Chapter 1 - THE WARMTH IN THE FROST
"A broom, a bucket, and blankets, Mrs. Dalton," Evelyn repeated, her voice remarkably steady despite the shivering cold settling into her bones. She met the old housekeeper’s eyes with absolute calm. "If I am to occupy the cold wing, I intend to make it mine. I trust that basic sanitation supplies do not violate Mr. Blackwood’s decree?"
Mrs. Dalton glanced nervously at Adrian. The mob heir stood framed in the threshold, his dark brows slightly drawn together. He had expected tears, a dramatic outburst, or perhaps a desperate plea to her father. He had not anticipated a calm request for cleaning supplies.
"Give her what she asks for," Adrian said coldly, turning his back on them both. "Nothing more, nothing less. If she wants to play the martyr, let her freeze in her self-righteousness."
His heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, fading into the comfortable warmth of the grand estate. Noah, the young guard, lingered for a fraction of a second, casting a look of quiet sympathy toward Evelyn before hurrying after his boss.
Left alone in the dim, freezing room, Evelyn took a deep breath. Her exhale blossomed into a white cloud of mist. The heavy silk of her wedding dress brushed against the dusty floor, but she didn’t care about the ruin of expensive fabric. Her mind was already calculating, cataloging, evaluating every inch of her new prison.
When Mrs. Dalton returned twenty minutes later, accompanied by a shivering housemaid carrying a wooden bucket, a stiff broom, a box of coarse soap, and two scratchy wool blankets, Evelyn was already at work. She had stripped off her delicate veil and used it to tie her dark hair back securely.
"Put them there, please," Evelyn directed politely.
"Mrs. Blackwood... I mean, Miss Evelyn," Mrs. Dalton whispered, her voice tight with caution. "The young master... he is not a forgiving man. His heart turned to stone when his brother was killed three years ago. You shouldn't provoke him."
"I have no desire to provoke him, Mrs. Dalton," Evelyn replied smoothly, dipping a rag into the freezing bucket of water. "I merely intend to survive him."
That night, while the rest of Blackwood Manor slept under heavy duvets with radiators roaring softly in the walls, Evelyn scrubbed every inch of the servant's room. She swept away decades of dirt, scrubbed the cracked floorboards until her hands were raw and red, and used the frayed curtains to seal the drafty wooden frame around the broken window.
When the sun finally crept over the horizon, painting the snow outside in shades of icy blue and pale pink, the room looked unrecognizable. It was still brutally cold, but the dust was gone, the iron bed was freshly dressed with stiff wool, and Evelyn sat at the small, wobbly wooden desk she had dragged into the center of the room.
In her hands was a small, leather-bound notebook she had hidden beneath the lining of her wedding dress.
Evelyn was not just a neglected daughter traded away to settle a gambling debt. Her father, Arthur Hart, was a weak man, but he was a terrible accountant—he kept two sets of books. Before she was forced into this marriage, Evelyn had spent three years managing her father’s secret ledgers. She knew every bribe paid, every shipment smuggled, and every debt owed across the New England coast.
She knew that the Blackwood syndicate was bleeding money from their shipping docks in South Boston, and she knew exactly why.
A quiet knock at the door broke her concentration.
It was Noah, the young guard. He looked around the sparkling, albeit freezing, room in stunned silence. "Mrs. Blackwood... Mr. Blackwood demands your presence in the study. The heads of the families have arrived for the morning briefing."
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Evelyn closed her notebook, slipped it into her pocket, and stood up. She pulled a dark wool shawl over her shoulders, keeping her posture tall and unyielding.
"Lead the way, Noah," she said, a small, dangerous smile touching her lips. "Let us see what my husband has built."
