Chapter 4 - The Sound of Heavy Boots
Footsteps echoed from the grand foyer.
They were heavy, measured, and unmistakable—the sharp, echoing strike of high-end Italian leather boots against polished granite.
Marcus was back.
He was supposed to be in San Francisco until tomorrow morning, attending a high-stakes board meeting for the Vance-Blackwood merger. But the sudden storm rolling in off the coast had grounded his private jet, forcing him to drive back up the coast road three hours ahead of schedule.
Victoria’s head snapped toward the double doors. Her theatrical sobbing intensified instantly, turning into ragged, breathy gasps of absolute hysteria. She threw her hands up to her bloodied forehead, staggering backward toward the edge of the ruined dining table, her dark red dress catching the warm light of the chandelier.
"Marcus!" Victoria shrieked, her voice echoing through the vast, empty halls of the mansion. "Marcus, help me! Oh God, someone help me!"
Elena tried to push herself up. She dragged her elbows beneath her, her body shaking so violently that her teeth chattered. "Marcus..." she attempted to cry out, but her voice was a thin, threadbare rasp that was instantly swallowed by Victoria’s piercing screams.
The heavy oak double doors swung open with a dramatic, booming thud.
Marcus Blackwood stood framed in the entryway.
He was dressed impeccably in a black bespoke tuxedo, a crisp white shirt, and a black silk bow tie—the formal attire he had worn to the preliminary board dinner before leaving San Francisco. His tall, broad-shouldered frame filled the doorway, his dark hair damp from the drizzle outside. He looked every bit the powerful, unyielding monarch of Blackwood Manor.
In his right hand, he held a sleek leather briefcase. In his left, a half-empty glass of crystal tumbler he had poured himself at the wet bar in the foyer upon entering.
The moment his eyes crossed the threshold of the dining room, his body went entirely rigid.
The scene before him was straight out of a nightmare. The magnificent custom glass dining table—a piece of art imported from Milan—lay shattered in thousands of glittering pieces across the floor. The air smelled of spilled vintage red wine, iron, and oxidized blood.
And in the center of the destruction, two women lay ruined.
On the left, Victoria was curled near the edge of the sideboard, clutching her bleeding forehead, her dark red velvet gown torn at the shoulder, her chest heaving as she wept uncontrollably.
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On the right, sprawled among the sharpest cluster of broken glass, was his wife. Elena was wearing her white silk nightgown—now ruined, stained with grime and deep crimson smears—her face pale as marble, her eyes wide and glassy with unbearable agony, clutching her pregnant stomach with hands covered in cuts.
Marcus froze. The leather briefcase slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a heavy, dull thud.
