TANGLED WITH MR BLACKWOOD

Saturday | 9:26 PM — The Blackwood Penthouse, Manhattan

The city glittered below like a promise he didn't believe in.

From the forty-eighth floor, everything looked small. Manageable. Contained.

Ethan Blackwood liked it that way.

He sat alone in his penthouse, the lights dimmed to a low amber glow. The air carried the faint scent of cedarwood, aged leather, and something else — darker, more expensive. The kind of cologne that lingered in rooms long after he left.

A glass of scotch rested near his fingertips — untouched for over thirty minutes. Condensation had started to slide down the crystal, pooling like a slow surrender.

Silence blanketed the room like a decision.

Not peace. Not comfort.

Just... control.

The place was pristine. No clutter. No noise. No signs of a life that was ever lived here. Just curated pieces of taste — black-and-white photography, chrome accents, sleek furniture with sharp edges and sharper corners.

Cold. Expensive. Hollow.

Except for one thing on the marble table in front of him.

A piece of folded paper. Worn at the edges.

The note.

He'd brought it home again, like he had every weekend for the past month.

Tucked it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket before leaving the office Friday night. Placed it on the table beside his scotch when he got in. Same ritual. Same silence. Same question, unspoken.

He reached for it now. Unfolded it slowly, as if the paper might dissolve in his hands.

 "Maybe it's time to fix your character. – L"

A laugh — soft and low — nearly escaped him.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was her.

She'd meant it when she wrote it. He could tell. The words weren't clever or cruel. They were honest. Sharp in the way truth often is. A kind of challenge most people never dared throw his way.

He remembered that first day. The café. The spilled coffee. The fire in her eyes when she looked at him like she didn't care who he was.

Like she wasn't impressed.

Like she had already decided what kind of man he was — and told him, straight to his face, that it wasn't good enough.

No one talked to him like that.

And now?

Now she sat across from him in meetings, speaking with calm confidence, tossing out strategy like a seasoned player. She didn't flinch under pressure. She didn't over-apologize. She didn't shrink.

She just... did the work.

And did it well.

It annoyed him.

It impressed him.

It unsettled him.

Because he couldn't quite place her.

He leaned back in the chair, fingers brushing the rim of the glass but never lifting it.

What was it about her?

It wasn't her beauty — though she had that. Subtle, unbothered beauty. The kind that didn't demand attention, but caught it anyway.

It wasn't her ambition — though it ran deep in her, steady and sharp, like a river that refused to dry.

It was the way she never tried to be impressive… and still managed to be unforgettable.

The way she challenged the air around her — gently, but with precision.

The way her eyes saw through the layers he wore like armor.

He picked up his phone.

Typed:

Do you regret the note?

Pause.

Deleted it.

Typed again:

You said I needed to fix my character. Still stand by that?

Deleted that too.

Locked the phone. Dropped it face-down beside the scotch.

He wasn't going to message her.

He wasn't the man who blurred those lines.

At least… not yet.

He stood, restless, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the note still in his hand. Outside, Manhattan pulsed with Saturday night electricity. Neon spilled across rooftops. Cars slid down avenues like veins.

Somewhere out there, she existed.

Lexi Thompson — with her messy notes and chaotic confidence and that sharp, dry wit that made him pause in ways no one else did.

She didn't even try. She wasn't vying for his attention. She wasn't chasing anything beyond the work.

And somehow, that only made her harder to forget.

He remembered her last presentation. The way her voice had dipped low, even, deliberate:

> "Midnight blue is gravitas. Confidence without arrogance. Gold is legacy."

That moment. That tone. That damn poise.

He didn't even realize he'd leaned forward in his seat until later.

She hadn't looked at him then. Hadn't sought his approval.

She just was.

And something in him had stilled. Like recognition.

Like warning.

He sat again.

Read the note one last time.

The ink was slightly smudged in the corner. He hadn't noticed that before.

Folded it — slower this time. More deliberate.

Slipped it back into the drawer with the quiet care of someone who didn't want to let go of it yet.

Because he wasn't ready to.

Because maybe… a part of him didn't want to fix anything, if it meant letting go of the girl who dared to call him out.

The city stretched beneath him like a temptation.

Somewhere out there, Lexi was living her life. Maybe in her little apartment with the peeling paint and thrift store furniture. Maybe curled up on a couch with wine and laughter. Maybe dancing barefoot to old songs in a tiny kitchen.

He wondered what her laugh sounded like when it wasn't holding back.

He closed his eyes.

And for a second...

He wished he were someone else.

Just enough to deserve knowing.