The call came at seven in the morning, jarring me from dreams where gas lamps flickered against oak-paneled walls and the sound of horse hooves echoed on cobblestones.
"Eva?" Marcus's voice was tight with barely controlled panic. "You need to get to the office. Now."
I'd been staying in a small flat Marcus had helped me find in Bloomsbury—nothing like the grand chambers I was accustomed to, but clean and private enough for my needs. The modern conveniences still baffled me daily: lights that appeared at the touch of a switch, hot water that flowed endlessly from taps, and a device called a refrigerator that kept food fresh without ice. But I was adapting with the same methodical determination I'd once applied to mastering French irregular verbs and the intricacies of international trade law.
"What's happened?" I asked, already reaching for the clothes I'd laid out the night before—a dark skirt suit that Janet had helped me select. Professional but not expensive, the sort of thing that commanded respect without triggering questions about my financial resources.
"Blackwood," Marcus said, and the name came out like a curse word. "Alexander Blackwood Jr. is here, and he's brought lawyers."
Blackwood. The name sent ice through my veins and fire through my memory. In my time, the Blackwood family had been competitors—sometimes allies, occasionally enemies, but always equals. Old money that traced back to the same merchant princes who'd built London into the heart of an empire. What had they become in this century while the Ashworth name crumbled to dust?
I dressed quickly, my fingers working automatically to fasten buttons and adjust seams while my mind raced through possibilities. A personal visit from a banking executive, especially one carrying the Blackwood name, meant this was more than routine collection proceedings.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," I said, checking my reflection one final time. The woman in the mirror looked competent, modern, unremarkable. Perfect camouflage for a woman who'd once negotiated trade agreements with men who controlled the fates of nations.
The scene that greeted me at the office was a masterclass in psychological intimidation.
Alexander Blackwood Jr. stood in our cramped reception area like a wolf surveying a sheep pen, and the family resemblance to his ancestors was unmistakable. Tall and elegant, with silver hair that caught the morning light and the kind of casual arrogance that came from never having been denied anything of importance. His suit probably cost more than most people earned in several months, and he wore it with the unconscious ease of someone born to privilege.
Behind him stood two men in equally expensive suits—lawyers, no doubt, their briefcases gleaming with the sort of leather that spoke of retainers measured in thousands rather than hundreds. A woman with a tablet computer hovered at his elbow, presumably taking notes on everything she observed.
The message was clear: this wasn't a social call.
"Mr. Ashworth," Blackwood was saying as I entered, his voice carrying the sort of polite menace that powerful men used when they wanted to appear reasonable while delivering ultimatums. "I'm afraid the bank's position has become quite clear. Your payment was due yesterday, and frankly, we see no evidence that your circumstances are going to improve."
Marcus stood behind his desk like a man facing a firing squad, all the confidence he'd gained from yesterday's small victories evaporating under Blackwood's casual dominance. His shoulders had resumed their defeated slouch, and I could see his hands trembling slightly as he shuffled through papers he'd already reviewed a dozen times.
"We have several promising leads on new contracts," Marcus said, his voice carrying the hollow ring of a man who'd stopped believing his own words. "The Morrison situation is developing favorably, and we're expecting resolution on the insurance claim—"
"Promises don't pay interest, Mr. Ashworth," Blackwood interrupted with the sort of smile that belonged on a shark. "The bank is prepared to accelerate the foreclosure process. You have twenty-four hours to settle your account in full, or we'll be forced to begin seizure proceedings."
Twenty-four hours. Not the three weeks we'd been promised. Not even the standard notice period required by law. This wasn't normal business practice—this was a deliberate, calculated attack.
"Excuse me," I said, stepping into the conversation with the sort of calm authority I'd once used to interrupt Cabinet ministers mid-sentence. "I don't believe we've been introduced."
Every head in the room turned toward me, and I felt the familiar thrill of commanding attention through sheer presence rather than volume. It was a skill I'd learned at my father's knee, watching him manage rooms full of men who thought they were his equals.
Blackwood's assessment was immediate and calculating—the way a predator evaluates potential threats. His eyes swept over my modest suit and unremarkable appearance, clearly dismissing me as irrelevant before his gaze returned to Marcus.
"Alexander Blackwood, Executive Vice President of Blackwood Financial Services," he said, extending a manicured hand with the sort of perfunctory politeness that suggested he was already losing interest in the conversation. "And you are?"
"Eva Sterling, business consultant," I replied, taking his hand and applying exactly the pressure required to convey competence without aggression. The skin was soft, pampered—the hands of a man who'd never done manual labor or faced genuine hardship.
