Inheritance of Gold
The travel from Crimson Bean Coffee, Hollywood to Blackwood Entertainment — Executive Office consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
Valentin’s hand was shaking. The tremor ran all the way up his arm, the only sign of the earthquake beneath his skin. Then he lifted his head, and his eyes found hers, and there was no mask left. Nothing but the raw, naked truth of a man who had just discovered the shape of the life he’d been robbed of.
“Cassidy—” Valentin’s voice dropped to a growl, his amber eyes locking onto Toby. “How old is he really?”
The room’s floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Los Angeles dusk, a smear of orange and violet bleeding over the hills. The distant hum of the city was a drone against the glass, but inside the office, the silence was a held breath. Cassidy stood with her back to the door, her hands wrapped around the strap of her messenger bag like it was a lifeline. Toby sat on the leather couch, oblivious, building a tower from a stack of unused business cards he’d found on the coffee table.
“He’s six,” she said. The words came out steady, even as her knuckles went white. “His birthday was three weeks ago. We were at the Santa Monica Pier. He had a chocolate cake with too many candles, and he blew them out so hard he almost fell off the bench.”
Valentin didn’t move. He was still standing behind his desk, the same position he’d been in when Grant had escorted her in. But something had shifted in his posture, a tilt to his shoulders like he was bracing to take a hit.
“Six,” he repeated, as if testing the weight of the word. “But the festival was—”
“Seven years ago, this spring.” Cassidy let her bag slide off her shoulder and fall to the floor with a soft thud. “The Cannes premiere. You were the guest of honor for *The Hollow Crown*. I was covering it for *IndieWire*. We met at the after-party on the rooftop.”
He remembered. The memory slammed into him, unbidden — the salt in the air, the way her laugh had cut through the noise of the crowd. The midnight walk along the Croisette, the heady rush of a night that had felt weightless and impossible. He’d left for Prague the next morning. He’d never gotten her last name.
“You never told me.” His voice was flat, but the word *me* cracked at the edges. He shot a glance at Toby, who had just balanced a third card across the top of his tower. “All this time, you were here. In this city. And you never—”
“I couldn’t.” Cassidy’s voice broke, and she caught it, pulling it back into her throat like a rein. She took a step closer to the desk. “You know what your world is like, Valentin. The politics, the blood feuds. You think I was going to bring a child into that? Into the crossfire of pack rivalries and alpha succession? He’s six years old. He hasn’t even—”
“His eyes flickered gold,” Valentin cut in. “In the car. I saw it.”
Cassidy’s breath caught, and she nodded slowly. “He doesn’t know what it means. I’ve done everything I can to keep him from it — the stories, the night terrors, all of it. But it’s there, Valentin. It’s in his blood. And it’s only a matter of time before they see it too.”
“They.” Valentin’s eyes narrowed. “Who else has seen him?”
She didn’t get the chance to answer.
The office door burst open, the heavy oak slamming against the wall with a crack like a gunshot. Grant moved first, his hand going to his side where a holster sat concealed under his jacket, but the man who stepped through the threshold didn’t so much as glance at him. Owen Aldridge wore a bespoke charcoal suit, a tie the color of dried blood, and a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. He was accompanied by two bodyguards who filled the doorway behind him, their necks thick as tree trunks.
“Valentin.” Owen’s voice was smooth, the sound of silk wrapping over steel. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Valentin’s expression hardened into something cold. “You’re always interrupting, Owen. The question is whether I’m in the mood to tolerate it.”
“Still as hospitable as ever.” Owen’s gaze swept the room, passing over Cassidy without interest before landing on Toby. The smile remained fixed, but there was a flicker of something beneath it — an appraisal, quick and clinical. “And you’ve acquired company. That’s unusual for you. I heard your taste had moved on from the clingy starlets.”
Cassidy felt a coil of tension tighten in her stomach. She didn’t know Owen Aldridge personally, but she’d heard the name in whispers, in the shadows of the industry where deals were made with handshakes and blood. The Aldridge pack was the only family that could match the Blackwoods for reach. And Owen was the heir — charming, ruthless, and always playing a longer game than anyone around him.
Valentin stepped out from behind his desk, putting his body between Owen and the couch. “You’ve delivered whatever poisoned courtesy you came bearing. Say it and go.”
Owen tilted his head, feigning hurt. “Can’t a rival pack extend an olive branch without immediately being accused of arson? I’m here with a proposition, Valentin. A gesture of goodwill.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded document, black wax seal holding it shut — the Aldridge crest, a wolf’s head encircled by thorns. “My sister Margaret. She’s twenty-four, educated in Geneva, and already managing half of our production funds. She has a discerning eye and a sharp mind. She’d be an asset to any alpha.”
Cassidy’s stomach dropped. She knew what was coming before Valentin said a word.
“I’m not looking for an asset,” Valentin said flatly.
“Everyone’s looking for an asset,” Owen replied. “They just don’t always know it. An alliance between our families would stabilize the West Coast — no more skirmishes over territory, no more disputes over distribution rights. We’d own the ground beneath every studio from here to Vancouver.” He unfolded the document, letting it hang between them like a challenge. “Marry Margaret. Bind our houses. It’s not a demand, Valentin. It’s an invitation. A courtesy from one future patriarch to another.”
“Look at him.” Valentin’s voice was low, almost calm, but Cassidy could hear the iron beneath it. “You come into my home, my office, and you ask me to treat myself like livestock to be traded for pasture. And you call that a courtesy?”
Owen’s smile tightened — a micro-shift, barely perceptible. “I call it necessity. You think we don’t know about the debt your grandfather signed his name to in ’99? The one tied to the Bay Street land deal? You’ve been bleeding interest on it for nearly three decades, Valentin. It’s a wonder you can afford the catering.” He tapped the document with one manicured finger. “Margaret’s dowry would wipe that clean. All of it. We wouldn’t even ask for a repayment schedule.”
The air in the room changed. Cassidy felt it — the drop in temperature, the way Valentin’s jaw went taut but his eyes burned brighter. He didn’t glance at her. He didn’t glance at Toby. He was staring at Owen like a wolf measuring a rival through the underbrush.
“I don’t sell my future to the highest bidder,” Valentin said. “Least of all to the Aldridges.”
Owen’s bodyguards shifted behind him, their hands drifting toward their waists. Grant had already drawn to a low-ready position, his weapon trained at the center of the closest man’s chest. The standoff stretched for a heartbeat, then two, the only sound the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel and the soft shuffle of Toby’s cards as he added another tier to his tower.
Then Owen laughed. It was a dry sound, like paper tearing.
“Very well.” He folded the document and slid it back into his pocket. “I came with a full heart, but you’ve always been stubborn. Your father was the same, God rest his soul. Made the same mistakes, too. Chose a woman outside the pack, kept secrets, thought love could shield him from the math of survival.” He turned to the door, and his bodyguards parted to let him through. “But you’re not your father, Valentin. You’ve got his pride, but not his sense of timing. And we both know what happens to pride when it outlives its usefulness.”
He paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. Cassidy saw him glance back — not at her, not at Valentin, but at Toby. The boy looked up at that moment, the lights of the office catching his eyes, and for one brief flicker, the gold was unmistakable.
Owen’s smile widened, and the warmth in it didn’t reach his voice.
“I know about the boy, Blackwood. Good luck keeping him safe.”