Adrian's POV
She thought I was insane.
And maybe she was right.
But insanity was a luxury I could afford. Losing control wasn't.
From the moment she ran, I knew exactly where she'd go. I could've stopped her before she reached the hospital gates — I chose not to. I wanted to see it for myself: that desperation in her eyes, the kind that used to haunt me seven years ago when she said those words— You'll live. I know you will.
She hadn't recognized me yet. Not fully. But I remembered every second.
I leaned back in the chair by her father's empty bed, watching the faint tremor in her hands. The same steadiness she used to have when she touched my chest back then… gone. And that was good. Fear kept people obedient.
People like Ivy Carter didn't understand control until they were trapped inside it.
The marriage clause was never supposed to be simple. It was protection — for me, for her, for the secret my condition carried. No one could touch what was legally bound to my name. Not even the ones who wanted me dead.
And yet, as I watched her standing there, frozen between anger and disbelief, something unfamiliar tightened in my chest — a flicker I didn't want to name.
She still had that same light. The one I'd tried to forget.
I slipped my gloves back on and stood, straightening my suit. "You'll be going home now," I said quietly. "I won't be back tonight."
Her lips parted in confusion, but before she could speak, I turned to the guard stationed by the door.
"Elias. Take Mrs. Blackwood home. Make sure she doesn't wander again."
"Yes, sir."
She stiffened at the title — Mrs. Blackwood — but said nothing.
I didn't wait for a response. The less she saw, the safer she was. There were too many moving parts already — too many eyes watching.
As the door closed behind her, I exhaled and pulled the mask back over my face. Control restored. Walls rebuilt.
But her voice still lingered in my head, soft and infuriating.
You'll live. I know you will.
I wished she hadn't said that.
Because now, I had no choice but to make sure I did.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving only silence — clean, absolute, and familiar.
I exhaled slowly, loosening my tie. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, a reminder of the hospital ward I'd just walked through and the conversation that refused to leave my mind.
I shouldn't have cared whether she understood the terms or not. The contract was done. She'd signed it. That should have been enough.
But it wasn't.
My phone buzzed. I took it out, expecting a report from Cole. Instead, the message on the screen made my jaw tighten.
Father: "Dinner tonight. 8 PM. No excuses".
Typical.
I slid the phone back into my pocket, suppressing the flare of irritation that came with that single word — dinner.
The last "family dinner" had ended with a press headline and a broken glass. He'd call it discipline. I called it what it really was — a show of dominance.
My father still ran Blackwood Industries, but only just.
Most of the smaller divisions, the offshore firms, the newer tech subsidiaries — those were mine. Built from scratch. Owned entirely by me.
A quiet rebellion. One he couldn't touch.
The phone buzzed again.
" Cole: The car's ready. Should I have Elias take her home?"
I typed back without hesitation.
" Yes. Make sure she stays there".
___
The Blackwood mansion was too quiet.
It always was — a place that looked alive from the outside but echoed hollow from within.
Nicholas met me at the door, bowing slightly. "Your father is waiting, sir. In the dining hall."
Of course he was. My father never waited because he cared — only because it made a point.
I walked down the long corridor, my reflection stretching across the marble floor. My gloves were still on, my mask still in place. The air felt too close, too heavy.
When I stepped into the dining room, both of them were already there.
My father sat at the head of the table, the ever-looming shadow of authority. Beside him lounged my older brother, Lucas, half-drunk, half-bitter, and fully amused by my presence.
"Adrian," my father said without looking up. "You're late."
"I didn't realize you measured punctuality by seconds now," I replied, taking my seat across from him.
Lucas smirked, swirling his wine. "Are you going to eat with that mask on? Or are we supposed to pretend it's just another accessory?"
I didn't rise to the bait. I simply adjusted the gloves on my hands and met his gaze. "Would you prefer I take it off and pass whatever I have to you?"
His grin faltered, just slightly.
Dinner was served before another word passed between us. The soft clink of silverware was the only sound — until Lucas spoke again, voice thick with mockery.
"You know, it's funny. The company's golden boy can't even touch a handshake without looking like he's about to combust. Must make board meetings awkward."
"Not as awkward as rehab reports," I said calmly.
His smirk vanished.
My father shot him a glare. "Enough. You've embarrassed this family enough for one lifetime."
Lucas laughed bitterly. "Don't pretend you ever cared about family. You just wanted a legacy — someone you could parade around as proof that the Blackwoods still have power."
"Sit down," my father said sharply.
But he didn't. Lucas shoved his chair back, the legs screeching against the marble. "You replaced me with him," he spat, pointing in my direction. "Because he's obedient, quiet, and sick enough for people to pity him."
My knife paused mid-cut. "Careful, Lucas. Pity isn't what keeps me ahead of you."
He glared, jaw tightening. "You think wearing gloves and hiding behind that mask makes you untouchable? You're a ghost. A name on paper."
"Then maybe that's why you'll never beat me," I said quietly.
The silence that followed was sharp — the kind that could slice through bone.
