My grip tightens on the railing of the balcony as I stare out into the night. Crickets chirp loudly while the light breeze softly touches my cheeks as my mind wanders to my brother again. Yeah, the guy was an asshole, but he was my brother. I sigh heavily as tiredness seeps in, but soon, fury boils my blood, demanding that I get my pound of flesh for the crime committed against my family.
Once news from the family doctor reached my ears, I knew my brother’s death wasn’t an accident. Someone had poisoned him, and they did it right under my fucking nose. The audacity of this person to come into my brother's home and disrespect my family has me shaking with a vengeance. I’ve been working for the past week to figure out who my brother’s killer is. There were a lot of people who had access to Jackson, and I’m slowly making my way through each and every one of them. I walk back into my home office and sit at my desk. Victor walks in and takes his usual seat on the couch.
"What have you got?" I ask, leaning back in my chair and interlacing my fingers behind my neck. My intense gaze rests on him.
Victor shifts back further into the couch with a sigh of frustration. "Nothing. I’ve got nothing. I haven't found anything that links anyone to your brother’s murder," he says with a growl.
The room suddenly feels tenser. I rub my temples as more anger seeps into my bones. I had hoped Victor would have found something, anything, by now.
"Are we sure it’s not the fucking Hawthorns?” I question, my mind trying to piece together the puzzle.
They were my first and most obvious guess, given our history, because they never shied away from taking credit for their actions. However, they’re silent on this. I’m sure my brother had his share of enemies, but I can’t think of a single one.
Victor shakes his head. "No, they haven't claimed ownership of this crime," he responds.
I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair. This complicates things. If it's not the Hawthorns, then the list of suspects just got a whole lot fucking longer. I glance at Victor, my determination simmering beneath the surface.
"Then we have to widen our search, look at every possible angle," I declare.
He nods in agreement. “What about the supposed informant? That must be how they got close enough to Jackson. They knew him.”
The moment I first heard about a potential informant, I dispatched my most trusted men to probe the shadows, to listen for whispers that could lead us closer to the truth. I had them tail several of the Hawthorns, keeping a keen eye on their every move. I even went as far as to assign a few of them, specifically to Isabella, feeling a strange mix of suspicion over her sudden marriage to my brother. There was a moment today, a mere second, when our eyes met, and I felt... something.
Isabella Blackhart is nothing but trouble. My men keep eyes on her. However, it’s all in vain. They all report back with the same answer. Nothing. Not a single lead. Not a hint of betrayal. It’s as if this informant is nothing but a fucking myth, but I know better. Someone is out there messing with our operations and my family. The frustration gnaws at me. We're back at square one, and Jackson's killer is still out there.
“I’m working on that. That’s why I’ve been interviewing every person from the party,” I tell him. “Go finish your search and send in the next person waiting.”
I’ve got more interviews to conduct. It might be the day of Jackson’s funeral, but I won’t rest until I exact my revenge. Victor opens the door, and James walks into the room, his face pale and his hands shaking slightly. I motion for him to sit in the chair opposite me. My tone is cold as I start the questioning.
“James, you were Jackson's driver on the night of the party, correct?" I ask, my gaze penetrating his, forcing him to meet my eyes.
"Yes, sir," he responds, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Did you notice anything unusual that night? Anyone lingering around his drink, perhaps?" My words are razor-sharp, intended to convey the severity of his situation.
"No, sir... Everyone was... I mean, it was just a normal party," he stammers, his eyes darting around the room nervously. “It was at his home, so when he came back from conducting business, I never saw him again.”
“James,” I lean forward, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Do you understand the position you're in? Should I find out you're lying or withholding information, the consequences will be severe."
James swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I-I understand, sir. I... I don't know anything, sir."
I lean back, and my gaze never leaves his face. "You better hope for your sake that's the truth, James. Dismissed."
As James practically sprints out of my office, I don't even need to signal for the next person. She walks in a mere second later. Mrs. Collins has been around for a long time. She’s known my brother and me since we were kids. My demeanor softens slightly out of respect for the history we share, but my tone retains a stern edge.
