The Billionaire's Insignificant Wife novel Chapter 115

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The Theft

Morning arrived.

Alina woke at five–thirty to an empty bed. Daniel had already left for an early meeting.

She went through her routine mechanically. Shower. Dress. Minimal makeup to hide the exhaustion that had become permanent.

At six–fifteen, a maid knocked.

“Mrs. Blackwood, breakfast is ready in the dining room.”

The new schedule Margaret had imposed. Family breakfast.

Another opportunity to watch Junior with Clarissa.

Another reminder of everything she’d lost.

“I’ll be down in five minutes.”

The maid left.

Alina looked at herself in the mirror one last time.

Mrs. Blackwood stared back.

Empty. Compliant. Broken.

She left the room, locking the door behind her out of habit even though she knew it made no difference.

The cameras she didn’t know about watched her go.

***

Downstairs, the dining room was already occupied.

Margaret at her usual position. Clarissa beside Junior, cutting his toast into perfect squares.

Junior chattering about a dream he’d had. Something about dinosaurs and spaceships.

Clarissa laughing warmly. “That sounds amazing, sweetheart. Maybe we can draw it after you come home from school?”

“Can we? Really?”

“Of course. We’ll use the big paper in the art room.”

Junior’s face lit up.

He’d never looked at Alina that way anymore.

That pure, unguarded joy.

Alina took her seat at the far end. A maid immediately brought coffee.

“Good morning, Alina,” Margaret said pleasantly. “I hope you slept well.”

“Well enough.”

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“Wonderful. We have a full day planned. I thought perhaps you’d like to join me for tea with the Hendersons this afternoon. They’re still in town and expressed interest in seeing you again.”

Translation: perform your role as Daniel’s wife for the important guests.

“Of course,” Alina said. “What time?”

“Three PM. Wear the blue dress. The one with the pearl buttons.”

Being dressed like a doll. Positioned like furniture.

“Yes, Mrs. Blackwood.”

Margaret smiled. Satisfied.

Junior glanced down the table at Alina. Brief. Curious.

“Mama, is she coming to the art room with us?”

The question was directed at Clarissa, not Alina.

As if Alina couldn’t answer for herself.

Clarissa’s expression was gentle. Understanding. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Alina has other things to do today. But it’ll be just you and me. Our special time.”

“Okay!” Junior returned to his toast, the topic already forgotten.

Alina felt something twist in her chest.

But her face remained neutral.

She ate her breakfast in silence while conversation flowed around her.

Margaret discussing household schedules. Clarissa planning Junior’s day. Junior asking questions about everything.

A family.

With one ghost at the end of the table.

***

Upstairs, Mr. Harris stood outside Alina’s bedroom door to carry out Margaret’s order–to take Alina’s journal.

He’d watched her leave ten minutes ago. Confirmed she was downstairs. Unlikely to return for at least thirty minutes.

The master key felt heavy in his hand.

He’d done many things for the Blackwood family over fifteen years. Some he was proud of. Some he wasn’t.

This fell firmly in the second category.

But he had no choice.

Not really.

Margaret had made that clear.

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He unlocked the door. Entered quickly. Closed it behind him.

The room was neat. Bed made. Everything in its place.

Alina kept her space orderly. Controlled.

The only thing she could still control.

Mr. Harris moved to the desk.

Top drawer. Locked.

He pulled out the small toolkit he’d brought. Picked the simple lock in under a minute.

The drawer slid open.

Inside: the leather journal. A few pens. A small box.

He opened the box. A key inside. Probably for the journal.

Mr. Harris took the journal carefully. Leather cover warm from being inside the drawer.

He hesitated.

This was someone’s private thoughts. Their pain. Their secrets.

Reading it–letting Margaret read it—was a violation.

This was theft of the soul.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the empty room.

Then he tucked the journal inside his jacket.

Relocked the drawer using the technique that would make it appear undisturbed.

Returned the room to exactly how it had been.

Looked around one final time.

No evidence of entry.

No sign anything was missing.

He left. Locked the door behind him. Pocketed the key.

Walked down the corridor toward Margaret’s private wing with steady steps and a churning stomach.

