The rusted iron door of the sub-basement slammed shut. The heavy deadbolt slid into place with a loud, final clack.
The air down here was thick, smelling of rotting paper and damp concrete. The single fluorescent tube overhead flickered, casting sickly yellow shadows across the mountains of cardboard boxes.
Aubree collapsed onto a filthy, torn leather sofa in the corner.
She pressed both hands hard against her lower belly. The dull, throbbing ache from the doorframe collision was spreading. Her forehead was slick with a layer of cold sweat.
Her hands shook as she unzipped her bag. She dug out a small blister pack of prescription anti-miscarriage pills.
There was no water down here.
She popped a thick white pill out of the foil, tossed it into her mouth, and swallowed hard. The dry chalk scraped down her esophagus, making her gag, but she forced it down.
Suddenly, the massive industrial exhaust fan in the ceiling kicked on. The deafening roar shook the walls, kicking up a thick cloud of gray dust.
Aubree choked. A violent coughing fit tore through her chest. She curled into a tight ball on the sofa, wrapping her arms protectively around her womb.
Hold on, she prayed silently, her nails digging into her own arms. Please, just hold on.
Ten minutes passed. The medication finally kicked in. The cramping in her stomach slowly eased into a dull numbness.
Aubree let her head fall back against the sofa, her chest heaving.
Deep inside her bag, the encrypted burner phone began to vibrate frantically.
Aubree's eyes snapped open. She glanced up at the security camera in the corner. The red light was dead; the lens was covered in thick spiderwebs.
She pulled the phone out and hit the green button.
"Aura," Lucas's panicked voice blasted through the speaker in rapid, fluent French. "We have a massive problem. The Atelier has been hit with a catastrophic plagiarism lawsuit."
Aubree sat up straight. The weak, exhausted woman vanished. Her spine locked into place.
"Who?" she asked, her French accent flawless, her tone dripping with ice.
"A European oligarch," Lucas replied, his voice shaking. "They bought the judge. All of our offshore accounts are frozen."
Aubree's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "What is their demand?"
"They want you to unmask. They want Aura to step into the public light and hand over the core design patents, or they will bankrupt the studio by Friday."
Aubree let out a low, dark laugh. It was the laugh of an apex predator.
"I don't bow to capital," she said coldly.
Her brain worked at lightning speed. She needed untraceable liquid cash, and she needed it now. She had to fund the counter-lawsuit and keep her mother's ICU machines running.
"Lucas, initiate Plan B," she ordered. "Liquidate my hidden bonds in the Swiss accounts. Prepare for a full-scale counterattack."
Directly above the archive room, Ell walked through the underground parking garage. Mr. Vance trailed behind him, holding an iPad.
They were inspecting the new security gates. Ell stopped walking. He stood right over the metal grate of the sub-basement ventilation shaft.
The French words were lost in the noise, and the deafening roar of the fan made it impossible to make out any specific vocabulary.
But he clearly heard the tone. It was a cold, commanding, and utterly ruthless cadence-so entirely different from the meek, submissive assistant he knew. It was the voice of someone giving a high-stakes order.
Ell's blood ran cold. His eyes darkened to pitch black. A sharp spike of suspicion pierced through his chest.
He thought about Aubree's sudden defiance. The way she didn't care about the five million dollars. The way she sneered at him.
He turned his head slowly to look at Vance. "Pull Aubree Daniels' communication logs and bank statements. Every single one."
His voice was laced with venom. "She's not just a gold digger. She's selling our voided corporate secrets to our competitors."
Down in the basement, Aubree ended the call. She slipped the phone back into the hidden lining of her bag.
She stood up and dusted off her skirt. The fear was gone. Only war remained.
The heavy iron door suddenly groaned. It swung open violently, hitting the concrete wall.
Ell stood in the doorway. The dim hallway light backlit his massive frame, making him look like a demon stepping out of the dark.
He marched straight toward her, his eyes scanning the dusty room, looking for a laptop, a phone, any piece of espionage equipment.
Aubree's heart gave a hard thump, but her face remained a mask of absolute calm.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. President?" she asked, her voice flat.
Ell stopped inches from her. He found nothing in the room. He looked down at her, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.
"If you think you can play corporate spy in my building, you are dead wrong. I will bury you in Manhattan."
Aubree looked right into his murderous eyes. She let out a soft, mocking chuckle.
"I'm just a useless assistant about to be fired, Ell. I don't have that kind of power."
Ell stared at her, trying to peel back her skin to see her secrets. He found nothing but dead, cold eyes.
He turned and walked out.
Aubree stood in the dark, her hands curling into tight fists.