"Lucas," my father said coldly, "leave."
Lucas scoffed but obeyed, muttering under his breath as he stalked out of the room. The door shut behind him with a hollow thud.
For a moment, it was just my father and me. The faint tick of the grandfather clock filled the air.
He set his glass down and leaned back in his chair. "You handle yourself well," he said finally. "But the company has been asking questions."
I didn't respond. I already knew where this was going.
"They're concerned that your condition… limits you. Competent but sickly — that's the phrase I keep hearing."
I kept my expression neutral. "And what do you tell them?"
"That I don't raise men who need excuses," he replied coolly. "Which is why you'll be attending the corporate gala next week. No mask. No gloves. You'll represent the Blackwood name publicly."
I froze. "You want me to expose myself to a crowd?"
"I want you to show them that my heir isn't weak." His voice sharpened. "This company belongs to fighters, Adrian. Not to ghosts."
I met his gaze — steady, unflinching, though the heat beneath my skin flared. "And if the mask stays on?"
He stood, expression hardening. "Then maybe the title goes to someone else."
That was his way — loyalty, obedience, control. Everything in his world came with a condition.
I rose slowly, pushing back my chair. "You'd rather have a sick son die proving a point than a capable one stay alive running your empire."
His lips curved into a cold, proud smile. "That's what makes you a Blackwood."
I didn't answer. I just turned and left, the sound of my footsteps echoing through the empty corridor.
Outside, the air was colder than before.
I slipped my gloves back on, breath unsteady behind the mask.
They called me the ghost heir — unseen, untouchable, unwanted by the world that needed me.
But what they didn't know was this:
A ghost doesn't disappear.
He haunts.
The corridor stretched ahead — long, quiet, cold. I'd barely reached the main doors when I heard hurried footsteps behind me.
"Leaving so soon, brother?"
Lucas's voice — low, slurred, and dangerous.
I turned just as he came storming toward me, the sharp scent of alcohol preceding him. His eyes burned with that same bitterness I'd seen all night.
"Father might be too proud to say it," he spat, "but you don't belong in that seat, Adrian. You're a damn liability."
"Go to bed, Lucas," I said flatly, already turning away.
But then — his hand shot out.
Bare. Uncovered.
He grabbed me by the collar, yanking me back and slamming me against the wall, his fingers grazing the exposed skin at my neck.
The contact burned.
Instant. Violent.
My breath hitched, a wave of white-hot pain tearing through every nerve like fire under my skin.
"Do you hear me?" Lucas shouted, shaking me. "You're not fit to—"
He didn't finish.
With the strength that always came right before the collapse, I drove my elbow hard into his chest, twisting out of his hold. He staggered, hitting the wall, stunned.
But the damage was done.
The pain spread like wildfire, crawling up my throat, down my arms, into my chest — a thousand unseen needles tearing through flesh.
I stumbled toward the door, one gloved hand clutching my neck, vision dimming at the edges.
"Sir?" Cole appeared at the top of the steps, alarm flickering in his eyes.
"Car," I rasped. "Now."
He rushed forward, catching me as my knees buckled. I shoved his hands away, forcing myself upright, every breath like swallowing glass.
"Take me home," I ground out, the words barely audible through clenched teeth.
He didn't argue. The doors burst open, the night air slicing through the haze as I staggered down the steps.
By the time I reached the car, my gloves trembled. My pulse was erratic — too fast, too loud.
As the vehicle sped away, the mansion lights blurred behind us, melting into streaks of gold and shadow.
I leaned back against the seat, chest heaving, my vision flickering in and out.
The sickness came in waves — feverish heat followed by bone-deep cold. I could feel my skin blistering under the mask, my nerves screaming for relief.
Cole glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "Should I call Dr. Avery?"
"No," I forced out. "Home. Just home."
He nodded silently.
I closed my eyes, trying to breathe through the fire.
I'd learned to live with pain. But it was moments like this — when someone touched me — that reminded me it was never really gone.
By the time the car reached the gates of my estate, I could barely move.
The world tilted as I stepped out, every sound distant, every thought fading into the white hum of agony.
My vision swam as I stumbled through the front door. Every breath was a fight — the heat clawing under my skin, burning me alive from the inside.
The world tilted, but I didn't stop. My voice tore out before I could stop it — low, rough, almost foreign to my own ears.
"Ivy!"
The name left me like a plea and a command all at once.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor. Then she appeared — hair tousled, eyes wide with confusion and fear. She froze when she saw me, as if unsure whether I was real.
"Adrian—?"
Before she could say another word, I crossed the space between us and pulled her into my arms.
The moment my skin brushed hers, the searing heat that had been consuming me faltered — stilled — then began to fade. My breath shuddered against her shoulder.
Her hands hesitated midair, trembling. "What…?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My arms only tightened around her, desperate, shaking, as if letting go meant collapsing entirely.
The burn subsided, replaced by something far more dangerous — relief.
For the first time in years, the pain was silent.