Chapter 3: Blackheart Mischief

"You know, honey, if you really want a cappuccino, I’m not stopping you."

Sheryl glanced at Oleander. "However, I think you're just delaying your fan meeting on purpose."

It was early morning, and Oleander's antics were already grating on the thirty-year-old woman, who was starting to think that being single and childless might not be such a bad idea. She let out a sigh, shifting her gaze to her contractor. Her hand stretched out, tightly gripping the hem of her dress.

Oleander lingered in front of a cozy indoor café, her face pressed against the glass window. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and vanilla syrup filled the air, awakening her soul. She squinted, completely enthralled by the enormous coffee machine behind the counter.

She really wanted a salted caramel coffee shake.

Glancing sideways, her lips curved into a smile, her cheeks slightly flushed. "I really can't hide anything from you, can I?"

Sheryl sighed in exasperation before forcefully pulling Oleander away, disappearing into the bustling crowd.

Inside, sitting near the window, a customer’s lips twitched slightly, having just witnessed something bizarre.

***

Author Convention 2016

The massive banner hung proudly in the center of the city, attracting book lovers from all walks of life. Fans clutched their favorite novels, eager to get autographs from the masterminds behind them. Various stalls, each occupied by an author with their own unique quirks, filled the lively venue with an air of creativity and excitement.

And yet, in the farthest, dimmest corner, sat our protagonist—inside a tent that looked more suited for an eerie fortune teller than a book signing event.

Sheryl stood beside it, arms crossed, blank-faced, and absolutely drained. Being a manager was tough—but managing an eccentric like Oleander was a whole different level of exhausting.

In contrast, Oleander herself was dressed as if she had just stepped out of a fairy tale. Her dark black hair cascaded under a wide-brimmed beach hat adorned with a lily bow. A peach-colored sundress flowed elegantly over her frame, and creamy ballet sandals tapped lightly against the marble floor.

Sheryl’s eyebrow twitched. "If I remember correctly, you specifically told me you didn’t want to stand out." She gestured at the outfit, then at the gloomy, almost foreboding booth. "So tell me—why does this feel like the opposite of what you intended? You should’ve at least worn a mask."

Oleander leaned against the desk, her gaze flickering toward a bannister at the far end of the hall. She had felt a lingering presence watching her for some time now, but she couldn’t pinpoint anything suspicious.

"And I specifically told you that I refused that suggestion the moment you told me to ‘come out of the closet’—and not in the literal sense, I might add," she said, amusement lacing her voice. "Besides, have you ever heard any news about the famous Blackheart daughter with a peachy personality and a mind full of rainbows?"

Sheryl frowned in confusion, mulling over the question.

As Oleander gave her time to think, she internally counted down.

Three... Two... One.

Sheryl’s expression morphed into one of astonishment. "Wait... now that I think about it, I’ve never seen your name in any articles. No mentions, no achievements, not even a blurry paparazzi photo! But… you’re the granddaughter of two of the most prominent figures in the Blackheart family!"

Oleander shrugged. "Think of me as a bast**d child—or to put it more politely, illegitimate."

Silence.

It was astounding how she could blurt out a statement like that without so much as a flinch.

Some people are too wounded to feel again.

Sheryl immediately zipped her mouth shut, sensing she had stumbled upon a sensitive topic.

Oleander, on the other hand, didn’t mind. She wasn’t saying it for no reason—she had seen bias beyond what could be called common reasoning. She chewed on a purple Skittle, surveying the crowd.

A strange feeling of enmity loomed over her suddenly, suffocating yet familiar. She had always been sensitive to shifts in atmosphere, but this one was unsettling.

Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms and gazed up at the decorated banners hanging from the ceiling, categorizing each genre present at the convention. The hall buzzed with excitement as authors chatted among themselves, fans lined up at their booths, and the anticipation for meet-and-greet sessions filled the air.

The meet-and-greet had yet to officially begin, but Oleander felt the itch to roam.

Just as she stood up, trouble came knocking.

Heavily dolled-up and oozing with self-importance, Tessa J., the renowned author of Who Cheated My Love?, strutted toward her.

Oleander’s lips curled into an amused smirk.