"I'm curious about this sudden change in timeline," I continued, maintaining eye contact with the sort of steady confidence that made people uncomfortable. "When exactly did your bank's policy shift from standard thirty-day notice periods to twenty-four-hour ultimatums?"
Something flickered in Blackwood's eyes—surprise, perhaps, that he was facing someone who understood banking procedures well enough to call out the irregularity. His lawyers exchanged glances, and I caught one of them whispering something urgent to his colleague.
"In cases where we have reason to believe the debtor is... unlikely to fulfill their obligations," Blackwood said carefully, "we reserve the right to accelerate our timeline according to the terms of the original loan agreement."
"Interesting," I said, allowing the sort of polite, deadly smile I'd learned from watching my father negotiate with railroad barons and oil executives. "And what specific evidence led to this conclusion? Because according to the documentation I've reviewed, Ashworth Construction has never missed a payment prior to the current difficulties."
The woman with the tablet looked up sharply, her fingers frozen over the screen. I could see her mental calculator running through the implications of my question—if the company had maintained perfect payment history until recently, the sudden acceleration would be difficult to justify under standard banking practices.
"Miss Sterling," Blackwood said, his tone becoming noticeably cooler, "I'm not sure you fully understand the gravity of Mr. Ashworth's situation—"
"Oh, I understand it perfectly," I interrupted, moving to stand beside Marcus in a subtle but clear declaration of alliance. "What I don't understand is why the executive vice president of a major financial institution would personally deliver what amounts to a routine collection notice. Surely you have people for such mundane tasks?"
The silence that followed was electric. Blackwood's polite mask slipped just enough to reveal something harder underneath—the look of a man who wasn't accustomed to having his authority questioned by anyone, let alone a woman in a second-hand suit.
"Mr. Ashworth is an old family... acquaintance," he said finally, the pause before 'acquaintance' heavy with implications. "I wanted to handle this matter personally out of courtesy."
Liar. The venom in that supposedly courteous tone, the way his lawyers had positioned themselves like an invasion force rather than routine debt collectors—this was personal, and that made it both dangerous and exploitable.
"How thoughtful," I said, my voice carrying just enough irony to sting without crossing the line into open mockery. "In that spirit of family courtesy, I'd like to propose an alternative to immediate foreclosure."
"I'm afraid the bank's position is quite firm—"
"The bank's position," I interrupted smoothly, "is that they want their money recovered. The method of recovery is less important than the result, wouldn't you agree?"
I moved to Marcus's desk and withdrew a folder I'd prepared the night before—a collection of documents that represented hours of frantic research and carefully calculated optimism disguised as business analysis.
"Ashworth Construction has three viable revenue streams that could settle the debt within sixty days," I said, spreading the papers across the desk with the practiced precision of someone who'd presented complex financial proposals to rooms full of skeptical investors.
"First, the Morrison insurance claim, which we're reopening with substantial new evidence that should result in a settlement significantly larger than the original estimate." I placed photographs and technical analysis in front of the lawyers, watching their expressions shift from dismissive to cautious as they absorbed the implications.
"Second, the Hartwell project delays, which were caused by supplier negligence and will result in substantial damages that we intend to collect through legal action." More documents, including correspondence that painted a clear picture of contractual violations and liability.
"Third, a new contract opportunity with Henderson Development Group, which we're uniquely positioned to secure based on our specialized expertise in historic building restoration."
It was a masterful blend of truth, aggressive optimism, and carefully crafted fiction. The Morrison claim was real, though far from certain. The Hartwell damages were possible but untested. The Henderson opportunity existed only as a classified advertisement I'd spotted in a trade journal, but I presented all three with the sort of quiet confidence that made skeptics question their own doubts.
Blackwood studied the documents with the practiced eye of a man who'd seen every variation of desperation and delusion that failing businesses could produce. But I'd learned presentation skills from masters of the art—men who'd convinced heads of state to reshape international trade agreements over dinner—and I could see his certainty beginning to waver.
"Even if these projections prove accurate," he said slowly, his fingers drumming against the expensive leather of his briefcase, "sixty days is considerably longer than the bank typically allows for such arrangements."
"But we're not discussing a typical arrangement, are we?" I met his gaze directly, letting him see the steel that had once made Cabinet ministers reconsider their positions. "We're discussing the kind of professional consideration that one established London family extends to another."
The emphasis was slight but unmistakable. I was reminding him that the Ashworth name, however diminished, still carried historical weight in the city's financial circles. More importantly, I was suggesting that his personal involvement in destroying a family with genuine pedigree would be noticed and remembered by others in their shared social sphere.
One of the lawyers leaned over to whisper urgently in Blackwood's ear, his voice too low to catch but his body language suggesting concern about the public relations implications of my suggestion.
