Chapter 3 - The Wolves in the Dark I drove for four hours into the remote, densely wooded mountains of upstate New York. The cash I had saved over the years allowed me to rent an old, off-the-grid cabin under an assumed name. It had no internet, barely any cellular reception, and was situated at the end of a winding dirt road that hadn't been paved since the nineties. It was the perfect place to disappear.

By nightfall, the temperature had plummeted well below freezing. I built a fire in the heavy iron hearth, the crackling wood providing the only light in the dim, dusty living room. I sat in a rocking chair, wrapped in three heavy wool blankets, shivering despite the heat. The silence of the woods was deafening. Every snap of a twig outside sounded like a gunshot.

I turned my phone on for just a moment, intending to check the time. I knew Adrian would be tearing the city apart looking for me, and I didn't want the GPS pinging my location. But the moment the screen lit up, a single text message pushed its way through the weak signal.

It wasn't from Adrian. It was an image file.

My heart stopped beating. I stared at the screen, my breath turning to white mist in the cold air. The photograph was of the very cabin I was sitting in. It had been taken from the tree line just seconds ago. The caption read: “Such a shame the billionaire isn’t here to protect his heir.”

A heavy, booted footstep crunched on the gravel outside the front porch.

Panic, icy and paralyzing, gripped my spine. This wasn't Adrian's security team. Adrian would have kicked the door down shouting my name. This was someone else. I remembered the hushed, tense phone calls Adrian had been taking over the past month. The threats from the Volkov syndicate—a ruthless, shadow-funded corporate empire desperate to force a hostile takeover of Callahan Industries. Adrian had refused to sell. He had thought his money could insulate us from their violence. He was wrong.

I pushed myself out of the rocking chair, moving as silently as a ghost. I grabbed the heavy, wrought-iron fire poker from the hearth, its tip still glowing red-hot from the flames. I backed into the narrow, dark hallway leading to the bedroom, pressing my spine against the wooden panels, breathing through my open mouth to remain entirely silent.

The front door didn't just open; it exploded inward. The deadbolt shattered under the force of a suppressed gunshot.

Two massive men dressed in tactical winter gear stepped into the cabin, their heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. The beams of their tactical flashlights cut through the darkness, sweeping across the empty rocking chair and the burning fire.

“Find the bitch,” the first man growled in a thick, heavy accent. “Volkov wants her alive. The baby is our leverage to force Callahan to sign over the shipping ports. If she resists, sedate her.”

My stomach churned violently. They didn't want to kill me; they wanted to lock me in a cage and use my unborn daughter to extort my husband. The first man stepped into the hallway, his flashlight beam inching closer to the corner where I was hiding.

I didn't freeze. The mother inside me—the woman who had lost two babies and refused to lose a third—ignited with a blinding, ferocious rage.

As the man rounded the corner, I swung the heavy iron fire poker with every ounce of physical strength I possessed. The heavy metal connected with the side of his knee with a sickening crunch. He let out a roared scream of agony, his leg buckling instantly. He collapsed to the floor, his gun clattering into the darkness.

“She’s in the hall!” the second man shouted, rushing forward.

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I scrambled backward, desperately trying to reach the back door in the kitchen. But I wasn't fast enough. The second mercenary lunged, his large, gloved hand wrapping brutally into the fabric of my heavy coat. He yanked me backward with terrifying force. I screamed, wrapping both of my arms tightly over my stomach as I lost my balance and crashed hard onto the wooden floor.

He stood over me, pulling a syringe from his tactical vest, a cruel, satisfied smirk on his face. “Night, night, Mrs. Callahan.”