Chapter 4 - MIDNIGHT AT ELM STREETThe deadbolt on Apartment 3B groaned under the heavy, metallic crunch of a crowbar.
Clare woke instantly, bolting upright in her narrow bed. Beside her, Evan stirred, murmuring softly in his sleep. The apartment was freezing; the electricity had finally been cut off three hours ago, leaving them in pitch darkness save for the pale neon glow of a flashing motel sign outside the window.
Thud.
The door burst open.
Three massive men in black tactical jackets stepped into the narrow hallway. Their faces were shadowed, their boots heavy against the worn linoleum.
Clare’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. She threw off the blanket, shielding Evan behind her as she backed against the peeling wallpaper.
“Who are you? What do you want?!” she cried out, her voice trembling despite her fierce attempt to keep it steady.
The largest man—a hulking brute with a jagged scar curling around his jawline—stepped forward, holding a thick sheaf of legal papers.
“Clare Bennett?” his voice was like grinding stones. “You’ve been served an emergency eviction notice. Premises condemned due to unpaid utility hazards. You have two minutes to pack a single bag. Leave everything else.”
“That’s a lie!” Clare screamed, tears stinging her eyes. “My rent is paid through the end of the month! I have the receipts!”
“Receipts don’t mean a damn thing when the landlord sells out to Vane Enterprises,” the enforcer sneered, taking another menacing step forward. He reached out a massive, calloused hand to grab Clare’s arm. “Now move, before we carry the kid out ourselves.”
Evan let out a terrified shriek, burying his face in Clare’s back.
Clare grabbed a heavy brass-plated bedside lamp, raising it like a club. “Get away from my son! I swear to God, I’ll bash your skull in!”
The enforcer laughed, a cruel, barking sound, and lunged forward—
CRASH.
The window facing the alley exploded inward in a shower of glittering glass and splintered wood.
Before the enforcers could turn, dark figures dropped silently from the fire escape like descending angels. There was no shouting, no warning. Just the brutal, highly coordinated efficiency of elite corporate security operators wearing unmarked tactical gear.
In less than five seconds, the three enforcers were face-down on the linoleum, their arms pinned behind their backs in agonizing joint locks, their faces pressed hard against the dusty floor.
Heavy, polished leather shoes stepped over the shattered glass.
Harrison Sterling walked into the freezing apartment. He wasn't wearing his overcoat; his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his posture towering and unyielding. Behind him stood two private bodyguards holding the groaning enforcers down with effortless force.
Clare stood frozen, the heavy lamp still clutched in her white-knuckled grip, staring at the billionaire in absolute disbelief.
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Harrison stopped a few feet away. He looked at Evan, who was shaking behind his mother, and then looked up at Clare. His eyes were fierce, burning with a cold, terrifying intensity.
“Put the lamp down, Clare,” Harrison said, his voice deep and steady in the dark room. “You’re safe now. Nobody is ever going to throw you out of your home again.”