***

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Across the city, Richard Hayes sat in Rachel Chen’s office.

Emma was already there. Papers spread across the desk.

“Mr. Hayes.” Rachel stood to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for helping my daughter.” Richard’s voice was tight with controlled emotion. “Emma explained the situation. I need to know what we can do. Now. Today.”

Rachel gestured to the chair. “Sit. Let’s talk strategy.”

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Richard sat. Emma beside him.

Rachel pulled out a file. “Here’s what we know. Alina is legally married to Daniel Blackwood. Living in the family home. No formal restrictions on her movement that we can prove.”

“But she’s being held there,” Richard said.

“Effectively, yes. But proving illegal detention is difficult when the person is the wife living in the marital home.” Rachel met his eyes. “However, as her father, you have standing to request a welfare check. To demand to see her. To verify she’s safe and there by choice.”

“Then let’s do that. Now.”

“It’s not that simple. The Blackwoods have significant influence. Local police won’t force entry to that house without serious cause.”

Richard’s hands clenched. “So what do we do?”

Rachel and Emma exchanged glances.

“There are two options,” Rachel said quietly. “First, we build a solid case. Document all evidence of illegal detention, isolation, and coercion. Then file for divorce on Alina’s behalf with that evidence. This process could take three to four weeks.”

“Three weeks.” Richard’s voice broke. “That’s too long. I’m worried Alina’s condition will get worse.”

“I know this isn’t ideal-”

“Is there another way?” Richard asked impatiently. “I want to see my daughter immediately.”

Rachel nodded slowly. “That’s why there’s a second option. More direct. More risky.”

“What is it?”

“You go to the Blackwood family home. Demand to see Alina. If they refuse, you call the police. File a missing person report. Force them to prove she’s there voluntarily.”

Richard was stunned for a moment. He knew it was risky and might threaten the family’s peace. But Richard couldn’t just sit still. He didn’t want to see Alina more broken in that house.

“Will that work?”

“Maybe. If Alina supports you. If she tells the police she wants to leave.” Rachel paused. “But if she’s too afraid to fight back, it could backfire. Make everything worse for her and for us.

“Or it could be the push she needs,” Emma said. “Knowing her father is fighting for her. That she’s not alone.”

Richard looked at them both.

Two options.

Safe and slow–building a solid documented case, filing for divorce on Alina’s behalf with evidence of coercion and illegal detention, which could take weeks.

Or risky and immediate–direct confrontation today.

His daughter’s life hung in the balance either way.

“I’ll go to the Blackwood family home,” Richard decided, without hesitation. “I’ll do it today.‘

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onfrontation

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Confrontation

Mr. Harris entered Margaret’s private sitting room with the journal concealed inside his jacket.

Margaret looked up from her desk. “You have it?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He pulled out the leather–bound book. Set it on the desk between them.

Margaret’s fingers reached for it immediately. Possessive. Hungry.

“Good work. Was there any difficulty?”

“No, Ma’am. She was at breakfast. The room was empty. I relocked the drawer. She won’t know it’s missing until she looks for it.”

“Excellent.” Margaret opened the journal, began flipping through pages. Her eyes scanning the handwriting with predatory focus.

“Mr. Harris?”

Margaret didn’t look up.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“No one knows about this. Not Daniel. Not the other staff. No one. If I find out you’ve discussed this with anyone, your employment ends immediately. Understood?”

“Understood, Ma’am.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Mr. Harris left quickly. Grateful to escape.

Behind him, Margaret called one of the junior maids.

“Yes, Mrs. Blackwood?”

“I need you to keep Mrs. Alina occupied for the next hour. There’s been some damage in the garden. The roses near the south wall. Tell her the gardeners found it this morning and thought she should see it since she planted those herself.”

“But Ma’am, there’s no damage-”

“I’m aware. But she doesn’t know that. Tell her there’s damage. Keep her outside examining the garden. Make sure she doesn’t return to her room for at least an hour. Can you do that?”

A pause. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. Go now.”

Margaret ended the call.

Returned to the journal.

An hour would be enough time to read it thoroughly. To photograph the most damaging pages. To build her case.

