The glass doors of the Finch Group's Manhattan headquarters boardroom shattered the silence as they swung open.
Elliot walked in. The temperature in the room plummeted.
The chaotic chatter of the board members died instantly. Elliot didn't look at them. He walked straight to the head of the long mahogany table and pulled out the leather chair. He sat down, his posture rigid, his jaw locked.
Arthur, his chief of staff, stepped forward. He slammed a thick stack of manila folders onto the center of the table. The slap of paper against wood made several executives flinch.
"Wire transfers. Offshore accounts. And the security footage from the Waldorf kitchen," Arthur said, his voice flat.
Elliot finally raised his eyes. They were dead, hollow, and terrifyingly calm.
"The men who thought slipping a neuro-hallucinogen into my drink would force a merger are done," Elliot said. His voice lacked any human warmth. "Arthur has already handed the unredacted files to the FBI."
A senior vice president at the end of the table slammed his hands down and stood up.
"You can't do this, Elliot! This is a dictatorship! We built this company with your father!"
Elliot didn't blink. He didn't even turn his head. He just gave Arthur a microscopic nod.
The boardroom doors opened again. Two massive security contractors in dark suits walked in. They grabbed the screaming executive by the arms, lifted him off his feet, and dragged him backward out of the room.
Elliot placed his hands flat on the table. He prepared to dismiss the room.
Suddenly, the floor tilted.
A violent wave of vertigo slammed into Elliot's brain. The edges of his vision turned black. The residual neuro-toxins from the drug were still in his system, attacking his central nervous system.
His massive frame swayed. His arms gave out. He collapsed forward, his head hitting the polished wood of the table with a sickening crack.
"Call a medic!" Arthur yelled, lunging forward. The boardroom erupted into chaos.
Nine months later.
The rain lashed against the cracked, dirty window of a hidden underground clinic in Queens. The sound of the storm was deafening.
Breanna lay flat on the narrow, freezing delivery bed. Her hospital gown was soaked through with sweat.
Her hands gripped the metal side rails. Her knuckles were bone-white.
Another contraction hit her. It felt like a serrated knife dragging through her lower abdomen. She bit down hard on the rolled-up towel in her mouth, stifling a blood-curdling scream. The agony dragged her mind back to that suffocating night nine months ago. She remembered the cheap pharmacy bathroom, the two pink lines on the plastic stick, and the crushing despair that had nearly swallowed her whole. She had wanted to erase the nightmare, but then she felt it-a tiny, fluttering heartbeat in her womb. It was her blood, her only true family left in the world. She had clung to that fragile life like a drowning woman to a raft, choosing to endure the shame and the pain rather than let it be taken from her.
The nurse standing at the end of the bed chewed gum. Her eyes were bored.
"Push harder. You're wasting time," the nurse said mechanically.
Out in the dim, flickering hallway, Hoke paced. He checked his cheap watch, dragging hard on a cigarette, his leg bouncing with nervous energy.
A final, tearing agony ripped through Breanna's body. She arched her back off the mattress.
A sharp, loud cry of a newborn baby sliced through the sound of the rain.
Breanna collapsed back onto the wet pillows. Her chest heaved rapidly. Hot, physiological tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the sweat. Her entire body shook with exhaustion.
The doctor quickly clamped and cut the umbilical cord. He wiped the blood off the screaming baby boy and wrapped him in a thin, scratchy blanket.
Breanna weakly lifted her right hand. Her fingers trembled.
"Please," she whispered, her throat raw. "Let me hold him."
The nurse ignored her hand. She turned her back to the bed and walked straight toward the door with the bundle.
Panic spiked in Breanna's chest. She tried to sit up, but a massive wave of dizziness and blood loss forced her back down. Black spots danced in her eyes.
The delivery room door pushed open. Hoke stepped in.
He didn't look at the bed. He didn't look at his niece, who was bleeding and crying. He reached out and took the baby from the nurse.
Hoke turned on his heel and walked out, disappearing down the dark corridor.
