Page 170 of Unholy Obsession

I could stop this. Step in. Shut it down with a word.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

I let it simmer. Let her feel the weight of them pressing in. Let her make the choice—does she lash out? Does she rise above it? Does she play the game or let them tear her apart before the first course is even served?

And then Charles, ever the patient predator, finally speaks. “This is all very entertaining,” he says, voice as smooth as the whiskey in his glass. “But I think we’re all still wondering thesame thing.” He turns his gaze on me, but his words are meant for her. “Why isshehere?”

Rotterdam doesn’t react, but I know he’s listening closely now. He flips open his leather folder, ready to lay out the details of the inheritance. But Charles doesn’t care about legalities. He cares about power. About hierarchy. About reminding everyone at this table where they fall in the Blackwolf pecking order.

Moira squares her shoulders, her lips parting to answer, but before she can, Simon scoffs. “She shouldn’t even be here.”

That’s when I move.

Not loud. Not aggressive. Just a slow, deliberate reach for my whiskey. I swirl the glass, the scent of oak and fire curling under my nose.

“Neither should most of you,” I murmur, my voice lazy and edged with amusement. I lift the glass to my lips. “But here we are. Brothers and sister.Ladies,” I give a sardonic raise of an eyebrow Miriam’s way so she feels my sarcasm like a whip, “and gentlemen, may I introduce my wife, Moira Blackwolf.”

Moira exhales sharply beside me, irritation rolling off her in waves.

She doesn’tneedme to fight for her.

But she’s realizing something now, something that’s been creeping up on her since the moment we walked into this room.

It doesn’t matter how sharp her tongue is or how fast she can strike?—

Because in this world, power isn’t about speaking the loudest. It’s about making everyone else fall silent. I decide when the knife twists and when the room bends tome.

And right now, they’re learning what Moira already knows—this was never a fight. It was always a foregone conclusion.

I’m just making damn sure they know it.

Silence never lasts long in a room full of predators.

I let them have their fun. Let them snap their teeth at Moira, let them think they could toy with her, let them believe—for one last, fleeting moment—that they still hold power here.

But the game is over.

I set my whiskey glass down with a deliberateclinkagainst the polished wood, the sound slicing through the low hum of conversation like a blade. “Rotterdam.”

The lawyer looks up, unfazed but already moving. He knows. Of course, he knows.

“It’s time.”

Moira stiffens beside me. Her fingers are curled tight against the edge of the table, white-knuckled like she’s bracing for impact. She should be. They all should be.

Rotterdam clears his throat, unfastens the leather clasp on his folder, and pulls out a thick sheaf of documents. He adjusts his glasses, scanning the first page. “As per the last will and testament of the late Bradford Blackwolf?—”

The name alone sends a ripple through the table. A sharp inhale from Miriam, Charles’s jaw locks tight, and Gabriella’s fingers tighten around the stem of her wine glass. My father’s ghost is still in the room, his phantom hand still wrapped around their throats.

Rotterdam continues, his voice cool and measured. “All assets, including Blackwood Hall, all financial holdings, and controlling interest in Blackwood Enterprises are hereby transferred in full to Bane Blackwood.”

For a second, there’s nothing. Just the weight of those words settling like lead into the marrow of every person sitting at this cursed table.

Then, the explosion.

Miriam is the first to react, shoving back from the table so hard her wine glass tips, red spilling across the pristine linen. “That’s impossible.”

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