Page 42 of Blackwood

“I remember when you first arrived at St. Lyra’s. So poised. So quiet. Like you didn’t quite believe you were allowed to take up space. You were the best friend I could’ve ever hoped for my Ellie,” she says, voice thick with emotion.

“And somewhere along the way,” her voice catches. “You didn’t just become Ellie’s best friend. You became family, my second daughter.”

I freeze.

“Now you’re graduating. Headed to Wexley. Dancing for The Legacy at Ashmoor Hall. Living in Rosethorne Mansion, like I did. And I just…” Her voice trembles, elegant and raw. “I’venever been so proud. You didn’t just become everything I hoped. You became more.”

Ellie blinks fast. “Okay Mom, I was not emotionally prepared for mom tears.”

I’m speechless, because under all the silk and champagne, Savannah meant every word. She doesn’t see scars or silence or a trail of broken things behind me. She just sees me.

Ellie loops her arm through mine, grinning at our reflection. “We’re going to look so good they’ll name storms after us.”

“Zeke’s going to lose his shit.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ellie says, eyes sparkling. “He’s gonna go postal. Maybe break something. But it’ll be worth it. He’ll throw a trench coat over you, ban cameras, start yelling in five languages. And maybe if the lighting hits just right, he’ll finally look at melike I’m not just your unhinged sexy best friend, but the girl who can make Pete regret everything.”

I choke. “Ellie. Please don’t use my brother in your revenge fantasy.”

She shrugs. “What? He’s hot. Pete’s stalking my socials. If your brother wants to scowl protectively in my direction and look like a Calvin Klein assassin doing it, who am I to stop fate?”

Savannah raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She just sips her rosé like she’s seen this play out a thousand times at a thousand different tables.

“He may try to shut the whole party down,” Ellie continues, fanning herself like the drama queen she is. “But he can’t stop us from being the hottest girls in the room.”

Chapter 15

BELLA - Age 18

Graduation Day at St. Lyra’s Prep

The auditorium shimmers with gold trim and history, sunlight pouring through stained glass like the room itself was blessing the moment. Every seat is full of pearls and pocket squares. Legacy families wrapped in elegance and quiet ambition.

Front row, Savannah Whitmore looks every inch the empire matriarch. Dressed in an ivory silk dress, perfect posture, and a soft smile that hasn’t left her lips all morning. Her husband, Wall Street’s very own Clay Whitmore, rests a proud hand over hers.

A few seats down, Ellie’s twin brothers, Callum and Cade, sit in silent observation. They graduated last year and are currently attending Wexley University.

But it was the row behind them that makes my throat tighten.

Sitting next to Mr. Acronym and Tex, is my big brother. Zeke’s in all black, sharp, tailored, and expensive. Armani, obviously. He’d gone full Bruce Wayne for the occasion and I love it. Fresh fade so clean it looks like it came with a warning label. Diamond-cut watch. Jaw set. Dark brown eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing that matters in the room.

For once the guys aren’t on a mission. They’re not lurking in the shadows. They’re just here to see me.

The headmaster adjusts the microphone with the precision of a man that has practiced it in the mirror every day for the last twenty years. Names roll out like clockwork. Girls stand. Bursts of polite clapping, shouts from proud families. Some names get whistles, some get wild cheers.

Ellie leans over and whispers, “I swear I heard someone hired a violinist.”

“Isabella Marie Blackwood.”

Silence.

Then Zeke stands. Full height, full volume, “That’s my girl!”

His voice cracks halfway through, loud, raw, and undeniably proud. His hands hit like thunder, clapping hard enough to echo. And right beside him, Tex stands too, broad and stoic, letting out a sharp whistle that makes half the room jump. Mr. Acronym actually whoops, throwing one fist in the air like they were at the goddamn Super Bowl.

And then, Savannah stands. Graceful. Composed. Glowing with pride. She claps, hands delicate but decisive,and for the first time all morning, the room follows her lead. The applause swells, hesitant at first but then real.

“Eleanor Elizabeth Whitmore.”