Cameron's paranoia became a constant companion, a shroud he wore beneath his clothes. For three days after the library incident, every ping from a phone, every sudden footstep in the hall, every unfamiliar car passing the Reed mansion's gates made his pulse stutter. He expected a team of strong, imposing-looking men in dark suits to materialize, or for Richard Reed to receive a curt, bewildering call about his son's digital trespassing.
But nothing happened. The world, indifferent to his internal earthquakes, continued to turn.
His scholarship applications were submitted. Crestview University, with its tantalizing promise of distance and its link to the formidable, abstract concept of "Blackwood," was his sole focus. He'd also applied, at Richard's grudging insistence, to Astor as a backup, but he poured none of his true self into those essays. They were bland, formulaic things, the work of the old Cameron.
His secret freelance work was a precarious lifeline. He completed two more editing jobs, his digital wallet swelling to a princely sum of ninety-five dollars. The work was mind-numbing, but the anonymity was a drug. In those text-filled documents, he was not Cameron Reed, the disappointing adoptee; he was 'Cipher,' a meticulous grammarian who met deadlines. It was a taste of a future where his worth was tied to his work, not his bloodline…or lack thereof.
The nightmares, however, were a currency he couldn't control. They didn't always replay the fall. Sometimes, they were more insidious: he was seven again, standing outside his parents' bedroom door, the wood cold against his ear, hearing Victoria's voice, not with the clarity of his deathbed revelation, but as a muffled, poisonous hum. "We should return him… we have our own now." Other nights, he was fifteen, pinned in a dimly lit school hallway, the smell of stale sweat and cheap cologne choking him, the laughter of boys echoing as he fought not to scream. He'd wake up drenched in a cold sweat, his throat raw from silent cries, the sheets tangled around his legs like restraints.
He began to run. At dawn, before the house stirred, he'd slip out in worn sweatpants and a thin hoodie. The physical exhaustion was a welcome distraction. He'd push his body until his lungs burned and his legs trembled, trying to outrun the ghosts in his head. The rhythmic slap of his sneakers on the pavement was a mantra: I. Am. Alive. I. Am. Alive.
It was on one of these runs, a week after the library, that the first ripple from his careless query finally reached shore.
He was taking a longer route through a more upscale commercial district, the storefronts still shuttered in the pale morning light. A sleek, black luxury sedan, silent as a shark, glided to a stop at the curb a few meters ahead of him. The passenger window descended without a sound.
A man in a dark suit and sunglasses looked out. He wasn't bulky like a bodyguard; he was lean, with an unnerving stillness. "Cameron Reed?"
Cameron froze mid-stride, his blood turning to ice water. The instinct to bolt battled with the knowledge that running would solve nothing. This was it. The reckoning. He forced himself to walk closer, his breathing ragged from the run and sudden fear. "Yes?"
"Mr. Blackwood would like a word." The man's tone was flat, offering no room for inquiry or refusal. He gestured to the rear door.
Blackwood. The name landed like a physical blow. So, the security protocol had been more than a ghost. They'd traced the query back to a specific library terminal, cross-referenced timestamps with public camera footage… it would have been trivial for someone with those resources. The realization was terrifying. He was a bug under a microscope he hadn't known was focused on him.
He thought of refusing. He could claim a misunderstanding, say he had to get home. But the man's unblinking gaze said that refusal was not an option that would end here. And beneath the terror, a dangerous, desperate curiosity sparked. Aaron Blackwood was a direct line to a world of power, a world adjacent to his mysterious origins. To walk away was to retreat back into the gilded cage, alone.
Swallowing the metallic taste of fear, Cameron gave a tight nod. He opened the heavy door and slid into the backseat. The interior smelled of clean leather and something faintly antiseptic. The door closed with a soft, definitive thud, sealing him in.
The driver, another silent man in a suit, pulled away from the curb. No one spoke. Cameron watched his familiar neighborhood blur past the tinted windows, feeling utterly removed from it. They drove for twenty minutes, entering a part of the city dedicated to steel, glass, and immense, quiet wealth. The car finally slipped into a private underground garage beneath a tower that speared into the sky—the Blackwood Group headquarters.
They took a private elevator that required a keycard and a retinal scan from the first suit. It ascended without buttons, smooth and silent. When the doors opened, they did not reveal a bustling corporate floor. They opened directly into an antechamber…a room of muted grays and deep blues, dominated by a floor-to-ceiling window offering a breathtaking, cold view of the waking city. A single, minimalist desk was occupied by an imposing-looking woman who glanced up, her eyes assessing Cameron with swift, professional detachment.
"Mr. Reed. Go through, please. Mr. Blackwood is expecting you."
The inner door was a slab of polished dark wood. Cameron's escort gave him a slight nudge forward. He pushed it open.
The office was vast, a temple to cold order and immense power. The view was even more commanding here. And there, standing before the window with his back to the door, was Aaron Blackwood.
He was taller than Cameron had expected, his broad shoulders cutting a sharp silhouette against the cityscape. He turned slowly, and Cameron felt the full force of his presence. The photos had not done him justice. He was devastatingly handsome in a way that was almost harsh…sharp cheekbones, a perfectly sculpted mouth set in a neutral line, and eyes the color of winter slate. They swept over Cameron, taking in his damp, running clothes, his disheveled hair, his pale, apprehensive face. The scrutiny was absolute, impersonal, and deeply unnerving.
"Cameron Reed." Blackwood's voice was a low baritone, devoid of warmth. It wasn't a question. He gestured to one of the two austere chairs facing his desk. "Sit."