Chapter 5 - The Master's Duty
Dawn broke over Blackwood Manor in shades of pale grey and misty blue. The heavy autumn rain had subsided into a light drizzle, washing the long cobblestone driveways and leaving the vast surrounding gardens dripping with fresh moisture.
At five o'clock precisely, a plain black sedan drove away from the service entrance, carrying Vivienne Hale and two small suitcases containing only her personal garments. No reporters were called; no public statements were issued. The once-glamorous heiress was quietly erased from the high-society registry of the city.
By six o'clock, Ivy Lancaster was standing in the basement staff room, wearing a fresh, spotless navy uniform.
Her shoulder was still sore, wrapped in the smooth white gauze Ronan had applied the night before, but the rare silver salve had already worked wonders, reducing the burning pain to a dull, manageable ache.
She held a silver tray containing fresh coffee, warm toast, and a copy of the morning financial paper, preparing to make her usual rounds up to the main floor.
"Ivy! What are you doing?!"
Mrs. Gable, the stern, sixty-year-old head housekeeper, hurried across the concrete floor, her heavy ring of keys jingling against her waist. Her face was flushed with anxiety as she grabbed the silver tray from Ivy's hands.
"I am taking the breakfast service up to the east wing, Mrs. Gable," Ivy replied, blinking in confusion.
"You are doing no such thing!" Mrs. Gable exclaimed, placing the tray on a stainless steel table. "Have you lost your mind? Mr. Blackwood issued an absolute directive at midnight! You are relieved of all physical domestic duties effective immediately!"
Ivy frowned, her brow furrowing. "Relieved? Am I... am I being let go?"
"Let go?" Mrs. Gable let out a sharp, nervous laugh. "Child, Mr. Blackwood threatened to strip Vance of his pension because he allowed you to walk down to the basement this morning! You are to report to the second-floor library immediately. Mr. Blackwood is waiting for you."
Ivy hesitated, adjusting the apron at her waist. She was uncomfortable with special treatment. For three years, her identity had been defined by her work—by her ability to organize, clean, and maintain order in a chaotic world.
"Mrs. Gable, I don't want to create trouble among the staff—"
"Ivy," the older woman said softly, her expression softening as she placed a gentle hand on Ivy's uninjured arm. "You stood between a whip and a terrified girl last night. Every worker in this basement would carry you up those stairs if you asked. Now go up to the library before the master comes down here himself."
Ivy took a deep breath, nodded, and made her way up the quiet back stairwell.
She reached the second floor, her soft shoes making no sound against the thick velvet carpets of the primary wing. She stopped outside the heavy double doors of the master library—a massive, two-story room containing thousands of leather-bound volumes and antique maps.
She knocked twice.
"Come in, Ivy," Ronan’s deep voice answered instantly.
Ivy pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The library was warm, lit by a roaring fire in the stone hearth. Ronan sat behind a large mahogany desk covered in financial documents, legal affidavits, and map blueprints. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos depicting Nordic runes and syndicate crests.
He looked up, his grey eyes instantly scanning her face and her body.
"How is your shoulder?" he asked, standing up from his chair.
May you like
"It is healing remarkably well, sir. The salve you used was very effective," Ivy answered, standing near the entrance with her hands neatly folded. "Mrs. Gable told me you requested my presence."
Ronan walked around the desk, stopping a few feet from her. "Sit down, Ivy. We have a great deal to discuss."
