Chapter 2 - The Shadow of the PastBy 2:00 AM, the manor was dead silent. The guests had fled like rats from a sinking ship, eager to spread the sensational news across the city’s elite social circles: Ronan Blackwood had thrown out his high-society fiancée for a plus-size maid.
Inside the private medical suite on the third floor, Ivy sat on the edge of a velvet examination table. Her torn uniform had been replaced by a soft, oversized cashmere sweater belonging to Ronan, along with a pair of cotton trousers. Her shoulder was heavily bandaged. The doctor had cleaned the welt, applied a soothing burn salve, and given her a mild sedative, but she refused to sleep.
The door opened softly, and Ronan stepped in. He had discarded his suit jacket and unbuttoned his collar, looking surprisingly human in the dim light.
“You should be resting,” he said, sitting in the armchair opposite her.
“I don’t like sleeping in unfamiliar places,” Ivy replied, her voice soft. “And I certainly don’t belong on the third floor of Blackwood Manor. This is the family wing.”
“You belong wherever I put you, Ivy.”
Ivy let out a dry, quiet laugh. “Don’t start acting like a hero, Mr. Blackwood. You used me to break off an engagement you never wanted in the first place.”
Ronan raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you think happened?”
“I’m not stupid,” Ivy said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’ve worked here for six months. I’ve seen the way you look at Vivian Hale. You looked at her like a contract that needed signing, not a woman you loved. She gave you a convenient excuse to tear up the contract in front of everyone so her family couldn’t sue you for breach of alliance.”
Ronan stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, a low, rare chuckle rumbled in his chest.
“You are far sharper than the rest of the staff,” he admitted, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s true that I never intended to marry Vivian. The engagement was arranged by my uncle before he died. But make no mistake, Ivy—I did not use you as a tool. Vivian crossed a line that can never be uncrossed in my presence.”
“Why?” Ivy asked quietly. “Why do you care what happens to a woman like me? I’m twenty-nine, I’m size sixteen, I clean your floors, and I have no family name to offer you.”
Ronan’s eyes darkened, the humor vanishing completely. “Do you think I care about sizes or family names? My mother was a seamstress from South Philadelphia. She had soft curves, kind eyes, and hands that smelled like lavender and soapsuds. My father’s family hated her because she wasn't royalty. They treated her like trash until the day she died.”
Ivy felt a lump form in her throat. She had never heard anyone talk about the mysterious origin of Ronan Blackwood’s mother.
“When I saw Vivian raise that whip against you,” Ronan continued, his voice shaking slightly with a repressed, terrifying rage, “I didn't see a maid being disciplined. I saw a cruel, spoiled brat abusing a woman whose pinky finger has more worth than Vivian’s entire bloodline. I will never allow a woman like that to sit in my mother’s seat at the head of this table.”
Ivy looked down at her hands. The cashmere sweater felt impossibly warm against her skin. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Don’t be,” Ronan said gently. “She raised me to recognize real strength. And tonight, I saw real strength in you. You took a strike meant for a frightened child, and you didn't even drop to your knees.”
He stood up, walking over to her until he was standing directly between her knees. He reached out, his warm, large hand cupping her jaw gently, lifting her face so she had to look at him.
“From this moment on,” Ronan murmured, “you no longer work as a maid in this house.”
Ivy’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Are you firing me?”
“I am promoting you,” he said softly. “You are going to be my personal assistant. You will sit at my right hand, you will manage my personal estate, and you will show every arrogant bastard in this city what a real woman looks like.”
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“Ronan... people will talk. They’ll say awful things about me. They’ll say I used my body or tricked you—”
“Let them talk,” Ronan growled, his thumb gently stroking her lower lip. “In Philadelphia, people who talk too loud usually find themselves losing their tongues. You are under my protection now, Ivy Lancaster. And nobody touches what belongs to Ronan Blackwood.”
