The Wrong Brother’s Obsession

Ivy’s POV 

“The envelope arrived this morning,” Sofia said, dropping it onto my desk without looking at me. “I think it’s bad.”

I didn’t look up from my screen.

“Everything that comes through this office is bad,” I muttered under my breath.

I kept my eyes on the spreadsheet in front of me. Column after column of red numbers. The Marchetti Group’s quarterly report. I had been staring at it for hours and the numbers hadn’t changed.

Sofia lingered. “Ivy. The seal… it’s Blackwood Consolidated.”

That made me look.

The envelope was cream-colored. Expensive paper. The kind that cost more than most people’s weekly groceries. The seal pressed into the back was clean and precise, a small B inside a geometric border, and beneath it the words BLACKWOOD CONSOLIDATED in sharp letters.

I picked it up.

I did not open it immediately. I turned it over in my hands once.

I already knew what it said.

I set it down on the desk and looked at Sofia. “Tell no one this arrived.”

Sofia opened her mouth.

“No one,” I said again.

She left.

I sat alone in the office, staring at the envelope from the one company in the world I had been afraid of for eight months.

I had known the Marchetti Group was in trouble since I was twenty-two. That was the year I sat in on my first board meeting and understood, with clarity, that my father had been borrowing against assets to cover operating losses for six years. Quietly, hoping no one would notice.

I had noticed.

I had said nothing, because I was twenty-two and my father was Carmine Marchetti and there was a way things worked in this family.

I worked. I kept quiet. I was useful.

That was always the deal.

It had been, since I was nineteen, the night my father brought me to dinner and introduced me to a sixty-year-old investment banker.

I had been an asset before I knew what the word meant.

Since then, I had been leveraged into three other arrangements. Two business partnerships where my presence was required at dinners and events I was not told about in advance.

I had survived all of them.

I was still here. I was still useful.

I picked up the envelope and slit it open cleanly.

The letter was one page. No preamble. No softening. Just numbers and terms laid out with precision.

The Marchetti Group held outstanding debt of eleven million, two hundred thousand dollars across four restructured loan facilities. Effective immediately, all debt instruments had been acquired by Blackwood Consolidated. Repayment was required in full within thirty days. Failure to repay would trigger a liquidation clause covering all listed assets including the Marchetti headquarters building, the Hamptons property, the Eastside portfolio, and all associated brand holdings.

Thirty days.

I read it twice. 

Eleven million dollars. Thirty days.

We didn’t have anything close to eleven million dollars. The only reason the office lights were still on was because I had restructured our operating costs eighteen months ago and squeezed every inefficiency out of the budget I could find. We had reserves of about eight hundred thousand. That was it. That was everything.

Against eleven million.

I set the letter down.

I thought about my grandfather, who had founded the company, and how he stood in the photograph displayed in the lobby. The building behind him. The confidence in his posture, the absolute certainty that what he had built would stand.

I thought about my father, who had dismantled that certainty brick by brick over fifteen years.

I thought about myself. Twenty-seven years old, yet no formal title. No official position in the company. I was everywhere and nowhere, the person who fixed things no one else could fix, the person who sat in the back of every meeting and absorbed information and analyzed it and found solutions and then handed those solutions to my father, who presented them as his own because that was how things worked.

I kept the company running, yet my name was on nothing.

I folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope.

I opened my laptop and opened a forty-seven-page document filled with strategies to save the company. I started adding to it. I did not stop for hours.

My office door opened without a knock.

My father walked in.

“Papa,” I greeted.

“You’re coming with me.” He said, ignoring my greeting.

It wasn’t a request.

"Where?" I asked, standing up. 

"Blackwood's office." He looked up. His expression was the careful neutral he wore whenever he needed me to follow without asking too many questions. "It's just a conversation."

Just a conversation.

The same words he had used before, before every arrangement I had been placed into without my consent.

I closed my laptop.

Then I stood, reached for my coat, and put it on.

The Blackwood building stood tall in Midtown. 

I had passed it before, filed it away as a landmark.

Today, standing in front of it, it felt different.

We were expected. No questions. Straight to the elevator.

Forty-third floor.

The doors opened and we were led into a conference room.

Not an office.

A long table. One wall entirely glass, the city spread out beneath it.

I sat. My father sat beside me.

He had been quiet since the car. I could tell he was anxious. He was always like this when he didn’t control the room. 

The door opened.

Damon Blackwood walked in.

He was tall, dressed simply: dark suit, no tie, collar open a single button that somehow made him look more formal, not less. He moved without hesitation, without scanning the room. He walked in like he already knew everything it contained.

He went to the head of the table.

Because in this building, it was his.

He sat, placed a single folder on the table, and didn’t open it.

“Mr. Marchetti,” he said, voice low and even. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” my father replied too quickly. “Thank you for having us.”

Damon’s gaze shifted.

To me.

He looked at me like I was something to be evaluated. Calm. Methodical. As if he were reading rather than seeing.

Then something in his expression shifted.

It was gone almost immediately.

“I’ll keep this brief,” he said. He opened the folder, turned a single sheet toward us. “The Marchetti Group’s debt stands at eleven million two hundred thousand dollars. Blackwood Consolidated acquired the instruments last month. The original agreements include acceleration clauses, which I have not triggered…yet.”

My father’s grip tightened on the chair.

I didn’t move.

“I’m prepared to restructure the debt,” Damon continued. “Extended repayment. Reduced interest. No liquidation. The Marchetti assets remain intact.”

He leaned back slightly.

“In exchange for one condition.”

Silence filled the room.

My father leaned forward. “Name it.”

Damon didn’t look at him.

He looked at me.

“Ms. Marchetti signs a contract.”

“What kind?” I asked.

He didn’t look at my father.

Only me. 

“You marry my brother.”