Inside the grand living room of the Blackwood estate, the faint clinking of porcelain cups filled the quiet. The scent of freshly steeped jasmine tea mingled with the crisp undertone of polished wood and old books—a timeless blend that spoke of tradition and quiet power.
At the center sat Eleanor Blackwood, the family’s formidable matriarch, her silver hair swept neatly into a chignon that defied her years. Even seated, she exuded the kind of quiet authority that could command a boardroom—or silence an entire dinner table with a single look. Across from her, Charles Blackwood lounged in his armchair, half-hidden behind a folded newspaper he’d long since stopped reading.
Eleanor’s sharp gaze flicked toward the tall antique clock near the fireplace, its rhythmic ticking now an irritation r
