Chapter 7 - The Ghost Returns to the CityThree days later, a matte-black Gulfstream jet touched down on a private airstrip outside Seattle under the cover of a freezing, torrential downpour.
We hadn't returned to our old life. That house was a charred crater, and our old identities were buried beneath layers of bureaucratic fiction. Instead, we stepped off the plane into a world of towering skyscrapers, rain-slicked asphalt, and neon-lit corporate monoliths.
My father had transformed completely. Gone was the gentle grandfather in flannel shirts; standing in his place was a razor-sharp corporate titan draped in a bespoke charcoal-gray Brioni suit, his silver hair neatly combed, exuding an aura of absolute, terrifying authority.
I walked beside him, dressed in a sharp black trench coat, sunglasses hiding the last faint traces of bruises on my cheek, holding a secured tablet displaying encrypted financial trails.
Our target was Apex Global Logistics, a massive shipping conglomerate located in the heart of downtown Seattle. On paper, they were a legitimate freight forwarding giant. In reality, they were the master puppeteers who had funded Marcus’s lifestyle—and who had likely ordered him to silence me permanently if I dug too deep.
As we walked through the towering glass revolving doors of the Apex headquarters, the security guards barely blinked. With forged executive credentials supplied by my father’s former network, we bypassed the lobby check-in entirely and stepped straight into a private express elevator programmed to go directly to the executive penthouse boardrooms on the 60th floor.
"Are you ready for this?" my father asked softly as the digital floor counter ticked upward: 45... 50... 55...
I looked at my reflection in the polished brass walls of the elevator. I wasn't the terrified, pregnant woman trapped in a steel cage anymore. I was a survivor. I was a mother. And I was Richard Vance’s daughter.
"Let's open the cage," I replied coldly.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
We stepped out into an opulent, minimalist reception area finished in white marble and brushed titanium. A startled receptionist looked up from her desk, opening her mouth to ask who we were, but before she could speak, Viktor—who had accompanied us disguised as my father’s executive assistant—stepped forward and gently placed a heavy silver passcard on her desk.
May you like
"Mr. Vance is expected," Viktor said smoothly. "Do not announce us."
Without waiting for permission, my father pushed open the heavy double doors leading directly into the executive boardroom.
