Chapter 7
Ivy stared at him, her mind spinning. The offer was absurd, dangerous, and completely unprecedented in the rigid, unforgiving hierarchy of the Blackwood empire.
"Your head of household operations?" Ivy repeated, her voice laced with skepticism. "The board of directors, your investors, the entire upper crust of the city—they will tear me apart. They already view me as a servant who overstepped."
"Let them try," Ronan said, a dark, protective edge returning to his voice. "Anyone who looks at you sideways from this moment on answers directly to me. My house, my rules."
Ivy looked down at her hands, then back up at the towering, imposing man who had just dismantled an engagement and stared down a corrupt senator—all to protect a wounded maid. She thought of her brothers, of the tuition fees, of the endless cycle of struggle and survival she had endured her entire life. For once, fate was offering her a weapon instead of a wound.
"Alright," Ivy said clearly, her voice steadying as resolve settled into her bones. "I'll accept the position. But on one condition, Mr. Blackwood."
Ronan raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine amusement crossing his austere features. "Name it."
"No special treatment," Ivy replied, a fierce spark in her eyes. "If I earn my place here, I do it through my own work, not because you're shielding me from every little consequence."
A low chuckle vibrated in Ronan’s chest—a sound so rare that even the shadows in the foyer seemed to pull back in surprise.
"Agreed," Ronan said, extending a large, warm hand toward her.
May you like
Ivy hesitated for a fraction of a second, then slid her small hand into his. His grip was firm, strong, and unyielding—a solemn pact forged in the ruins of a broken ballroom.
"Welcome to the Blackwood house, Ivy," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.
