Off Limits

Chapter One

Aira's POV

Ninety-two days. That was how long remained until my mother Vilma married Alexander Blackwood. Ninety-two days until my carefully structured life would be swallowed whole by a world I still wasn't sure I belonged in.

Rain streaked down the tinted windows of the black SUV as we drove through the enormous wrought-iron gates. A gold B gleamed in the centre, illuminated by the headlights as they slowly opened. Beyond them, the Blackwood estate came into view.

Even though I'd seen photographs before, they hadn't prepared me for the reality. The mansion rose from the storm-darkened evening like something carved straight from old money and impossible expectations. Dark stone, endless glowing windows, massive columns wrapped in ivy. It looked less like a home and more like the kind of place people wrote stories about – the kind of place people got lost in.

Beside me, my mother adjusted the sleeve of her cream coat for the third time in under a minute. That alone made my stomach twist.

Vilma never fidgeted.

Not when she left Lithuania at twenty-seven with a seven-year-old daughter and two suitcases.

Not after my father walked away before I was old enough to remember him.

Not after my grandparents died within a few years of each other, leaving my mother with nothing tying her to Lithuania except memories and responsibilities she could no longer afford to carry.

When an opportunity appeared in New York, she took it.

Most people called it reckless.

My mother called it survival.

She arrived in Manhattan barely speaking English, carrying two suitcases, a seven-year-old daughter, and a determination so stubborn it bordered on terrifying. She worked exhausting shifts while studying interior design at night and spent the next ten years slowly building a successful boutique design studio from almost nothing. It wasn't the kind of success that landed people on magazine covers.

There were no private jets. No estates. No generational fortunes. But it had given us something far more important: stability and a beautiful apartment on the Upper West Side. A good school. A life she had built entirely with her own hands.

We weren't wealthy. Not Blackwood wealthy. But we were comfortable and secure. Successful in a way that had always felt enough.

Alexander Blackwood quietly reminded us of the privilege we'd never even considered. Now, standing before his estate, my mother seemed nervous.

She caught me watching and offered a soft smile.

"Aira, prašau, viskas bus gerai." (Please, everything will be fine.)

I sighed and looked back out the window.

"Aš stengiuosi , mama." (I'm trying, mum.)

And I was.

Trying to reconcile a life that had shifted for nearly two years.

Alexander Blackwood wasn't a stranger. He'd gradually entered our lives, carefully. Initially, he was simply the impossibly wealthy client attached to one of my mother's major design contracts. Then came the coffee meetings, the dinners and the weekends when he'd visit our apartment, bringing flowers for my mother and some ridiculously expensive dessert he always knew I liked. Over time, he'd become familiar and safe. He never forced himself into our lives nor acted as if his money entitled him to our trust. He earned it patiently, one careful step at a time.

His son, Sinclair Blackwood, was different. He was a name I'd heard in passing, and Alexander rarely spoke about him. The few things I knew were vague enough to be useless. Sinclair attended Blackwood Academy, had a complicated relationship with his father and spent most of his time away from home.

Until now.

The car smoothly stopped beneath the covered entrance, and the front doors opened immediately. Alexander stepped out into the rain. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a charcoal overcoat that probably cost more than my first car. He crossed the distance without hesitation.

But what always struck me wasn't his money. It was his warmth.

The moment my mother stepped out, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead. The tension visibly melted from her shoulders. Then he turned to me.

His expression softened.

"Aira." He stepped forward and pulled me into a brief, sincere hug. It wasn't awkward or forced; it was comforting.

"It's good to finally have you here," he said, pulling back with a smile. "I mean it."

"Thank you."

He rested a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"This is your home too."

For the first time all day, I almost believed this could work. But then I looked up and saw him.

He stood at the top of the grand staircase in the foyer, completely still, watching. Everything about Sinclair Blackwood was sharp: his dark hair slightly tousled, sun-kissed skin, a black fitted shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms revealing intricate black tattoos beneath the fabric. His broad shoulders, lean muscles and eyes so intensely blue they seemed almost unreal against the warm amber light , it made him the most unfairly attractive person I'd ever seen. The kind of beautiful that didn't feel human.

And he was staring at me as if I'd just set his house on fire.

For a suspended second, something flickered across his face – shock, raw and immediate. It was as if seeing me had caught him completely off guard. Then it vanished and his expression turned cold, controlled and unreadable.

"Sinclair," Alexander called.

"Come down and say hello."

A long pause followed. Then he moved slowly down the staircase with deliberate calm, every step calculated and measured.

When he reached the bottom, he stopped a few feet away, close enough to feel the intensity of his stare.

"This is Aira," Alexander said.

Sinclair didn't offer his hand, didn't smile or even nod. His eyes remained fixed on mine.

"You're staying here?"

His voice was low and smooth, controlled, yet the question sounded almost accusatory. Instinctively, I straightened.

"Yes."

Something unreadable darkened his expression and his jaw tightened. Then he gave a slow nod.

"Your room is upstairs."

There was no hello, no welcome, nothing. Just cold dismissal. What an asshole.

Before I even reached the second floor, I knew with terrifying certainty: Sinclair Blackwood was going to be a problem.