"Mrs. Collins," I begin, gesturing for her to sit. Her back is straight, an indication of her years of impeccable posture, and her eyes meet mine unflinchingly. "You've been with our family for years. I need you to think back to the night of the party. Did you see anything unusual?"
She hesitates just a bit before answering. "Mr. Blackhart, it was a regular party. Nothing was out of the ordinary that night."
I lean forward with my eyes drilling into hers. "I need you to be absolutely certain, Mrs. Collins. Did you notice anything? Anyone new or out of place?"
She ponders on this for a moment, then shakes her head. "No, sir. I didn't see anything or anyone unusual."
Maintaining my gaze, I let my tone drop a notch. "You understand the gravity of this situation, Mrs. Collins? If you're withholding anything..."
She interrupts me, a touch of steel in her voice. "Mr. Blackhart, I've been loyal to this family for a long time. If I knew anything about your brother’s death, I would tell you."
Her conviction rings true, and I find myself nodding. However, until I find my brother's killer, no stone can be left unturned. "Very well. That will be all, Mrs. Collins."
The room empties, leaving me alone with my thoughts, each one darker than the last. Anger bubbles beneath my skin, a hot, raw force that threatens to consume me from the inside.
I clench and unclench my hands, trying to tame this beast within me. It's not just anger. It's guilt, sorrow, and a deep, relentless need for vengeance. My brother was taken from me, and every cell in my body screams for retribution.
I rise from my chair and pace the length of the room, each step echoing in the silence. I stop to stare out the window into the descending darkness. Somewhere out there is the person who poisoned my brother.
I swear an oath to myself, and the words echo in the empty room. I will find out who did this, and when I do, they will pay. They will understand the consequences of crossing a Blackhart.
Victor walks back into my office.
“Don’t you ever knock?” I ask him as I walk back to my desk. “Also, aren’t you supposed to be out finding me answers?”
“I brought back another person. Besides, I’ve got men working on it,” he tells me. “You delegate to me, and I delegate to them. There are some things I’m doing myself.”
Just as I’m about to respond, the next person walks in. It’s Harrison, Isabella’s driver.
"Harrison," I begin, my tone sharp as a knife. "You drove Isabella frequently, correct?"
"Yes, sir," he replies, his voice steady under my scrutinizing gaze.
"Tell me about her activities. Where did she go? Who did she meet?" My words are clipped, a clear warning of the consequences if he's found lying.
"Well, Miss Isabella, she wasn't one for going out much, sir. She mostly stayed at the house," he starts with a soft respect coloring his words. "Sometimes, she'd meet her friend, Miss Seraphina. She used to stop by her family home. Cleaned and dusted it. Kept it nice since it sat empty. That’s all she did. She’s a really nice woman.”
I stay quiet for a moment as I weigh his words. There's no apparent deception, no hints of untruths. I nod at him, keeping my tone as imposing as ever. "That's all, Harrison. You may leave."
Harrison nods, and with a final "sir,” he's gone.
“Was he describing the same Isabella that Jackson told us about,” Victor says to me, surprise clear in his voice.
“She’s the only Isabella, so yes, dumbass,” I reply. “Clearly, the woman knows how to manipulate men.”
“She did seem standoffish at the party. I tried to talk to her, and she snapped at me to leave her alone,” Victor says.
“Maybe she was too busy slipping the poison to my brother,” I growl. “Send in the next person.”
Victor gets up and walks out to get the next person. There’s a commotion outside before the door bangs open.
“Get your filthy hands off me, you son of a bitch!” the woman says as she’s pushed inside. She stumbles before righting herself.
She turns toward me with a glare. “You didn’t have to have your goons drag me to your house like that, asshole. Clearly, the Blackharts never say please.”
“Please isn’t in my vocabulary. How do you know Isabella?” I ask, my voice deadly low.
She snorts before taking the seat in front of my desk. “I thought you would know that since your men kidnapped me. The Hawthorns have been friends with the Storms for ages. That’s how I know her.”
