Lee Weston's backup armored vehicle had already been waiting at the other end of the bridge. After Arthur carefully placed Elsie into the secure cabin, he cast a cold, unforgiving glance at the crushed Aston Martin and the dented side of the Maybach. "Clean it up," he ordered the security team left behind. Half an hour later, the backup vehicle glided into the subterranean garage of Manhattan's most exclusive ultra-high-rise.
Arthur carried Elsie's limp, soaking wet body into the private elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing them in silence.
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. Arthur bypassed the massive living area and laid Elsie down on the plush velvet mattress of the guest bedroom.
Her ruined couture gown was plastered to her skin, the fabric sticking to the fresh wound on her forehead.
Arthur stared down at her, his jaw clenching. He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
He picked up the intercom on the wall. "Send the private doctor up immediately. And have the head housekeeper prepare to change her."
Half an hour later, the housekeeper had stripped away the wet gown and dressed Elsie in a set of dry, pure silk pajamas.
The doctor finished applying a neat white bandage to Elsie's forehead, bowed respectfully to Arthur, and quietly exited the penthouse.
Arthur stood by the bed, a crystal glass of amber whiskey in his hand.
He looked down at Elsie's pale, fragile face against the pillows. His dark eyes were unreadable, a stormy ocean of suppressed intensity.
Unbidden, the memory from three months ago clawed its way into his mind.
The chaos of that hotel room. The heat of her skin. The way she had cried and begged beneath him while the drugs burned through his veins, stripping away his control.
The image overlapped perfectly with the broken woman lying before him now.
Arthur let out a harsh breath. He yanked at the knot of his silk tie, loosening it.
He downed the whiskey in one brutal swallow, letting the alcohol burn away the violent, possessive urge rising in his chest. He walked over to the black leather sofa, sat heavily, and pressed a button on the intercom panel resting on the marble table. A few seconds later, his executive assistant, Lee Weston, stepped quietly into the living room holding a classified file folder.
"Sir," Lee said quietly. "We found out who rigged the screens at the banquet."
Arthur walked out of the guest room, pulling the door shut behind him.
He sat down on the black leather sofa and opened the file. As he read the pages, the temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees.
"Kelvin Barr funded the hacker," Lee explained. "The video itself was purchased from the dark web by Belle Barr."
Arthur let out a low, dark laugh.
He threw the file onto the marble coffee table with a sharp smack. "Initiate Operation Vulture. Contact our proxies at Goldman Sachs and use the offshore accounts to short every single position the Barr family holds. I don't care what methods you have to use, by the time the market opens tomorrow, I want to see their stock plummet by at least thirty percent."
Lee hesitated, shifting his weight. "Sir, if we mobilize the Michael family's core funds for this, the board and your grandfather will notice."
Arthur's eyes snapped up, cutting through Lee like a serrated blade.
"I don't care," Arthur said, his voice dripping with ice. "Anyone who touches what is mine pays the price."
The morning sun pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting Elsie's face.
A sharp throb in her forehead pulled her from the darkness. She groaned, her eyes fluttering open.
She stared at the unfamiliar, extravagant crystal chandelier above her. Panic hit her system like a shockwave. She bolted upright in the bed.
Elsie looked down. She was wearing men's silk pajamas.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She frantically patted down her body, checking for pain, for violation. When she realized she was unharmed, a shaky breath escaped her lips.
She swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed, her toes sinking into the thick wool rug.
She crept toward the door, pushing it open just an inch to peer outside.
The massive, open-concept living room was completely empty.
The only sign of life was a steaming cup of black coffee resting on the marble table, next to a small piece of heavy cardstock.
Elsie walked over and picked up the note.
The handwriting was sharp, aggressive, and elegant.
Your clothes are in the closet. Stop trying to get yourself killed.
No name. No signature.
Elsie stared at the ink, her mind racing. Who was this man? Why did he save her?
She walked into the adjoining walk-in closet. Her breath caught.
Hanging on the racks was an entire row of brand-new, current-season designer clothing, all exactly her size. The price tags hadn't even been removed.
She pulled on a modest, black cashmere suit.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she stared at the white bandage on her forehead. The coldness in her eyes hardened into something unbreakable.
She remembered the wire transfer Eduardo had shown her. Her reckless drive last night was exactly what Fenton wanted-an easy way to get rid of her.
Elsie dug her fingernails so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke.
She looked at her reflection and made a silent vow. She would not let her parents die in vain.
She grabbed her old phone from the nightstand. Someone had charged it to a hundred percent.
She quickly uploaded the photo of the wire transfer to an encrypted cloud drive.
Elsie walked to the entryway and pulled open the heavy front door.
Two massive bodyguards in black suits stood like stone statues in the hallway.
They bowed deeply. "The boss instructed us to escort you anywhere you wish to go, Miss. For your safety."
Elsie didn't argue. She knew Fenton would be hunting her. She needed these men.
She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the garage. She needed to go back to the estate. She needed her mother's diary.
Miles away, in a towering glass skyscraper, Arthur sat behind his desk. He watched the live security feed of Elsie leaving his building, a dark, predatory smile curving his lips.