Then she’d return it before Alina even knew it was gone.

***

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Alina had just finished reading when the knock came.

She’d spent the last hour in her room after breakfast, trying to lose herself in a novel. Trying not to think about Junior in the art room with Clarissa. About their “special time” together.

“Come in.”

A young maid entered. Face flushed. Apologetic.

“Mrs. Blackwood, I’m sorry to disturb you. But there’s been some damage in the garden. The roses you planted near the south wall. The head gardener asked if you could come look. He’s not sure what happened but thought you should see it.”

Alina’s chest tightened.

Those roses. She’d planted them three years ago with Junior’s help. His tiny hands patting dirt around the roots. His excited chatter about how tall they’d grow.

One of the few things left in this house that was still hers.

“What kind of damage?”

“I’m not sure, Ma’am. He just said it was urgent. That you should come right away.”

Alina stood. “Show me.”

She followed the maid downstairs and out into the garden.

The morning was cool. Overcast. Threatening rain.

They walked past the fountain. Past the perfectly manicured hedges. Toward the south wall where climbing roses covered the old brick.

The maid gestured ahead. “Just there, Ma’am. I’ll leave you to inspect it.”

She left in a hurry before Alina could respond.

Alina approached the rose bushes slowly.

Then she stopped.

Her breath caught.

Broken stems. Torn leaves. The soil around the roots had been ripped up roughly, as if someone had dug at it deliberately with bare hands or a blunt tool.

Half of the rose plants she had tended for three years were destroyed.

Alina knelt on the wet ground. Trembling hands reached out to touch a snapped stem.

‘Junior planted these with me.‘

His small hands patting the soil. His cheerful voice asking when the flowers would bloom.

And now…

Alina drew a slow breath. Fighting back the tears that threatened to spill.

This wasn’t the time to cry. Not here where anyone might see.

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M73

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She got to work.

Carefully separating the stems that could still be saved from those beyond recovery. Smoothing the soil around the roots that remained intact. Trying to salvage whatever was left.

But her mind kept turning.

‘Who did this?‘

The gardeners wouldn’t damage the plants. They were too professional for that.

The other staff had no reason to touch this area.

Unless someone had been *ordered* to do it.

Or someone *wanted* to destroy one of the few things that still belonged to Alina in this house.

Clarissa. Margaret.

Both names surfaced in Alina’s mind with cold certainty.

Of course. Them.

One more way to erase Alina’s presence. One more piece of her past, demolished.

But Alina had no proof. No way to prove it.

As always.

She spent nearly an hour in the garden. Clearing the debris. Saving what could be saved. Watering what remained with hands that still trembled.

When she finally stood, her knees were dirty and her back ached.

But at least what was left had been tended to.

Alina walked back to the house with heavy steps. At that same moment a black sedan pulled up to the Blackwood mansion gates.

Richard Hayes sat in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the wheel with white–knuckled intensity.

The mansion loomed behind the iron gates. Massive. Imposing. A fortress designed to keep people out.

Or keep them in.

Richard pressed the intercom button.

A crackling voice: “Yes?”

“Richard Hayes to see my daughter, Alina Blackwood.”

A pause. Then: “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

“I’m her father. I don’t need an appointment.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but all visitors must be pre–approved by Mr. Blackwood or Mrs. Margaret Blackwood. If you’d like to schedule-”

“I’m not scheduling anything. I’m here now. I want to see my daughter now.”

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The voice became more formal. Firmer. “Sir, I cannot allow entry without authorization. If you want to see Mrs. Blackwood, you need to make an appointment.”

“Open the gate.”

“Sir-”

“OPEN THE GATE!” Richard’s voice rose. “I’m Alina’s father! I have every right to see her! You can’t keep her from me!”

“Sir, I need you to calm down. If you don’t leave the premises, I’ll be forced to call the police.”

Richard’s laugh was harsh. “Call them. Please. Call the police. I’ll tell them my daughter is being held here against her will. That she’s being isolated and controlled. That I haven’t been allowed to speak to her in over a month. See how that goes.”

Silence on the other end.

Then: “Please wait, sir. I’m contacting Mrs. Blackwood.”

The intercom went dead.