Chapter 7 - Shadows of the Past
The sight of the sealed parchment envelope held in Richard Blackwood’s hand seemed to freeze time inside the grand private dining room. The warm golden light from the chandeliers glinted off the dark red wax seal, casting deep, dramatic shadows across the polished dark wood of Table 12.
Ethan stared at the envelope, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He took a hesitant step closer to his father, his hand extended slightly, but his fingers trembled.
"Give it to me," Ethan demanded, his gravelly voice laced with an agonizing mixture of fear and desperation. "If there’s something in there I’m supposed to know, give it to me now."
Richard slowly drew the envelope back, sliding it neatly back into the inner pocket of his dark luxury suit.
"Not yet, Ethan," Richard said coldly, his voice firm and unyielding. "Some truths require preparation. You were quick to believe the worst of the woman you claimed to love. You accepted a narrative that was fed to you because it was easier than searching for the truth."
"Fed to me?" Ethan echoed, his head snapping toward Victoria.
Victoria was standing almost three feet away now, her back nearly touching the white marble wall near the grand mahogany doors. Her polished facade had completely collapsed. Her red-painted lips were parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she stared at Richard with pure terror in her eyes.
"Ethan, darling, don't listen to him," Victoria stammered, her voice lacking any of its previous conviction. "Your father has always been controlling. He’s trying to manipulate you! He’s using this... this woman to ruin our family dinner, to ruin our upcoming wedding!"
Emma stood by the reserved table, her hands clutched tightly over her chest. The mention of the letters had brought a flood of painful memories rushing back to her—memories of cold hospital rooms, unanswered messages, and the terrifying isolation she had felt seven years ago when she realized she was entirely alone in the world with a newborn child.
She looked down at Noah. The six-year-old was standing quietly beside Richard, his small hand still tucked securely into the older man's palm. Noah looked up at Emma with soft, innocent eyes, completely unaware of the war raging around him, but sensing that his mother needed comfort.
"Mommy?" Noah asked softly, his young voice cutting through the tension. "Are we sitting down now? Grandpa Richard said we were going to have dessert."
Richard’s stern face softened for a fraction of a second as he looked down at the boy. "Yes, Noah. We are going to sit down."
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Richard pulled out the heavy dark leather chair right beside his own place card—the chair designated for the guest of honor—and gestured for Emma to sit.
"Ethan," Richard said, turning back to his son with a gaze as sharp as shattered glass. "Sit down. Or leave. But tonight, the truth stays at this table."
