Chapter 1 - The Breach
I kept the phone pressed against my ear, the cold glass screen sticking to my bruised cheek. My father didn’t speak again, but the line remained open. I could hear the muffled, frantic sounds of a titan mobilizing for war—the slam of a car door, the roar of an engine, the sharp, clipped orders being barked to a security detail.
Then, the private elevator at the end of the hall chimed.
I froze.
The heavy mahogany doors slid open, and Matthew stepped back into the penthouse. He had forgotten his leather briefcase. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me, no longer weeping silently on the marble, but clutching my phone.
If a security camera had captured that exact, defining fraction of a second—it would show the absolute climax of his unearned arrogance colliding with his imminent destruction. In the image, I am dragging my battered body across the shattered glass and crushed orchids, reaching the edge of the Italian sofa with my phone glowing in my hand. In the foreground lies the bloodied antique hickory cane. And standing in the background is Matthew, his tie loosened, lipstick still on his collar, his face twisting from smug disgust into sudden, dawning terror as he realizes I am not alone in the room.
"Who are you talking to?" Matthew demanded, his voice dropping its polished veneer, pitching into raw panic. He lunged toward me, his expensive Italian shoes crunching over the broken vase. "Give me the phone, Clare! Give it to me!"
May you like
Before his hand could even graze my shoulder, the heavy front doors of the penthouse didn't just open.
They were breached.
