He reaches out. Gently, he takes the poker from my hand.
My other hand flies up, gripping the handle as I fight to hold on. But I don't have the strength to stop him.
He pulls it free and tosses it aside. It clatters loudly on the marble floor.
"After you," he says.
He walks past me into the house, violating my sanctuary.
He enters the foyer like he owns it. He looks up at the chandelier, then at the staircase, his gaze sweeping over the family portraits with pure disdain.
His men drag my father in behind him and dump him on the Persian rug.
Arthur Blackwood curls into a ball. He refuses to look at me.
"Dad?" I drop to my knees beside him. "Dad, look at me. Who is this man?"
My father squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, Helena. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?" I shake his shoulder. "What did you do? How much do you owe him?
"He doesn't owe me money," Konstantin informs.
I look up. The Russian is standing by the fireplace, running a finger along the mantle. He picks up a Ming vase—my mother's favorite—and inspects it casually.
"He lost," Konstantin continues, setting the vase down.
"He played a game he couldn't afford and bet something he didn't have the right to lose."
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded document. He tosses it onto the floor between us.
I recognize the document instantly. The heavy paper. The gold seal.
The Blackwood Empire Deed.
The world tilts.
"No," I mutter. I grab the paper and scan the lines.
Transfer of Ownership... Blackwood Shipping... All Assets....
And at the bottom, my father's signature. It’s shaky. But it’s his.
"You... you sold the company?" I stare at my father in disbelief. Horror chokes me. "You gambled the company?"
He sobs. "I had a winning hand, Helena! I had a Full House! He cheated! He must have cheated!"
"I didn't cheat, Arthur," Konstantin says. "You're a bad player."
I scramble to my feet, clutching the deed.
"This is illegal," I spit. "He was drunk. No court will uphold a contract signed at a poker table at3:00 AM!"
"Actually," Konstantin interrupts, holding the paper up to the light like he’s inspecting a work of art. "It was2:45 AM."
He looks at me with feigned innocence.
"And he wasn't drunk. He was optimistic. There’s a difference."
