Chapter 33 Michael

• The Blackwood estate was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came late at night when the world seemed to hold its breath. Michael Blackwood sat in his study, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid catching the light of the flickering fireplace. The room, lined with leather-bound books and family portraits, exuded a sense of history and authority—much like the man who occupied it.
• Michael leaned back in his chair, the weight of the Blackwood name resting heavily on his broad shoulders. He gazed at the portrait of his late wife, Catherine, hanging above the fireplace. Her serene expression, forever frozen in time, seemed to both comfort and reproach him.
• “You would have handled this better, Catherine,” he muttered, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “You always did.”