Chapter 8: Confessions
1228words
I'd spent those days researching the Hamiltons, finding nothing that definitively connected them to my family. My father remained too weak from his latest treatment for me to question him directly.
On the fourth night, I woke to the sound of thunder rattling the windows. Rain lashed against the glass in horizontal sheets, lightning illuminating the Manhattan skyline in stark, momentary flashes.
The power flickered once, twice, then died completely.
Darkness enveloped me, broken only by the intermittent lightning. I fumbled for my phone, using its light to navigate to the bedroom door. The entire penthouse was dark—even the emergency lights had failed.
In the living room, I found Alexander already there, his silhouette outlined against the windows by another flash of lightning. He turned at my approach, his face ghostly in the blue glow of his phone.
"The building's generator failed," he said, his voice oddly tight. "They're working to restore power."
"Are you okay?" I asked, noticing the tension in his shoulders, the rigid way he held himself.
"Fine." The curt response might have ended our conversation a few days ago, but something in his posture—a vulnerability I rarely glimpsed—made me press further.
"You don't look fine."
Another crash of thunder, closer this time. Alexander flinched—a small, involuntary movement he immediately tried to control.
"You're afraid of storms," I realized aloud.
"Don't be ridiculous." But his knuckles were white where he gripped the back of the sofa.
I moved to the fireplace—one of the few traditional elements in his ultramodern home. "Does this work, or is it just decorative?"
"It works." After a pause, he added, "The controls are on the right."
I found the switch and the gas fireplace came to life, casting a warm glow across the room. "At least we won't freeze," I said, settling onto the floor near its warmth.
Alexander remained by the window, a dark silhouette against the storm-ravaged sky.
"You should sit," I suggested. "The power could be out for hours."
For a moment, I thought he would refuse. Then another thunderclap shook the building, and he moved to the sofa, as far from me as possible while still within the fireplace's glow.
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the storm's fury and the gentle hiss of the fire. I was acutely aware of his presence—the controlled rhythm of his breathing, the tension radiating from him with each thunderclap.
"It was storming the night they died," he said suddenly, his voice so quiet I almost missed it beneath the rain's patter.
I didn't need to ask who "they" were. "Your parents?"
He nodded, eyes fixed on the flames. "Hydroplaned on the West Side Highway. The car went through the guardrail into the Hudson."
My heart constricted. "You were with them?"
"In the backseat. I was thrown clear during the impact." His voice was detached, clinical, as if reciting someone else's tragedy. "I watched the car sink with them inside. I couldn't reach them."
The raw pain beneath his controlled words made my throat tighten. "Alexander, I'm so sorry."
"I was twelve. Old enough to know they were gone, young enough to believe it was somehow my fault." He gave a humorless laugh. "I'd been complaining about missing a school event. They were arguing about it when we hit the water."
I moved without thinking, shifting to sit beside him on the sofa. Not touching, but close enough that he could feel my presence.
"It wasn't your fault," I said softly. "You know that, right?"
He didn't answer directly. "My grandmother took me in afterward. She made it clear that emotions were a weakness, that the only way to honor my parents' legacy was to become strong enough to run Blackwood International."
"So you locked everything away," I murmured, understanding dawning. "The room I found—that's where you keep the parts of yourself you don't let anyone see."
Lightning flashed again, illuminating his face—the vulnerability there making him look younger, more like the boy in those photographs.
"I shouldn't have accused you," he said abruptly. "About Hamilton. I've spent my life surrounded by people with agendas. It's... difficult for me to trust."
The closest thing to an apology I was likely to get from Alexander Blackwood.
"I understand," I said. "And I am sorry for invading your privacy. But Alexander, I honestly don't know anything about the Hamiltons or any connection to my family."
He nodded slowly. "I believe you."
The simple statement shouldn't have affected me so deeply, but warmth bloomed in my chest at his words.
"I lost my mother when I was sixteen," I offered, wanting to give him something in return for his rare moment of openness. "Cancer. It was slow, painful. My father fell apart afterward. I had to be the strong one for Sophie."
"That explains a lot about you," Alexander said quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"Your resilience. Your willingness to sacrifice for your family." His eyes met mine in the firelight. "Your capacity for compassion, even toward someone who doesn't deserve it."
The raw honesty in his voice made my heart skip. "Everyone deserves compassion, Alexander."
"Even someone who buys a wife through a business contract?"
I smiled faintly. "The irony of our situation isn't lost on me. Two people damaged by loss, entering a marriage of convenience."
"I wouldn't know how to have a real relationship," he admitted, the darkness and firelight making this confession possible. "I've never seen the point of emotional entanglements."
"Never?"
His eyes held mine, something shifting in their depths. "Until recently."
My breath caught. The space between us on the sofa suddenly seemed charged with possibility, the air heavy with unspoken words.
"Alexander," I whispered, not sure what I meant to say.
He leaned closer, one hand rising to brush a strand of hair from my face. The gentle touch sent electricity through me, awakening sensations I'd been fighting since the day he'd slid that emerald ring onto my finger.
Our faces were inches apart, his eyes questioning. I found myself leaning toward him, drawn by a force I couldn't explain or resist.
Just as his lips were about to touch mine, the lights blazed back on, the sudden brightness making us both blink and pull away.
The spell broken, Alexander stood abruptly. "The power's back."
"Yes," I agreed, my voice unsteady.
"We should get some rest. It's late."
I nodded, unable to trust myself to speak further. As I rose to return to my room, Alexander caught my hand.
"Elena," he said, his voice low. "Thank you. For tonight."
"You're welcome," I replied softly, reluctantly withdrawing my hand from his.
We parted at the hallway, each retreating to our separate bedrooms. But as I slid beneath my covers, I knew something fundamental had changed between us.
The walls Alexander had built were beginning to crumble. And my own defenses—the emotional distance I'd maintained to protect myself—were weakening with every glimpse of the man behind the mask.
Most dangerous of all, I was starting to wonder what might have happened if the lights hadn't come back on when they did.
