Mrs. Harper’s knuckles turned white as she clutched the edge of the linen basket. The towels she had dropped lay scattered across the polished marble like fallen snow, but she didn’t bend down to pick them up.

Ten minutes ticked by like ten agonizing hours inside the concrete shelter. The tactical team outside had searched the entire upper floor, completely thrown off by the broken greenhouse decoy, leaving the master suite relatively quiet once more.

Suddenly, the keypad beside the panic room’s interior door beeped twice.

Beep. Beep.

My hand flew to my sidearm—a small, licensed compact pistol Vincent had pressed into my palm before locking us inside. I clicked off the safety, pointing the barrel straight at the reinforced steel door.

"Claire?"

The voice was raspy, bruised, but unmistakable.

"Vincent?" I breathed, my finger trembling on the trigger. "Is that really you?"

"Open the door, Claire," he whispered. "It's me."

I reached over and threw the deadbolt, pulling the heavy steel door open.

Vincent stumbled into the shelter, leaning heavily against the doorframe. His face was caked in dried blood, his expensive shirt torn at the shoulder, and his breathing shallow and painful.

"Dad!" Lucas and Leo cried out in unison, jumping off the bench and running straight toward him.

Vincent dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around his sons and burying his face in their hair, his shoulders shaking with silent, exhausted relief. For a moment, the billionaire investor, the ruthless real estate mogul, dissolved entirely into a father who had just walked through hell and back for his children.

"Are you okay, Dad?" Leo asked, touching the cut on Vincent's forehead.

"I'm better than okay, champ," Vincent smiled, wincing slightly as he stood back up, holding onto the boys' shoulders. He looked up at me, his eyes burning with fierce, unyielding resolve. "The analog kill switch worked. Their digital communication grid is dead, and my emergency beacon went out to the state police before they jammed the towers."

"How long until the police arrive?" I asked, reloading the pistol and checking the clip.

"State troopers are five minutes away," Vincent said, pulling a heavy tactical shotgun from the emergency rack behind the bench. "And Eleanor's men know it. They're panicking. They're trying to breach the ground-floor panic room where the physical estate archives are stored."

"We can't let them destroy those archives," I said. "That's where all of Dr. Blake's prescriptions and financial wire logs are stored."

Vincent nodded, his jaw set like granite. "Which is why we're going down there to meet them."