Chapter 9 Father's Shadow
December arrived with a blanket of snow that transformed London into a scene from a holiday card. Two weeks had passed since the night of revelations and burned contracts, two weeks of cautious rebuilding between Damien and me. We'd established a fragile truce, a tentative exploration of what our relationship might become without the weight of revenge and obligation.
The legal battles continued—Victoria had been suspended pending investigation by her firm, and James was fighting the injunction against his trading activities. Lorenzo had provided enough evidence of their scheme to protect Rossi Estate's interests, though his cooperation did little to restore my trust in him.
I stood in Damien's home office, watching snowflakes drift past the window while he finished a call with his lawyers. The room had transformed in subtle ways since our confrontation—family photos now displayed alongside financial awards, including one of my parents that I'd brought from Tuscany. Small changes, but significant ones.
Good news, Damien said as he ended the call. The regulatory commission has frozen James's assets pending their investigation. He won't be able to finance any more moves against us for the foreseeable future.
That's something, at least, I replied, turning from the window. Any word on the other matter?
His expression sobered. Nothing conclusive yet. My investigator is still working through James's records, looking for any mention of your parents' accident.
The possibility that James might know something about my parents' death had consumed my thoughts since Damien's revelation. Twenty years of believing it was a simple tragedy, only to discover it might be connected to the Blackwood-Rossi feud—it was almost too much to process.
I've been thinking, I said slowly. We should talk to your aunt.
Lady Whitmore? Damien's brow furrowed. Why?
She clearly knows more about our families' history than either of us. She's the one who first hinted that there was more to our marriage than I knew.
He considered this, fingers drumming thoughtfully on his desk. You're right. She's been part of both families' circles for decades. If anyone knows the complete story, it would be her.
Will she speak with us? With me?
She'll speak with me, he said with certainty. And by extension, you. Especially now that she's heard about James's schemes. She despises him even more than she disapproved of you.
High praise indeed, I said dryly.
Damien's lips quirked into a near-smile. I'll arrange it. Though I should warn you—getting straight answers from my aunt is like negotiating with a particularly cunning fox.
I'm Italian, I reminded him. We wrote the book on family interrogations.
---
Lady Whitmore's estate in Surrey was a Georgian manor house set amidst winter-bare gardens. As our car crunched up the gravel drive, I noted the contrast between this traditional English grandeur and my own family's rustic Tuscan villa. Two worlds, separated by more than just geography.
Remember, Damien said as we approached the imposing front door, my aunt values directness, but she plays her cards close. Don't expect immediate revelations.
Noted, I replied, smoothing my skirt nervously.
A butler showed us into a formal drawing room where Lady Whitmore waited, elegant as ever in a tweed skirt suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. She rose as we entered, kissing Damien's cheek before offering me a hand.
Elena, she said, her assessment slightly warmer than at our first meeting. You're looking well, despite all the unpleasantness with James.
Thank you for seeing us, Lady Whitmore, I replied.
Arabella, please. We're family now, after all. She gestured to the seating arrangement. Tea is coming. Unless you'd prefer something stronger?
Tea is fine, Damien said, taking a seat beside me on the brocade sofa. We appreciate your time, Aunt.
Well, when my nephew calls requesting an urgent meeting after weeks of financial warfare and dramatic reconciliations in the rain—yes, I heard about that—one makes time. Her shrewd eyes moved between us. You've burned your contract, I understand. How very theatrical.
I glanced at Damien, surprised that Lady Whitmore knew such a private detail.
News travels, she explained, noting my expression. Especially when one's housekeeper is cousins with your housekeeper.
We're not here to discuss our marriage, Damien said firmly. We need information about the past. About my father and Elena's family.
Lady Whitmore's expression shifted subtly. Ah. So we've reached that chapter, have we?
What chapter? I asked.
The butler arrived with tea, temporarily pausing our conversation. Lady Whitmore busied herself with the service, the ritual of pouring and passing cups filling the tense silence. Only when he had departed did she speak again.
The Blackwoods and the Rossis have a complicated history, she began, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her tea. One that predates both of you by many years.
We know about the wine fraud, Damien said. About my father's suicide.
Yes, the final act in a much longer play. Lady Whitmore sipped her tea thoughtfully. Did either of you ever wonder why Harold was so obsessed with Rossi wines specifically? Why he invested everything in a vineyard thousands of miles from London?
We exchanged glances. My mother, I ventured. Matteo told me that Harold and my father were rivals for her affection.
Rivals is a polite term for it. Lady Whitmore set down her cup. They were at Oxford together—Harold, Antonio Rossi, and Lorenzo. Your mother, Sophia, was studying art history at the same time. Harold fell desperately in love with her, and for a while, she returned his feelings.
This was new information—my mother had rarely spoken of her time in England, and my father never mentioned his university years. I leaned forward, eager for more.
What happened? I asked.
What always happens. Life intervened. Lady Whitmore's gaze turned distant, remembering. Harold's family expected him to return to London, to banking. Antonio was called back to Tuscany when his father fell ill. Sophia had to choose.
She chose my father, I said softly.
She chose Italy, Lady Whitmore corrected. The freedom it represented, the artistic lifestyle, the romance of the vineyard. Harold was devastated. He threw himself into finance, married a suitable English girl, had Damien. Her eyes shifted to her nephew. But he never stopped loving Sophia. And he never forgave Antonio.
Damien's face remained impassive, but I felt the tension in his body beside mine. And the 1946 vintage? Why was he so fixated on that?
