Chapter 3 - The Wolf at the DoorFour months flew by in a blur of morning sickness, hiding her expanding abdomen beneath oversized thrift-store sweaters, and rising through Vanguard Transport’s ranks thanks to her terrifyingly sharp eye for financial anomalies.
Bella had almost convinced herself that she had slipped through the cracks of the city’s criminal underworld—until the rainy Friday night her doorbell buzzed at 11:40 PM.
Exactly four months to the minute since she had walked into Room 6101.
Bella froze in the center of her tiny living room. The rain beat a frantic rhythm against the single basement window. The buzzer sounded again, longer, more insistent.
She crept toward the door, peering through the small peephole.
Standing in the dim, flickering hallway light was not a collection agency thug or a random intruder. It was Marcus Vance, Lucas Drake’s personal head of security—a towering man with a face like carved granite and eyes that had seen bodies buried in concrete without a change in heart rate. Behind him stood two men in identical charcoal suits, blocking both ends of the narrow corridor.
Bella’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her hand hovered over the chain lock.
The door didn't just rattle; it swung open with a sickening click as a heavy metallic thud echoed through the frame. Marcus hadn’t even bothered to pick the lock; a professional magnetic bypass tool had popped the latch in seconds.
Marcus stepped inside, tracking rainwater onto her cheap linoleum floor. He didn't pull a weapon. He didn't need to. His voice was quiet, dripping with absolute authority.
“Miss Carter. Mr. Drake requests the pleasure of your company.”
“I don’t take requests,” Bella said, backing away until the back of her legs hit the edge of her sofa. She instinctively crossed her arms over her loose wool sweater, trying desperately to mask the undeniable curve of her five-month pregnancy.
Marcus’s eyes dropped instantly to her midsection. A fraction of a millimeter of surprise crossed his otherwise impassive face, followed immediately by a look of cold, calculating realization.
“Mr. Drake is a very thorough man, Miss Carter,” Marcus said softly, taking another step forward. “When his private medical staff analyzed the batch numbers of the pharmaceutical samples from that specific night, they discovered a minor inventory discrepancy. One placebo packet had accidentally been mixed into the clinical trial stash.”
Bella stopped breathing.
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“He knows,” she whispered.
“He doesn't guess,” Marcus replied smoothly, gesturing toward the open doorway where the dark silhouette of a black armored Lincoln Navigator idly waited in the alley. “And he hates surprises. Get your coat. We’re going for a ride.”
