Chapter 173: Smile for the Camera
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[Lockwood]
One week later.
Silence is something most people struggle to truly appreciate. At the Lockwood estate, calm and quiet had become an art form.
The mansion sat on extensive, beautifully maintained grounds, hidden behind tall wrought-iron gates that kept the outside world just far enough away to suit the Lockwood family’s preference, which was as distant as possible.
The long driveway served as a moment of reflection for anyone visiting, offering a bit of time to rethink their intentions before arriving at the front door.
Evelyn Lockwood found this more of a convenience than a hassle. Six staff members took care of the grounds, each fully aware...without needing to be told, that every hedge, stone path, and decorative tree wasn’t just there for aesthetics, but to convey a message.
That message was clear: We are not like you, we never were. You are beneath us.
Inside, the polished marble floors mirrored the afternoon light streaming through massive windows, creating long, defined beams.
Priceless artworks adorned the walls, hung perfectly, dusted each week, and positioned with painstaking precision. Decorative items remained exactly where they had been placed years ago, as in this house, nothing shifted without purpose, and movement was only permitted after careful consideration.
There was nothing accidental here.
Deep within the west wing, behind a pair of eight-foot-tall dark walnut doors that required a specific touch to open, Mrs. Evelyn Lockwood sat in her study.
Oil portraits of past Lockwood patriarchs hung between the shelves, their stern faces hovering like silent judges waiting to see if anyone would dare to appeal their long-ago verdicts. A crystal decanter on the cabinet by the window caught the light, scattering little jeweled points across the Persian rug.
Meanwhile, an antique grandfather clock near the fireplace ticked with the patient confidence of something that had been measuring time in this room for longer than anyone alive could remember.
At her desk, Mrs. Lockwood was hard at work.
She had a way about her that commanded authority, much like the weather, it didn’t announce itself but was felt through her undeniable presence.
Her dark brown bob framed a face that revealed little; years of practice in the art of maintaining control had helped her guard against those who were always seeking something to exploit.
She wrote on her documents with calm, measured strokes, like someone with all the time in the world, which she always did, as the Lockwood estate ran on a schedule she had crafted herself.
Three quick knocks broke the stillness.
Then, before the quiet could fully settle again, came three more.
Mrs. Lockwood paused her writing. She didn’t look up right away, responding immediately to urgency only encouraged it. Instead, she waited just long enough to show that although she had heard the knocks, she would choose to respond on her own terms.
"Come in."
The door swung open with an eagerness that lacked the dignity expected.
A young assistant rushed in, holding a large cream-colored envelope close to her chest, as if she had been instructed to protect something crucial and took that order very seriously.
Her collar flushed, and her breathing was a little hurried, indicating she had navigated the lengthy west wing at a speed that the building wasn’t designed for.
"M-Mrs. Lockwood..."
Her voice had the nervous quality of someone who had practiced a line only to lose confidence in it upon arrival.
"There was someone at the front gate."
Only now did Mrs. Lockwood lift her eyes from her work. She regarded the assistant with a focused, unreadable gaze, taking in the information without revealing what she thought.
"They wouldn’t say who they were," the assistant went on, swallowing hard. Her grip on the envelope tightened slightly, making her knuckles turn white. "They left this."
She stepped forward, extending the envelope with both hands, as if offering something she would have preferred not to carry.
"They said—" She hesitated, needing a moment to gather her wits. "They said they’ll keep quiet about it if they get six million dollars by the end of the week."
The room fell into an unbearable silence.
The grandfather clock ticked once. Then again. What had once been a subtle background noise now reverberated throughout the space with each steady beat.
Mrs. Lockwood’s expression remained unchanged. If anything, she seemed to cool slightly, not a significant shift, but more like a subtle drop in temperature, detectable only by someone paying close attention, which the assistant was definitely doing.
"Blackmail," she said flatly. The word came out not as a question but as a classification, like a botanist identifying a specimen.
"Y-Yes, ma’am."
Setting her pen down across the open page of her document with careful intention, Mrs. Lockwood reached across the desk and took the envelope from the assistant.
The thick cream paper felt substantial, it was clear that whoever sent this hadn’t skimped on quality stationery. She examined it briefly before sliding a manicured finger beneath the sealed edge.
The envelope opened smoothly.
A series of glossy photographs slipped onto the polished mahogany desk, spreading out before her like cards laid down in a game.
The first image showed Damien leaving a university building on what seemed to be a bright weekday afternoon. He was dressed casually, even by Lockwood standards, and didn’t seem aware of the camera. He wasn’t alone.
A young man walked beside him, his expression was fully exposed and completely genuine...he was mid-laugh, clearly amused by something Damien had just said.
The moment captured had a sense of ease that made it feel less like a mere stroll across campus, and more like two friends who had forgotten others were around.
Mrs. Lockwood picked up the second photo.
The same young man, this time crossing a busy street, cars and other students visible in the background. Damien’s hand rested casually on the small of the young man’s back as they walked together.
It wasn’t flashy or for show; it was a natural, automatic gesture of someone who’d done this enough to make it second nature, an instinctive way of guiding someone safely through a space.
Too familiar, too comfortable, too easily at ease.
Mrs. Lockwood set that picture down and picked up another.