Well, we already know who cheated…

Unfortunately, her whisper wasn’t as quiet as she’d thought. A muffled snicker escaped Sheryl, while an unmistakable scowl formed on Miss Cakey No-Karen’s face.

Oops.

"Well, If it isn’t PeachyPop," Tessa sneered, "It’s nice to see you crawl out of your little hiding place for a taste of one-minute fame.” She crossed her arms, faux sympathy dripping from her tone, “ But since I’m a renowned author with ten years of experience, I’d be happy to give you some tips on how to extend your expiration date."

A textbook example of a senior trying to intimidate a newcomer.

Oleander merely blinked at her, her expression unreadable.

The other writers awkwardly watched on, fully aware of Tessa’s reputation as a bully.

Sheryl sighed. Here we go…

Maintaining her perfectly composed smile, Oleander finally responded. "I’m honored to meet the famous author who can so blatantly write chronicles of herself. It truly inspires me—to be as self-indulgent and shameless as you. In fact, I’m considering writing a new piece myself: ‘One Hundred an One: The Tessa Tales.’ Wouldn’t that be admirable?"

A barely stifled snicker rippled through the nearby crowd. Sheryl looked like she was about to choke on air.

Tessa’s heavily powdered face turned red—so much so that not even her excessive makeup could hide it. Words failed her, and with an indignant huff, she turned on her heel and stormed away.

Oleander watched her retreating figure with mild amusement. "Even flour can’t conceal her lovely red cheeks. It’s unfortunate that she insists on disguising her natural beauty under such a… macabre look."

Sheryl was now gasping like a fish out of water, trying to suppress her laughter.

Tessa, overhearing the comment, staggered, clearly mortified.

With the Tessa Episode wrapped up, Oleander spent the rest of the day interacting with her fans, signing autographs, and even recording personalized voice notes as an alternative to photos.

As the sun set and the event came to an end, people departed with smiles on their faces, holding onto their signed copies like prized treasures.

Most authors packed up, ready to head home. But Oleander remained still, eyes scanning the area.

A feeling of unease prickled at her senses.

Tapping Sheryl on the shoulder, she murmured, "I’ll be right back."

Without waiting for a response, she dashed out of the venue, making a sharp left turn.

Her smirk grew.

She was sure now—someone was watching her.

****

The mansion bustled with movement—maids scurried about, each burdened with two or three extra chores on top of their usual tasks. Despite the constant activity, the family meeting room was an entirely different scene.

Edmer kneaded his forehead in frustration while Bleiz sat sheepishly around the massive oval royal table, sneaking glances at his eldest cousin—or rather, his older brother figure. The two had been close since childhood, along with Aria (Edmer’s sister) and Massey (their second uncle’s son). They were all roughly the same age, bonded by family ties and shared history.

Oleander had bailed. Even with a direct order to attend. What was she even thinking…

Sighing, Bleiz shifted his gaze to the second eldest in the group.

Maya, the second eldest of their generation, remained unreadable—her expression as straight as a ruler. She looked bored despite her perfect poker face.

Around the enormous forty-person table sat their uncles, aunts, and their eligible children, the weight of tension pressing down on everyone present. Two marriage proposals were stuck in limbo, some other mess had recently unfolded, and to top it off, the family business had suffered financial losses.

Bleiz, for one, couldn't care less.

However, the patriarch clearly thought otherwise. His presence alone suffocated most of the 9 or so family members seated in the meeting.

At this point, no one even wanted to revise the family genealogy. Too many relatives. Too many names.

Second Grandma’s sons and daughters sat not-so-humbly, their egos practically scraping the ceiling. Bleiz fought the urge to bash their children—his so-called cousins—for the endless trouble they caused, one after the other. Tattle-talers.

“So, to conclude... this is the fastest way to recover our losses,” Edmer stated, his tone sharp and businesslike.

Bleiz barely whisked his drifting mind back in time before someone sought his opinion. Lightly tapping the table, he discreetly checked his watch. How much longer do I have to endure this?

“Grandfather, we know you want to account for even the smallest of losses," Greyson spoke up. "Wouldn't it be best to move forward with the partnership agreement with the Osvaldos?"

At that, Bleiz’s head snapped toward Greyson with deadly precision, only to find the bastard already staring back at him. Smirking.

This arrogant son of a—

Was this bastard asking for an early funeral?