Chapter 3 - The First Cleansing
Vivienne stood rigid in the center of the ballroom, her hands clenched into tight fists, her manicured nails digging into her palms. "I am your betrothed, Ronan! I am a Hale! You cannot treat me like a common criminal in your own house!"
"Sit," Ronan repeated, his tone stripped of any human warmth.
Vance, returning to the room, pulled out a heavy oak chair and gestured toward it with cold precision. Realizing she had no leverage in this moment, Vivienne swallowed her rage, smoothed her silk gown, and sat down on the edge of the cushion, her eyes burning with pure hatred as she glared at Ivy.
Ronan turned back to Ivy. "Vance, bring the medical kit from my private quarters. The winter kit with the silver salve."
"Immediately, sir," Vance replied, disappearing up the grand marble staircase.
Ivy took a step back, her hands coming up in a defensive gesture. "Mr. Blackwood, that is unnecessary. I am fine. The domestic staff has basic medical supplies in the basement. I can tend to this myself after I finish cleaning the marble—"
"You will not clean another inch of this marble tonight, Ivy," Ronan interrupted softly. He stepped closer, removing his heavy tailored suit jacket.
Ivy gasped softly as he wrapped the warm, silk-lined wool jacket around her shoulders, covering her torn uniform and shielding her broad frame from the chilly draft sweeping through the vast hall. The jacket carried his scent—a subtle, intoxicating mixture of expensive cedarwood, rain, and faint tobacco.
"You are bleeding because my house failed to protect its people," Ronan said, his eyes scanning her face, taking in the soft curve of her cheeks, the warmth of her hazel eyes, and the absolute resilience radiating from her. "That makes it my personal responsibility."
Vance returned, placing a heavy mahogany medical box on a nearby table before discreetly stepping back to guard the doors.
Ronan opened the kit, pulling out a pair of sterile shears, a roll of white gauze, and a jar of rare, lavender-scented silver salve used exclusively for treating high-grade burns and lacerations.
He gestured to a soft leather settee near the fireplace. "Sit, Ivy."
Ivy hesitated, casting a quick glance at Vivienne, who looked as though she was about to explode with rage. But looking at Ronan's unyielding grey eyes, Ivy knew that disobeying him now would only create a larger storm. She sat down slowly on the leather couch.
Ronan knelt beside her.
The image was so shocking that Vivienne let out an audible gasp from her chair. The most feared mafia boss in the eastern seaboard—a man who had brought three rival syndicates to their knees—was kneeling on one knee on the cold marble floor before a curvy maid.
With surprising gentleness, Ronan used the shears to carefully snip away the ruined, blood-soaked navy sleeve of her uniform, exposing the deep red welt left by the riding crop, as well as the blistered skin from the hot soup along her shoulder.
His fingers were large, rough, and calloused, yet his touch was lighter than a feather as he applied the cool silver salve to her wounds.
Ivy bit her lower lip, letting out a soft, sharp breath as the cooling ointment met her inflamed skin.
"Does it hurt?" Ronan asked gently, looking up into her eyes.
"It... it is much better now, sir," Ivy whispered, her cheeks flushing a warm pink at his proximity. She was not used to being touched with care. For three years, she had been an invisible worker in this giant stone fortress, treated as part of the furniture by the wealthy residents.
"She is playing you, Ronan!" Vivienne shrieked from across the room, unable to contain herself any longer. "She is a manipulative, lazy peasant who purposefully let that soup drop to create a scene! She probably threw herself at the crop just to get your attention!"
Ronan did not stop applying the gauze to Ivy's shoulder. He smoothly wrapped the white bandage around her arm, securing it with precise, surgical knots.
"Vivienne," Ronan said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he stood up, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. "Do you know why my grandfather built this estate?"
Vivienne blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. "He... he built it to show the city the supreme power of the Blackwood family!"
"He built it," Ronan corrected, turning slowly to face her, "to be a sanctuary for those who loyally serve us. He taught me that a leader who strikes his own workers is not a king—he is a coward who knows his authority is weak."
Ronan walked slowly toward Vivienne, stopping right in front of her chair, looking down at her as if she were nothing more than a stain on his floor.
"You have been in my house for eighteen months, Vivienne. You have abused the staff, squandered my accounts on trivialities, and tonight, you drew blood in my ballroom."
He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a heavy black leather notebook tied with a crimson ribbon, and laid it flat on the table beside her.
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"What is that?" Vivienne asked, her voice faltering as a cold knot of dread formed in her stomach.
"That," Ronan said, "is the Blackwood Ledger. And your family’s time in my city is officially over."
