Chapter 278

Nathaniel Blackwood possessed a peculiar trait since childhood. Women held no sway over him. Even under the influence of drugs, his control remained absolute.

Yet five years ago, a woman entered his room. She shattered the rules he had meticulously upheld his entire life. He believed she would be the only one to ever captivate him. In the years that followed, no one else ignited that same fire within him.

It was utterly bewildering then, that Isabella Montgomery could dismantle his composure so completely. She evoked a fervent, desperate wanting he had not felt since that night.

His kiss stole the air from her lungs. This sensation…it was hauntingly familiar. It dragged her back five years into the past. To that night. To the man who had pressed against her with the same raw intensity as Nathaniel did now.

A wave of cold dread washed over her. Panic, sharp and sudden, seized her. Her teeth sank into his lower lip with brutal force.

A sharp hiss of pain escaped him. His grip on her loosened instinctively.

She shoved him away, scrambling upright. Her eyes blazed with a defensive fury. "What is the meaning of this, Mr. Blackwood? My past does not grant you the right to assault me."

He frowned, his thumb brushing the bead of blood at the corner of his mouth. "That was not my intention—"

"I don't care about your intentions. I expect you to behave. I do not welcome being touched." She moved to stride past him, wanting only to put distance between them. His actions had unearthed a ghost she desperately tried to forget.

His hand shot out, encircling her wrist, halting her retreat. "My apologies," he said, his voice low and solemn. "I lost control."

Her steps faltered. Before she could form a response, he continued. "I merely wished to make something clear, Ms. Montgomery. Your past is of no consequence to me. Furthermore, the proposal I extended upon our first meeting remains open."

The proposal still stands.

The implication hung heavy in the air. He would still marry her. Take a woman like her, soiled and unchaste, as his wife.

A strange, foreign sensation bloomed in her chest. He turned her to face him, his gaze piercing. "If that is the reason for your continued rejection, discard it. The one who should bear the shame is the monster who harmed you, not you. You have done nothing wrong. Why should you deny yourself the happiness you deserve?"

His words, deep and resonant, were a balm and a challenge. They chipped away at the fortress around her heart.

This was the twenty-first century, yet the stain of violation remained a global taboo. A mark of otherness. Even Alexander Whitmore had told her, five years ago, that she had forfeited the right to be choosy. That she was lucky to have any offer at all.

For five years, her mentors had pushed William Kensington toward her. They praised his willingness to accept her. They called it a blessing. Their underlying message was clear: no respectable man would truly want her. Her accomplishments were secondary to the charity of a husband.

Over time, she had internalized it. She stopped believing she deserved love. She stopped chasing it.

And now, out of nowhere, Nathaniel Blackwood was telling her she had done nothing wrong. That she should not abandon her pursuit of happiness.

Confusion swirled within her. Had she wasted years punishing herself for a crime committed against her? Even if he was willing to accept her, did she truly have the right to stand beside him?

"Apologies," she murmured, pulling her wrist from his grasp. "I need to be alone." She pushed the door open and left. The urge to say yes was a tangible ache, but cooler heads were needed. For both of them.