I’m Dante Blackwood. At fifty-eight, I’ve built Blackwood Properties into a fifty-million-dollar empire from the ground up. I’m a widower, having lost my beloved wife, Luna, five years ago, and today should have been one of the happiest days of my life.
Today was my son, Colt’s, wedding. Colt is, by all accounts, perfect. Thirty-two years old, a Harvard MBA, and the charismatic heir I had spent my life grooming.
He was my golden boy, the son who had never once disappointed me. His bride, Iris Vale, had worked as my executive assistant for three years. She had become like family, especially during Luna’s illness, handling everything so I could be by my wife’s side.
She was brilliant, kind, and, most importantly, she made Colt happy. When they fell in love eighteen months ago, I felt truly blessed. It seemed like destiny.
The wedding was set to be a flawless affair at the historic Mercer House. Three hundred guests, a sea of white roses, and a smooth jazz quartet. Every detail was perfect, until Iris appeared at my study door at eight o’clock that morning.
She was pale, shaking, a stark contrast to the confident, capable woman I knew. “Mr. Blackwood,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I need to tell you something terrible about Colt.”
I looked up from the speech I was polishing.
“What’s wrong? Pre-wedding nerves?”
She closed the door behind her, her movements stiff with a terror that was clearly very real. “This isn’t about nerves.
This is about murder.”
The word hit me like a physical blow. “What did you say?”
“Colt is planning to kill you today,” she said, tears now streaming down her face. “At the reception.
I heard him on the phone last night, finalizing the details.”
I shot up from my chair, my own hands suddenly shaking. “That’s impossible. You’re talking about my son.”
“He’s going to use your peanut allergy,” she continued, her words tumbling out in a frantic rush.
“He knows it could kill you. He’s arranged for someone to put peanut powder in your dessert.”
My blood turned to ice. The allergy had nearly killed me twice, once as a child and again two years ago when a case of cross-contamination had sent me to the emergency room.
Everyone in my family knew how dangerously severe it was. “Stop,” I said, raising a hand as if to ward off her words. “That’s my son you’re accusing of attempted murder.
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