*Soon to be published by W by Wattpad winter 2026*
When beauty meets her beast-a modern retelling of a classic story with one major twist...this story isn't for sweet little girls.
'Keep the Blarcum name strong.'
That is LORD VAN BLARCUM's duty and...
Van watched Amani slowly walk up the steps to the manor holding a black Blarcum Industries folder in her hand. She looked exhausted and...sad.
He clenched his fists and turned away from the window to pour himself another glass of whiskey. That look in her eyes was his fault. It had been two weeks since he'd spoken to her. He slid his phone out of his pocket and slumped back in his chair.
Little Witch >>Hey, are you okay?<<
That was the last message she sent him – fourteen days ago.
Was he okay? He smirked and threw back the rest of the whiskey in his glass.
No, little witch, I'm not.
He glared at her message. He'd typed and erased so many responses to her. It was driving him mad that he couldn't bring himself to press send.
But he had to do this. His mother didn't appreciate the smile he had on his face when he was with Amani and she was already threatening him. She didn't hesitate to send him her polished letter to the shareholders requesting his immediate removal as CEO due to mental health concerns.
He couldn't let that happen. He was the only thing standing in the way of his mother and Blarcum Industries taking over the manor. The chairman, John Oberman, wouldn't hesitate to support his mother. She'd make him fire everyone and bring in a commercial farming company to run this place for profit.
He stared at Amani's message. He couldn't let anything happen to her either. His mother had torn apart a few newly wealthy families for overstepping their boundaries or trying to climb the Mionlach social ladder too quickly.
She'd tricked wives and husbands into staged adulterous photos and spread them throughout the Mionlach to tarnish their names. She had no shame when it came to getting what she wanted. Van didn't know what she'd do to Amani, but if she had anything remotely terrible in her past, his mother would find it. Even if Amani didn't, his mother would make up something to ruin her. If she ever wanted to practice psychology, his mother would tarnish her name so no one would hire her.
Amani was too good and too pure for that to happen. He gripped his phone tight. She shouldn't get herself wrapped up in his fucked up baggage. He hurled his phone across the room and watched as it cracked and fell to the floor.
We can't be friends. I don't know why I ever thought we could be. I can't have anything good in my life.
He opened another bottle of whiskey and took a drink without bothering with a glass. He stood from his chair and looked around at all the Blarcum crests littered amongst the trophies and family heirlooms.
I can't have anything good because of my bloody name and the precious fucking legacy.
He took another swig from the bottle and slammed it on the mantle over the fireplace. He grabbed a polished sword from above it and gripped it tight. His eyes searched for something to destroy and a devilish grin curled over his lips at the shining family crests inside the curio cabinet.
I hate that shite.
He swung the sword into it and shattered the china and glass inside. He threw the sword down and pulled the rest of the cabinet to the floor.
This feels good.
He grabbed the whiskey bottle and snatched an axe hanging on the wall. His grandfather's cherished weapons were finally coming in handy. He took another drink and threw the axe. It sank directly in the center of the ostentatious Blarcum crest painted on the back of the door.
Bloody family crest.
That was why he couldn't live his life the way he wanted to. He grabbed another axe from the wall and threw it against the door.
He took another swig from the whiskey bottle and looked around for something else to destroy. His eyes landed on the family portrait hanging on the opposite end of the room.
A deadly grin graced his lips. He plucked a bow and satchel of arrows sitting against the fireplace and stumbled to his chair. He dragged the bottle of spirits to him and took a nice gulp of the spicy liquid. He slammed it down and mounted an arrow on his bow.
He aimed his weapon, pulled back on the drawstring and let it go. The arrow sailed through the air and thunked into the center of his mother's forehead.
One down, two to go.
He took another drink and mounted another arrow on his bow. Target practice seemed like an excellent use of his time tonight.
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