Chapter 9 - The Gala of Retribution
One month later.
Blackwood Manor was once again glowing with light for the annual Autumn Charity Gala. The Grand Ballroom was filled with the exact same two hundred guests who had attended the disastrous engagement party two months prior.
The senators, the hedge-fund titans, the socialites, and the press were all there. But the atmosphere was entirely different. There was no arrogance tonight; there was only a nervous, quiet reverence.
The heavy brass doors at the top of the double staircase swung open.
Malcolm, dressed in his finest butler tuxedo, stepped forward and cleared his throat, his voice booming across the grand hall.
“Announcing the Director of Internal Operations, Miss Ivy Lin, accompanied by Mr. Ronan Blackwood!”
The ballroom went dead silent.
I stood at the top of the grand staircase, wearing a breathtaking, custom emerald-green silk velvet gown that complemented my curves perfectly. My dark hair was styled in soft waves around my shoulders, and around my neck rested a understated, exquisite emerald pendant—a gift from Ronan.
Beside me stood Ronan, looking impossibly handsome in a black tuxedo. He held my hand firmly in his, his head held high.
As we descended the marble steps together, the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
The same state senator who had looked at the ceiling while Vivien whipped me now stepped forward with a nervous smile, bowing his head slightly. “Miss Lin... Mr. Blackwood. Magnificent evening.”
I met his eyes with a cool, poised smile. “It’s a much better evening than the last one, Senator.”
The man flushed red and backed away into the crowd.
We reached the center of the ballroom—the very spot where I had bled onto the floor. The marble had been replaced with fresh, polished white stone.
Ronan took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and tapped it lightly with a silver spoon. The light chime resonated through the hall, bringing all conversation to an immediate halt.
“Two months ago,” Ronan began, his powerful voice commanding the room effortlessly, “a public act of cruelty occurred in this room. Many of you watched. None of you stopped it.”
A collective shudder ran through the crowd. Several socialites looked down at their shoes in shame.
“Tonight,” Ronan continued, his gaze sweeping over the room like fire, “we are establishing the Lin Foundation for Ethical Commerce and Employee Protection, backed by a fifty-million-dollar endowment from Blackwood Logistics. It will be headed entirely by Ivy Lin.”
Applause broke out—not the polite, fake applause of high society, but a frantic, eager applause from guests desperate to prove their loyalty to the new power couple of Chicago.
Ronan set his glass down, turned to me, and held out his hand.
“May I have this dance, Miss Lin?”
“I’d be honored, Mr. Blackwood,” I replied with a smile.
The orchestra began to play a slow, romantic waltz. Ronan led me to the center of the dance floor. He placed his right hand gently against the small of my back—right over the spot where the scars had healed into soft pink lines.
He pulled me close as we began to move gracefully across the floor under the glow of the crystal chandeliers.
“You look breathtaking tonight, Ivy,” Ronan whispered into my ear as he spun me gently.
May you like
“I feel different,” I admitted, looking up into his grey eyes. “I used to think this room was a prison.”
“It was,” Ronan said softly. “Until you broke the walls down.”
