Chapter 1: The Blackheart’s Scandal

An ambulance slowly backed toward the polished, carved mahogany doors of the Blackheart estate. The grand mansion—an elegant hybrid of Mediterranean and Victorian styles—was an awe-inspiring sight to the common folk. A sprawling 6,500 square feet of white-bricked walls and charcoal-framed windows loomed over the vast garden. The tinted glass panes reflected the golden rays of the sun, while the grand entrance doors shimmered in their glow.

Yet, despite its fairy-tale-like appearance, the gruesome scene unfolding at its entrance was anything but magical.

Two medics maneuvered a stretcher down the wide, crimson-carpeted spiral staircase. Each jolt of the descent made the unconscious man atop it shift uncomfortably, his limp body jostling with every step.

(Oh, that’s gotta hurt.)

The mansion’s towering fences were meant to maintain privacy, but the lavish villa’s interior was still visible through the gaps. Onlookers gathered beyond the fine silvery gates, wincing at the aftermath of the latest Blackheart incident.

The poor sod on the stretcher had an ankle swollen like an overinflated balloon, twisted at an unnatural angle. His right arm, bruised in varying shades of blue and purple, looked equally miserable.

Whispers spread like wildfire. Neighbors—whether from nearby or across town—were all too familiar with these gruesome sights. Rumors spun wildly as people exchanged hushed speculations.

"The Blackhearts are at it again."

"I bet it’s dirty money."

"No… it’s the mafia. Has to be."

The unconscious man’s parents, pale and frantic, rushed after their son in a separate van. But not before hurling a scathing glare toward the residents of the mansion—the maids, the butlers, the retainers, and the family itself.

The Blackhearts stood on the grand porch, watching grimly as the two vehicles sped out of sight.

A soft voice suddenly broke the dead silence.

"Goodbye," a young woman sang dramatically, waving a lace handkerchief with exaggerated flair. "I hope you find a dead bride for your son soon."

At the entrance of the mansion stood a girl—no more than nineteen—her floral yellow dress fluttering in the breeze. Her pale lips curled into a malicious grin before she turned on her heels, her clicking footsteps echoing as she strutted back inside.

Behind her, two figures—her parents—stood looking utterly drained. Despite their finely tailored clothes, they bore the disheveled remnants of a night gone horribly wrong. The man’s crumpled suit and the woman’s loose updo, strands of hair spilling from once-perfect styling, painted a picture of sheer exhaustion.

A younger man, sharing the same sharp features as the woman, stood beside them with a nonchalant expression. This was routine for him.

A heavy silence stretched between them before—

"She is finished!"

Benjamin Blackheart, the patriarch of the family, roared in fury. His fists clenched at his sides as he glared toward the staircase, where the young woman had disappeared moments ago.

"Hush now, darling," his wife, Freya Blackheart, soothed, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "If you let anger consume you again, you’ll end up bedridden."

"Bedridden? BEDRIDDEN?!" Benjamin’s voice cracked with raw frustration. "At this rate, I might as well go straight to my grave!"

Freya shot a pointed look at their eldest son, wordlessly instructing him to handle the matter. She then guided her fuming husband inside, leaving Bleiz standing at the entrance, rubbing his temples in exasperation.

He was getting a headache.

At thirty, Bleiz had more pressing matters to deal with than his sister’s reckless antics. The struggle for power within the family was relentless. Their grandfather had tasked him with securing his eldest cousin’s position as chairman of the Blackheart business empire—a move that was already being challenged by ambitious relatives.

The third uncle’s children were the worst of them. Their influence stretched across continents, and Bleiz wouldn’t be surprised if their wealth had more than a few dark stains.

Yet, despite the ongoing power struggle, the biggest headache wasn’t his ruthless cousins.

It was his younger sister, Oleander.

To their grandfather, she was a failure—an unpolished, useless pawn in his elaborate game of strategy. Unlike her cousins, she hadn’t even managed to complete a basic degree. And so, as was tradition, she was being used as a bargaining chip for an arranged marriage between the Blackhearts and the Osvaldo family.

But the engagement was far from set in stone.

Why?

Because no matter how many suitors were presented, Oleander had a habit of driving them away.

“She is getting out of hand, Patriarch! She needs to be disciplined!”

"Marry her off!"

"I have the perfect proposal! It will benefit the clan!"

Disgusting, greedy vultures. They were always ready to seize whatever opportunity brought them wealth.

And if word got out that Oleander had injured yet another potential match, the consequences could be dire.

Meanwhile, the root of all these worries…

Oleander Blackheart lounged lazily on her baby blue bed, music blaring from her headphones. Her laptop screen displayed her favorite drama, the episode about to be uploaded. The earlier inconvenience had interrupted her viewing time, and that alone was enough to fuel her irritation.

She bit the tip of her pale yellow-polished nails, murmuring darkly, "Maybe I shouldn’t have done that."

"Thankfully, you know it was wrong."

She glanced up to find Bleiz standing in her doorway.

Beaming, she pulled her headphones off. "Bro! Want to get some ice cream? I’ve been dying to try BeanWaffle Café. They have the best flavors!"

Bleiz studied her, unimpressed. At nineteen, she was eleven years younger than him, yet her baby-faced innocence was as deceptive as a snake in a flowerbed. He knew her well enough to recognize the mischief lurking beneath her innocent act.

She was trying to distract him.

His expression hardened. "Lea, what you did was reckless and dangerous."

Oleander pouted, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "But I didn’t do any—"

"Lea!"

Her name left his lips in sharp warning.

Seeing her usual act fail, Oleander’s sweet expression melted into something blank. Her dull brown eyes darkened, and a smirk played on her lips.

"Just be thankful I didn’t turn him into minced meat."

A chill ran down Bleiz’s spine.

The family knew. They all knew.

Oleander was different.

At nine, she had been kidnapped. The entire Blackheart clan had been thrown into chaos, using every connection to get her back.

And when they did… something had changed.

She was no longer the soft-spoken child she once was.

Instead, she became unpredictable—dangerous.

She had a habit of pulling violent, dangerous pranks on those who wronged her. It started with little things—cruel pranks, eerie remarks. Then, it escalated. But the strangest part?

She had never once harmed an innocent.

With a sigh, he ruffled her curly black hair. "Did he do something to deserve it?"

Oleander’s smirk widened.

"He touched my waist."

Bleiz raised a questioning brow. "Was it an accident?"

Her deadpan stare was an answer enough.

His voice dropped into a lethal growl. "And you only broke his bones?"

Oleander tilted her head. "Would you prefer I completely erased him?"

Bleiz clenched his fists.

She was right. In their family, the patriarch decided everything—marriages included. Her only option was to find her own advantageous match before the choice was made for her.

Her gaze drifted to the neighboring estate.

"Brother, don’t worry." Her voice was a dark whisper. "This cycle is ending soon."

Bleiz narrowed his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"

Oleander twirled a strand of hair around her finger before meeting his gaze.

Then, slowly, her lips curled into something sinister.

"Oh, brother… what I’m about to do will shake the entire clan."

Bleiz shivered.

For the first time, he feared his own sister.

What did she know that he didn’t?