POV: Kyle
At seven-fifteen, I stood at the base of the grand staircase, watching Ivy drag a battered canvas suitcase across the imported Italian marble of the foyer.
The harsh light from the crystal chandelier illuminated her frayed jacket and the scuffed toes of her boots. She looked completely out of place in my family’s estate. I had spent the last two days trying to forget the chaotic, burning heat of her mouth against mine in that hotel room. I had convinced myself she was just another transaction, another calculating woman perfectly executing her mother’s playbook to secure Blackwood money.
Her chipped luggage wheels squeaked violently against the marble, grating on my nerves.
"Late," I said, my voice echoing in the massive space.
Ivy stopped and met my eyes without a flinch. "I considered not coming at all."
"You should have followed that instinct."
Mr. Thorne, my head butler, stepped forward. He possessed the annoying habit of treating everyone with equal respect, regardless of their actual motives. "Mr. Blackwood asked that the south suite be prepared for Miss Ivy."
"My father isn't here," I interjected, cutting Thorne off. I pointed toward the dim service corridor. "Put her in the utility room. The storage room at the very end."
I waited for the mask to slip. I wanted her to scream, to cry, to demand the luxury her mother had just married into. I needed the absolute proof that she was exactly the parasite I believed her to be, so I could finally scrub the memory of her from my skin.
Ivy didn't give me the satisfaction. Her expression remained infuriatingly calm.
"Show me the way, Mr. Thorne," she said evenly.
I stepped directly into her path, blocking the corridor with my shoulders. "No argument?"
"Would you enjoy one?" she challenged, tilting her chin up.
"I expected you to demand the guest wing, like a proper gold digger."
"You expect a lot of things about me," she replied, her tone perfectly flat. "Most of them are wrong."
She sidestepped me, following Thorne down the hall.
I followed them, leaning against the doorframe as Thorne opened the cramped utility room. It was barely wider than a metal cot, smelling of bleach and old dust. It was an insult. A clear, undeniable warning that she was not welcome here.
Thorne looked deeply embarrassed. "I can speak to Mr. Blackwood when he returns from his honeymoon, Miss."
"No need." Ivy unzipped her cheap purse, pulled out a plastic debit card, and held it out to my butler. "Charge five hundred dollars. Rent for the month."
My jaw tightened. Rent?
"Miss, that isn't necessary," Thorne stammered.
"It is to me," Ivy said, completely ignoring my presence in the doorway. "I don't take handouts."
It was a performance. It had to be. Women like her and my biological mother always played the long game, using illusions of independence to secure a massive payout later.
"Five hundred won't even cover a closet in this ZIP code," I sneered, pushing off the doorframe.
"Then send me an itemized invoice for the market rate," she shot back, her eyes flashing with defiance.
"You really enjoy performing this pathetic illusion of independence," I muttered.
"And you really hate any evidence that contradicts your twisted narrative."
Ivy grabbed the brass handle and shut the door firmly, right in my face. The heavy click of the lock echoed in the corridor. I stared at the closed door, a dark, unfamiliar irritation burning in my chest.
The next night, the irritation had not faded. I stood in the billiards room, dragging a cube of blue chalk methodically across the tip of my wooden cue. The low overhead lamps cast long shadows across the green felt table.
"She is absolutely unbelievable," Cecilia sneered from the leather sofa. She swirled a martini glass, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the crystal. "Paying five hundred dollars for a broom closet, as if that proves she isn't after the estate."
Julian, leaning against the mahogany bar, chuckled into his scotch. "Maybe she is playing the long game, Kyle. You have to admit, it's a bold strategy."
"She ripped up a hundred-grand check," I stated, my voice completely devoid of emotion as I lined up my shot.
Cecilia's tone sharpened instantly, laced with poorly disguised jealousy. "You offered her that much cash?"
"After the underground club."
"And she refused?"
"Destroyed it," I confirmed. I struck the white ball, sinking the eight ball cleanly into the corner pocket with a sharp crack.
Julian whistled. "That is serious commitment."
"Or calculated strategy," I corrected, straightening up. I knew exactly how this game was played. My mother had walked out for ten million dollars. Ivy was just holding out for a bigger payday.
Julian took another sip of his drink. "So what is the actual plan? You cannot keep your new stepsister in a supply closet forever. Thomas will notice when he gets back."
I looked at the scattered billiard balls, a cold, ruthless strategy forming in my mind. She wanted to play the proud, untouchable victim? I would tear that armor apart piece by piece.
"One month," I stated.
"For what?" Julian asked.
"To prove she is exactly the kind of parasite I think she is."
Cecilia smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Now I am interested."
"I will stop fighting her," I explained, leaning my weight against the edge of the table. "I will play the attentive, protective billionaire. I will take her to galas. I will buy her whatever she looks at. Once she believes she has access to something bigger than my father's allowance, she will let her guard down and show her true hand."
Julian laughed loudly, shaking his head. "You are going to make her fall in love with you?"
"Step-sister," Cecilia corrected sharply, her knuckles turning white around her glass.
I ignored Cecilia's panic. My expression remained entirely dead inside. "I will give her one month. If she falls for me, I drop her in front of Thomas and expose exactly how fast her morals vanish for a bigger paycheck. If she doesn't crack, I leave her alone."
Cecilia lifted her glass in a toast. "Fifty thousand dollars says she lasts two weeks before she climbs into your bed again."
Julian grinned, setting his glass on the bar. "Make it a hundred."
I looked toward the heavy mahogany doors, picturing Ivy locked inside her freezing basement room, clutching her pathetic pride. She thought she had survived Eric, but she had no idea what it actually meant to be hunted.
"Done," I murmured, the word sealing her fate.
