Chapter 3 - The War BeginsThe transition from maid to personal assistant happened with dizzying speed.
Within forty-eight hours, Ivy was moved into a spacious, sunlit suite on the second floor. Her old cotton uniforms were replaced by custom-tailored suits, elegant silk blouses, and structured dresses designed specifically to accentuate her curves rather than hide them.
The high-end Italian designer Ronan had summoned to the manor had initially tried to suggest slimming dark tones, but Ronan had immediately shut him down: “She wears jewel tones. Emerald, sapphire, deep plum. I want her to stand out, not fade away.”
When Ivy walked down the grand marble staircase on Thursday morning wearing a fitted emerald-green dress that hugged her hips and waist, even Malcolm the butler bowed deeper than usual, a faint, approving smile on his face.
“Good morning, Miss Lancaster,” Malcolm said smoothly. “Mr. Blackwood is waiting for you in the primary office.”
“Thank you, Malcolm,” Ivy said, still feeling a bit like Cinderella, except her prince was a ruthless mafia syndicate chief who carried a gun under his armpit.
When she entered the primary office, Ronan was sitting at his massive mahogany desk, reviewing financial reports. When he looked up and saw her, his breath noticeably caught in his throat. His dark eyes swept over her body, taking in the way the emerald silk draped over her full chest and rounded hips.
“You look breathtaking,” he said simply.
Ivy felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks. “I feel like I’m wearing a house’s worth of rent.”
“You’re wearing what you deserve,” he replied, standing up and handing her a thick leather folder. “Today is your first official trial. The Hale family has called an emergency meeting of the Shipping Syndicate at the Harbor Club downtown. They think they can force my hand by threatening a labor strike at the docks.”
Ivy opened the folder, her sharp eyes quickly scanning the financial ledgers. She might have been a maid for the past six months, but before her father’s business had failed and he had passed away, she had earned an honors degree in business administration.
Her eyes narrowed as she read through the shipping manifests. “They can’t strike.”
Ronan paused, watching her intently. “Why do you say that?”
“Because according to these sub-contracts,” Ivy pointed to a row of small numbers on page three, “Victor Hale—Vivian’s father—has been secretly leasing thirty percent of his dock space to an independent logistics company in New Jersey. If he calls a strike to spite you, he breaches his contract with New Jersey and incurs a penalty of twelve million dollars within forty-eight hours. He’s bluffing.”
Ronan stared at her for three full seconds, a slow, dark smile spreading across his handsome face.
“My God,” Ronan whispered. “You really are a brilliant woman.”
“I read the documents while I was dusting your desk three weeks ago,” Ivy admitted with a small grin. “You leave very interesting papers lying around, Mr. Blackwood.”
“Ronan,” he corrected her again, stepping around the desk and taking her hand. His touch was warm and sent shivers down her spine. “And today, you’re coming with me to the Harbor Club. I want Victor Hale to see the woman who helped me destroy him.”
An hour later, the blacked-out Blackwood SUV pulled up outside the historic Harbor Club in downtown Philadelphia. Armed guards opened the doors, and Ronan offered his arm to Ivy.
She took it, holding her head high. She knew the eyes of every bodyguard, driver, and passing executive were on them. She was a plus-size woman stepping into a room full of old-money sharks, but with Ronan’s heavy arm holding hers, she felt invincible.
They walked into the private dining room on the top floor.
Inside sat Victor Hale—a heavy, red-faced man in his sixties—alongside four other powerful leaders of Philadelphia’s underworld. Vivian Hale was also sitting beside her father, her eyes red and puffy, but filled with absolute venom when she saw Ivy walk in on Ronan’s arm.
“What is the meaning of this, Blackwood?!” Victor roared, slamming his fist onto the table. “You break off an alliance with my family, publicly shame my daughter, and then bring your servant to a syndicate council meeting? Have you lost your mind?!”
Ronan pulled out the heavy leather chair at the head of the table and held it out for Ivy.
“Sit, Ivy,” Ronan said gently.
Ivy sat down gracefully, crossing her legs and resting her hands on the table.
May you like
Ronan remained standing at the head of the table, resting his hands on the back of Ivy’s chair, his posture radiating dark, lethal dominance.
“Ivy is no longer a servant, Victor,” Ronan said coldly. “She is my Chief Personal Advisor. And if you raise your voice in her presence again, I will have my men remove your tongue before dessert is served.”