Ah, the famous '46. Lady Whitmore smiled sadly. The year Antonio's grandfather created what many considered the perfect Tuscan wine. Harold's obsession began when Antonio sent him a bottle as a wedding gift—a peace offering that Harold interpreted as a final twist of the knife. 'Look what you gave up,' it seemed to say. 'Look what she chose instead of you.'
The story was beginning to take shape—not just a financial fraud, but a decades-long emotional wound that had festered and poisoned the next generation.
And Lorenzo? I asked. How did he factor in?
Lorenzo was always jealous of his brother, Lady Whitmore replied. Antonio inherited the estate, the talent for winemaking, and Sophia's love. When Lorenzo saw an opportunity to hurt them both while solving his gambling debts, he took it.
By targeting my father, Damien said, his voice tight.
Yes. Lorenzo knew about Harold's obsession with the '46 vintage. He knew Harold would pay any price for authentic bottles. It was calculated cruelty.
I sat back, processing this information. But what about my parents' accident? Damien says James might know something about it.
Lady Whitmore's expression darkened. James has always been... unstable. Even as a child, he had an unhealthy fixation on the Rossi-Blackwood history. After Harold's suicide, he became obsessed with the idea that your father had deliberately driven Harold to death.
That's ridiculous, I protested. My father wouldn't—
Of course not, she interrupted. Antonio was a good man who simply fell in love with the same woman as Harold. But James couldn't see that. He was thirteen when Harold died—old enough to grieve but too young to understand the complexities.
Damien leaned forward, his posture suddenly alert. Aunt Arabella, are you suggesting that James had something to do with the Rossis' accident?
A heavy silence filled the room. Lady Whitmore's hands trembled slightly as she reached for her teacup. I don't know for certain, she said finally. But James was in Italy that summer. He was supposed to be touring universities, but he disappeared for several days around the time of the accident.
And you never said anything? Damien's voice was incredulous.
I had suspicions, not proof. And by the time those suspicions formed, you were already deep in your own vendetta against the Rossis. Her eyes held a mixture of sorrow and apology. I thought if I shared my concerns, it would only fuel your hatred. You were already becoming too much like Harold—consumed by bitterness.
I felt sick, memories of my parents' funeral flashing through my mind—the closed caskets, the rain-soaked cemetery, fifteen-year-old me standing alone while Lorenzo made arrangements. Had James been there somewhere, watching? Had he caused the accident that orphaned me?
We need to confront him, I said, my voice shaking with anger.
Not yet, Damien cautioned, placing his hand over mine. Not without proof.
Indeed, Lady Whitmore agreed. James is cornered financially now, which makes him more dangerous than ever. If he believes you suspect him of involvement in the accident, there's no telling how he might react.
I want to know the truth, I insisted. I've spent twenty years believing my parents died by chance. If there was more to it—if someone is responsible—I deserve to know.
Damien's fingers tightened around mine. We'll find the truth, Elena. I promise you that. But we'll do it carefully.
Lady Whitmore studied us with new interest. You've both changed, she observed. When I saw you at the masquerade ball, you were playing parts. Now...
Now we're partners, Damien finished, his eyes meeting mine. In all things.
The word warmed me despite the chilling revelations of the day. Partners. Not husband and wife by contract, not business allies of convenience, but true partners facing a shared challenge.
As we prepared to leave, Lady Whitmore drew me aside while Damien spoke with her butler about road conditions.
He's different with you, she said quietly. Damien has always kept everyone at a distance—the result of finding Harold that day. The boy built walls that the man reinforced with every success and every disappointment.
He's still guarded, I pointed out.
Less so. There's a softness in his eyes when he looks at you. She touched my arm lightly. Be patient with him, Elena. The Blackwood men love deeply but struggle to show it. Harold's tragedy was that he never moved beyond his first love. Damien's salvation might be that he's found someone worth the risk of loving again.
Her words stayed with me during the silent drive back to London. Damien was lost in thought, processing the revelations about James and my parents. I watched his profile against the winter landscape, seeing beyond the controlled exterior to the boy who had found his father's body, who had channeled grief into ambition and revenge, who was now fighting to become something more than his past had programmed him to be.
When we arrived home, a package waited on the doorstep—a small box addressed to both of us. Inside was a single item: a faded photograph of four young people laughing on a punt in Oxford, their faces carefree and untouched by the tragedy to come. On the back, in faded ink: Antonio, Sophia, Harold, Lorenzo - May Week 1978.
My parents looked impossibly young, my father's arm around my mother's shoulders. Harold Blackwood—the spitting image of Damien—smiled directly at the camera, while Lorenzo stood slightly apart, his expression already showing hints of the resentment Lady Whitmore had described.
They were friends once, I said softly, tracing my mother's laughing face.
Before choices were made. Before paths diverged. Damien's voice was thoughtful as he studied his father's image.
Who sent this?
He turned the box over, finding a small note I'd missed: The beginning matters as much as the end. —A.W.
My aunt, he said. A reminder that nothing is as simple as we'd like it to be.
We stood in the entryway, the photograph between us—a visual representation of how our lives had been intertwined long before we'd met. Four young people whose choices and resentments had shaped our destinies, leading us to this moment.
What do we do now? I asked.
Damien's eyes met mine, determination replacing the earlier shock. We find out exactly what James knows about your parents' accident. And then we end this cycle—once and for all.
As he spoke, I realized that somewhere along our complicated journey, Damien's quest for justice had become mine as well. No longer was this about Blackwood versus Rossi, but about two people united against the shadows of the past. Whatever came next, we would face it together—not as contractual partners, but as something deeper and more enduring than either of us had anticipated when we signed that now-ashes agreement.
The realization was both terrifying and exhilarating. Because if we were truly partners now—in all things—then the feelings growing between us were something neither contract nor caution could contain much longer.