My eyes narrow on her. “Hawthorn? What are you doing hanging out with Isabella?”
“First of all, I have nothing to do with this whole Blackhart vs. Hawthorn rivalry going on. I honestly couldn’t care less what the hell you guys do and neither does Isabella. She knows nothing about that side of our families. Secondly, I’ve known Isabella since we were kids. Say what the fuck you want, so I can go home.”
I find myself sitting back in my chair. My body is rigid in shock as her words hang in the air. The insolence of this woman causes me to clench my jaw. Most people wouldn't dare to address me this way, but she's a Hawthorn. Their bloodline is almost as wealthy and powerful as the Blackharts. The audacity of her to show this level of disregard and bravado, is somewhat impressive. Still, she's a crucial part of this deadly puzzle, and I can't afford to let her boldness distract me from my purpose.
“Tell me about Isabella. Why did she marry Jackson? Was it money she wanted?” I snap.
Seraphina leans back and laughs. “You really didn’t know your brother at all. It’s clear you don’t know much about Isabella, either. If you dragged me in here to question me about Isabella because of your brother’s death, you’re an asshole.”
She gets up, heads toward the door, and I stand abruptly. “All of this started when she came into our lives,” I snarl, and I can see a tremor go through her at my tone. “Someone will pay.”
She looks at me with wide eyes and fear before storming out of my office.
“Man, she’s got balls,” Victor says. “I should have known she was a Hawthorn.”
I glare at Victor, and he puts his hands up before going to get the next person.
Victor returns, guiding Jackson's butler, Jensen, into the room. I watch as the old man sits across from me, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of servitude. I begin the interrogation, but my mind is elsewhere, simmering with the words of Seraphina Hawthorn.
"Jensen, you were close to Jackson, correct?" I ask, my tone startling him.
The butler nods. He looks older, worn down by the events of the past few days. He clears his throat, his voice a soft echo in the room.
"Yes, sir. I served Mr. Jackson faithfully for years," he replies, his gaze never leaving mine.
"Tell me about Isabella. Tell me about their marriage." I demand, my tone filled with an impatience I can't hide.
Jensen hesitates, his eyes growing distant as he recalls the past. "Their marriage...it was difficult, sir. Miss Isabella often expressed her unhappiness. She...she used to say she wished Mr. Jackson would die and rot in hell." The words hang heavy in the air, a damning indictment of his brother's wife.
"Do you think she did it, Jensen?" I ask, barely a whisper.
"I believe she could have, sir. She said once...that as soon as she found a way out of the marriage, she would take it." His words drop like stones in still water, sending ripples of fury coursing through me.
A cold, bitter rage begins to swirl within me, replacing the shock with a hard, unyielding resolve. Isabella killed him.
A raw, guttural anger pulses through me, a dangerous current of red-hot fury and betrayal. The room around me seems to blur, and my vision taints with a deadly shade of red. My breathing becomes harsh, and each exhale sounds like a growl in the silent room.
I grab the glass on my desk and fling it across the room. “Where is she?”
“I know she never returned to Jackson’s house after the funeral,” Victor says.
“Search her childhood home,” I growl, barely able to contain my anger. “I bet that’s where she is. Find her and bring her to me.”
Pushing myself off the desk, I stride towards the glass doors leading to the balcony of my office. The chill of the night air hits me as I step onto the cold, stone surface. My hands rest on the cool metal of the railing, fingers gripping it tightly as I gaze out into the inky darkness. The silent night is a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within me. Isabella. That name seems to reverberate in my mind like a bitter echo that stokes the fire of my anger.
I can feel the promise of retribution. Every beat, every pulse echoing a single, resounding thought. She will pay. I imagine her fear when she realizes she’s been found, the shock in her eyes, the tremors of her hands. It fuels me, this image of her suffering, of her realizing the consequences of her actions. As I stand in the solitude of the night, I make a solemn vow under the silent, watchful stars. Isabella will suffer for what she’s done. I will ensure it.