Chapter 2: The Blackheart Heiress

The Blackheart clan—a name that carried weight across industries. From railways to malls, from art galleries to elite security firms for royals, their power and influence stretched far beyond what the average person could fathom. It all began with Blake Carl Hearts, the humble farmer whose ambition carved out an empire. But by the time the third generation came into power, any remnants of humility had long been erased. Now, the family had splintered into branches—each lineage adhering to traditional values, each heir trained to excel in a single field, mastering the four prestigious arts deemed worthy of the Blackheart name.

Yet among them, one branch was broken.

Bleiz cast a sidelong glance at his sister, who was leisurely skimming through the bookshelves, humming to herself as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Not too long ago, he had received a call from Edmar, their eldest cousin from Uncle Gayle’s side.

A business deal with the Stanfords had fallen through.

The reason? Their heir had landed himself in the hospital.

The Stanford patriarch was furious—yet oddly enough, no accusations had been made against the culprit behind the ordeal. And that culprit?

She sprawls on a fur-grey loveseat, wiggling her toes, scrolling through her phone—completely indifferent to the chaos she had caused.

Bleiz exhaled, rubbing his temple before stepping toward her.

"What did you do?"

Oleander barely looked up, waving a hand dismissively.

"Oh, nothing much. Just presented some… evidence of a certain someone’s inappropriate behavior." She turned her phone toward him with a smirk. "You know, our surveillance cameras aren’t just for decoration."

She lazily flipped through clips—footage of the Stanford heir, fumbling around drunkenly before he tripped… tumbled… and crashed all the way down.

Standing up with vigor, she twirled on her feet before stopping with a graceful bow.

"Should I send you a copy for blackmailing purposes? Just say the word, Twitter." She winked.

Bleiz was speechless.

The audacity.

She had effortlessly manipulated the Stanford patriarch—an unforgiving man known for his wrath and zero-tolerance for dishonor—all without breaking a sweat.

Then, as if this entire ordeal wasn’t seconds ago wasn’t even worth a second thought, she offhandedly murmured:

"I won’t be here for a few weeks."

Bleiz frowned. "Suddenly?"

Before he could press further, the library doors swung open.

Charlot, his wife, walked in—her usually pristine posture replaced by exhaustion and mild irritation.

"Grandfather called, Lea."

Oleander arched a brow. Well, well. That was fast.

"He wants you at Blackboat Mansion tomorrow."

(like I’d heed his command)

Charlot’s expression was troubled, and Bleiz didn’t look much better. Oleander, however, only smiled. A natural, pleasant smile. Patting both their shoulders in an almost mocking gesture of reassurance, she murmured,

"Nothing is going to happen."

At night, Oleander sat on the window bench in her room, her posture relaxed—one leg tucked beneath her, the other lightly swinging above the cool marble floor.

Her gaze drifted to the neighboring estate.

Her room was positioned at the farthest wing of the Blackheart estate—right at the property’s edge, where a line of trees barely served as a barrier between them and their neighbors.

And across from her…

A mirror image.

Another mansion.

Another room facing hers, its glass walls revealing a chaotic space—a stark contrast to her own meticulously curated surroundings.

Shirts were scattered across a pure-white bed.

A lone sock hung from a lampshade near a massive TV screen.

And there, in the middle of it all, sat a man—his face illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. Headphones on. Completely detached from the world.

Someone was knocking at his door.

He ignored it.

Oleander’s lips curled into an amused smirk.

"Tsk, tsk."

She plucked a rose petal from the flower in her hand, twirling it between her fingers.

"Oh, you fiend, come devour my soul~"

Another petal fell.

"Thy not fret, for I am yours~"

And another.

Soon, soft crimson petals surrounded her pale feet like blood-stained snowfall.

Finally, she crushed the stem in her grip, letting its remains crumble between her fingers.

"For this world is but a wisp of smoke-” just by the word smoke; a sudden mist swirled and dissipated just as quick.

“… Look at me, and you shall be hooked… So I say, look."

Her whisper melted into the night, vanishing like an incantation.

Then—

RING!

A sudden vibration snapped her from her trance.

Her phone screen flashed.

[INCOMING CALL: UNKNOWN]

She answered.

"Olean, should I confirm your signing debut for your novel?"

Oleander leaned against the railing, gazing at the stars.

"Go ahead. Just keep it discreet. I don’t plan on making headlines anytime soon."

"Wow. What did you pull to make your family agree? Never mind. I’m just glad you’re finally free."

"Free?" Oleander whispered, a dark glint flickering in her eyes.

"I will be. After I’m done with them."

"Huh? What?"

"Nothing. See you tomorrow."

She hung up.

A moment of silence.

"The well-behaved daughter of the Blackheart family is going rogue, I see."

A smooth, velvety voice slipped into her ears, sending a shiver down her spine. Oleander slowly turned, almond eyes locking onto the intruder.

The neighbor.

For the first time, she got a clear look at him.

Dion Dominique.

He stood on his balcony, bathed in the silver glow of moonlight—dark blue eyes piercing through the night. His jet-black hair fell messily over his forehead, the loose headphones around his neck only adding to his effortless, devil-may-care aura. He was lean, not overly muscular, but every inch of him spoke of strength and discipline—the type that didn’t come from laziness.

His full lips curled into a knowing smirk.

"Despite being neighbors for over a decade, this is our first conversation. Yet, I know who you are."

Oleander propped her chin on her palm, her expression soft, curious, inviting.

"Oh? And who am I?"

"The only daughter of the Blackheart family. Nineteen years old. The perfect, soft-spoken lady every businessman wants for their son."

Oleander blinked innocently, her large brown eyes wide, her pink lips slightly parted in an adorable display of cluelessness.

For a brief second, Dion faltered.

She looked… pure.

Innocent.

Entrancing.

Like a harmless, delicate flower—the kind that would wither at the mere touch of cruelty.

But he knew better.

"And yet…" Dion leaned against the balcony frame, his gaze narrowing.

"I saw you just now. That face of yours—"

A slow, lazy grin stretched across his lips. "It’s nothing but a lie, isn’t it?"

Oleander tilted her head, "I beg your pardon?"

He chuckled. "Oh, you’re good."

A slow, deliberate smirk crept across her face.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Dion Dominique."

And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into her room—leaving behind nothing but a faint trace of perfume and a lingering sense of danger.

Dion stared after her, eyes flickering with intrigue.

"Interesting."