Love's Dark Legacy

|Daddy's Home

The road to his father's other mansion was long and winding, snaking through dense forest and high cliffs that overlooked the glittering ocean. James hadn't been to this place in years, not since he was a child. The mansion always felt like a relic of another time, something vast and unnervingly isolated from the world. His mother had never liked it here, and maybe that's why they never visited much. But today, his father had called for him. He didn't say why—he never did—but James knew better than to ignore it.

As he stepped out of the sleek black car, the mansion loomed before him, grand and imposing. Its architecture, with tall spires and arches, gave it a castle-like appearance. Vines twisted up the stone walls, and the front garden was immaculately kept, filled with blood-red roses that seemed too perfect to be real. It had always been a beautiful place, but there was something about it that made James uneasy. Maybe it was the memories, or maybe it was the air of mystery that seemed to shroud every corner of his father's life.

He walked up the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing on the marble steps. The enormous wooden doors swung open before he could even knock, revealing a young maid with her head bowed. She stepped aside, letting him enter.

The inside of the mansion was as he remembered—lavish and almost disturbingly immaculate. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, and the marble floors gleamed like mirrors. Everywhere he looked, there were signs of wealth and excess. But there were also new additions, subtle ones, that he hadn't noticed before.

On the wall just beyond the foyer hung a large portrait of his family—himself, his mother Astrid, and his father. James paused in front of it, taking in the image. His father stood tall and imposing, with that same cold, distant expression he always wore. His mother, in contrast, looked softer in the painting, her smile forced but still present. James himself was younger in the portrait, maybe twelve or thirteen. He had forgotten they even posed for this painting. It felt like a lifetime ago.

But as he moved deeper into the mansion, another portrait caught his eye—one he had never seen before. It was smaller and tucked away in a quiet corner of the house, but it stood out to him immediately. The painting depicted a beautiful woman in a red dress, her dark hair cascading in waves down her shoulders. She was elegant, poised, and somehow...familiar. Beside her stood a young boy, slender with long curly hair. His expression was serious, almost sad.

James frowned, his gaze lingering on the painting. He didn't recognize the woman or the boy, but something about them tugged at him. Why were they here? Why was this painting displayed so prominently in his father's mansion? He had never seen these people before—not that his father ever shared much about his past. Still, James felt a strange sense of unease settle in his chest as he stared at the image.

Before he could dwell on it further, a voice broke through his thoughts.

"James."

He turned to see his father standing at the base of the grand staircase. Malcolm Blackwood was as tall and imposing as ever, his silver hair slicked back, his suit perfectly tailored. He moved with a calm, almost predatory grace, like a panther surveying its territory. His expression was unreadable, as it always was—detached, cold.

"Father," James said, stepping away from the portrait.

Malcolm's eyes flicked briefly to the painting before settling back on James. "I'm glad you came," he said, though his voice lacked any warmth or sincerity. "It's been a while."

James nodded. "It has."

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of years of unresolved tension between them. Malcolm's eyes were sharp, piercing, as if he could see right through James. But James had gotten good at hiding things—his depression, his anger, his doubts. He had learned to keep everything locked away, just like his father.