comes after too many half-truths are left hanging in the air like smoke.
Alyssa sat alone in the breakfast nook, framed by the penthouse's towering glass walls. Her croissant remained untouched. The coffee had gone cold in her hand. Outside, the city stirred with life—but up here, everything felt sterile.
Still.
Watched.
Damon hadn't said a word since the press conference. Not even a glance her way.
And yet, his silence spoke volumes.
He'd made his position clear the moment he uttered those words—"Then we bury her."
He wasn't just performing a marriage for the cameras.
He was shielding something.
Guarding it like a wolf with blood on its teeth.
And Alyssa wasn't about to sit quietly while he manipulated every move on the board.
Heels clicked crisply against the marble floor.
Camille entered, tablet in hand, her face as unreadable as ever.
> "Mrs. Blackwood," she said coolly, "Your calendar's been updated."
Alyssa didn't even glance up.
> "Cancel it. I'm not doing any more press today."
Camille's lips tightened the way they always did when a request teetered too close to defiance.
> "It's not press," she replied. "It's family."
Alyssa looked up at that.
> "Excuse me?"
> "The chairman," Camille clarified. "He's requested a private dinner at the estate. He wants to meet you—formally."
A slow pause.
Then Alyssa rose from her chair, spine straightening with resolve.
> "Tell him I'll be there."
If there was anyone in the world who could shake Damon Blackwood… it was the dying man who had created him.
---
By sunset, a sleek black car swept through iron gates into the vast expanse of the Blackwood estate—an old-world mansion nestled between cold stone and colder silence. The kind of place that whispered secrets and carried generations in its bones.
Alyssa stepped out in a dark blue evening dress—sleek, calculated, nothing flirtatious about it. No fire-engine red. No statement jewelry. She wasn't there to seduce.
She was there to see.
Damon stood inside the grand foyer already waiting, dressed in obsidian black, tie perfect, posture tight. Not a hair out of place.
> "This isn't a trap," he said quietly as she approached.
> "Funny," Alyssa replied. "You only say that when it is."
He didn't flinch. Just turned and led her deeper into the house, down a long hall lined with ancestral portraits that seemed to watch them pass.
The sunroom doors opened.
There, by the fire, sat Chairman Blackwood—gaunt and weathered, his thin frame sunken into a velvet armchair, oxygen tube trailing from his nostrils, but his eyes—his eyes were bright. Sharp. The eyes of a man who still ran empires even as his lungs gave out.
> "Ah. The wife," he rasped, lifting his gaze to Alyssa. "Come. Let me look at you."
She stepped closer, chin high, matching his gaze.
> "You're prettier than I expected," the chairman said. "Most of Damon's women come with scandal. You come with silence. I prefer mystery."
Damon's jaw tightened.
> "You married my grandson," the chairman said. "But I need to know if you're useful to him… or a problem."
Alyssa met his stare without flinching.
> "Do you want someone who obeys, or someone who sees what others miss?"
That earned a dry chuckle, followed by a deep cough.
> "She's sharp," he muttered, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief. "Damon always needed someone to keep him uneasy."
> "She's not here to keep me nervous," Damon said, voice clipped.
> "No," the chairman replied. "She's here to keep you honest. You've built your world on power and shadows. She's a spotlight. Use her well—or she'll burn you alive."
Alyssa watched the two of them—one standing, one seated, both used to holding the room.
And for the first time, she saw something flicker in Damon's composure.
A flinch. Barely visible. But real.
Even the devil had someone he feared disappointing.
---
After dinner, as the staff cleared the dishes, the chairman motioned to Alyssa.
> "Walk with me," he said, pushing himself up with the help of his cane. "The boy thinks I'm frail. But I still know how to sniff out rot."
They moved slowly through the candlelit courtyard. Moonlight spilled across the old stones and rosebushes. A chill drifted in the air.
> "Do you know why Damon chose you?" the chairman asked, not bothering with pretense.
> "Because he needed a wife. And I needed the money. Desperation made the match."
> "No," the old man said sharply. "You're not desperate. You're angry. There's a difference."
Alyssa stopped walking.
> "And you're dying," she said. "So let's not waste time pretending."
That made him smile.
> "You're not afraid of death. Or me. I like that."
> "I've already lost everything worth fearing."
He studied her closely.
> "You want the truth about your father."
Alyssa's throat tightened.
> "You think I don't know who you are?" the chairman continued. "I saw that fire in your eyes at the ceremony. You married the family that buried your father. I admire your gall."
Her voice trembled. Just a little.
> "So you admit it."
> "I admit nothing," he said. "But your father… he found things. Files. Ledgers. Numbers that didn't match. He didn't steal. He exposed."
> "And Damon?" she whispered. "What was his role?"
The chairman looked up at the sky, a man worn thin by time but still loyal to his empire.
> "Damon is many things. Ruthless. Cunning. Dangerous. But he wasn't the one who pulled the trigger."
A pause.
> "Then who?"
He didn't answer. Just smiled faintly.
> "That's for you to figure out. If you're smart, you'll use Damon's pride against him. If you're stupid… you'll fall in love."
He began to walk away.
> "And if you do that," he added, "you'll lose everything."
---
That night, back at the penthouse, the air was thick with quiet rage.
Alyssa found Damon in the living room, lit only by city lights. He stood near the window, drink in hand, staring at a skyline built on secrets.
She didn't knock.
> "Your grandfather told me the truth."
Damon didn't move.
> "Not all of it," she added. "But enough."
He set his glass down. "You already knew I was hiding things."
> "Then say something real. For once."
He turned to her.
> "Why does it matter to you?"
> "Because I don't know if I'm trying to bring you down… or protect a man who was never guilty in the first place."
His voice was low.
> "Isn't that the same thing?"
She searched his face.
And there it was—just beneath the stone, the cracks.
> "You think I buried your father?" he asked.
> "Did you?"
He stepped closer.
> "No. But I let someone else do it. Because it was easier."
The words hit like a slap.
She didn't speak. Couldn't.
Not until he said, quieter now—
> "If I had stopped them… they would've destroyed me."
> "So you chose yourself," she whispered.
> "I didn't choose anything," he snapped. "I survived."
And for the first time since she met him, Alyssa didn't see Damon Blackwood—the billionaire, the cold strategist, the devil.
She saw a boy with blood on his hands.
And shame in his eyes.