"Thirty days," Blackwood said finally, each word seeming to cost him physical effort. "And we'll require weekly progress reports on these... revenue streams."
It wasn't the sixty days I'd asked for, but it was infinitely better than twenty-four hours. More importantly, it was proof that the Blackwood arrogance could still be managed by someone who understood how power actually worked.
"Acceptable," I said, extending my hand across the desk. "Shall we say progress reports every Friday by close of business?"
Blackwood shook my hand, but his smile had turned cold and speculative. "It's been a fascinating meeting, Miss Sterling. I suspect we'll be seeing more of each other in the coming weeks."
The threat was subtle but unmistakable. I'd won this round, but I'd also revealed myself as someone worth watching—and potentially worth destroying.
"I look forward to it," I replied with the sort of gracious smile I'd once used on rivals who thought they could outmaneuver an Ashworth.
After they left, Marcus sank into his chair as if his strings had been cut, the adrenaline of the confrontation leaving him hollow and shaking.
"How did you do that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "He was ready to lock the doors and throw away the key, and you... you made him back down."
"He backed down because he realized this isn't just about money," I said, gathering up the documents and returning them to their folder. "This is personal, and personal grudges make people careless."
"But why would it be personal? I barely know the man."
I looked at Marcus—this broken descendant of a proud line—and felt the weight of a century's worth of secrets pressing against my carefully constructed identity. How could I explain that some hatreds ran deeper than individual grievance? That the Blackwood and Ashworth families had been circling each other like predators for generations, waiting for moments of weakness to strike?
"Some grudges outlive the people who started them," I said instead, which was true enough to satisfy his curiosity without revealing dangerous specifics. "The question now is whether we're going to let this one outlive us."
Marcus straightened in his chair, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of what he might have been in a different world—confident, capable, worthy of the name he carried.
"What do we do first?"
Before I could answer, the office phone rang. Janet hurried to answer it, her expression shifting from routine politeness to surprise to something approaching excitement.
"Eva?" she called across the office. "It's James Hartwell. He says he knew the family years ago, and he'd like to speak with you about our... situation."
James Hartwell. The name triggered a flash of memory so vivid it nearly knocked me sideways—a distinguished gentleman with silver hair and kind eyes who'd been my father's solicitor, a man who'd attended family dinners and helped navigate the complex legal frameworks that governed international trade.
But that James Hartwell would be long dead. This had to be a son, or perhaps a grandson, carrying on the family tradition of legal service.
"Put him through," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs as I reached for the phone.
"Miss Sterling?" The voice was older, refined, carrying the sort of careful enunciation that spoke of excellent education and years of courtroom experience. "This is James Hartwell of Hartwell, Morrison & Associates. I understand you're representing the Ashworth family in their current difficulties."
"That's correct," I managed, fighting to keep my voice steady.
"I wonder if you might have time for a meeting this afternoon? There are certain matters regarding the family's historical legal arrangements that might prove... relevant to your current situation."
Historical legal arrangements. My pulse quickened as possibilities raced through my mind. Had my father's careful planning extended beyond the simple preservation of documents and assets? Were there legal frameworks still in place, waiting to be activated after decades of dormancy?
"I'd be very interested in such a meeting," I said. "Shall we say two o'clock at your offices?"
"Actually, if you don't mind, I'd prefer to meet somewhere more... discrete. There's a small café called The Scholar's Rest on Museum Street, near the British Museum. Quiet corners, excellent for confidential conversations."
"I'll be there."
After I hung up, Marcus was staring at me with a mixture of hope and confusion. "James Hartwell? I thought that name sounded familiar. Didn't his firm handle some of our family's legal work, back in the day?"
"It seems likely," I said, already calculating the implications. If the Hartwell firm had maintained files on Ashworth family business, there might be resources available that Marcus had never known existed. More importantly, there might be someone in this strange modern world who understood exactly what the Ashworth name had once represented.
"This could change everything," Marcus said, and for the first time since I'd met him, his voice carried genuine excitement rather than desperate hope.
"One step at a time," I cautioned, though I felt the same electric anticipation building in my chest. "First we see what Mr. Hartwell has to say. Then we decide how to use it."
But as I prepared to leave for the meeting, I couldn't shake the feeling that the day's events had set something in motion that went far beyond a simple business dispute. Blackwood's personal involvement, the mysterious phone call from a family solicitor, the sense that old patterns were reasserting themselves after decades of dormancy—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.
The question was whether I'd be able to control the emerging picture, or whether forces set in motion a century ago would sweep me along toward a destiny I couldn't predict.
End of Chapter 3