Chapter 8 - The Trojan Horse
I didn't fight the pressure on my hand. Instead, as the pen touched the dotted line, a strange, hollow calm washed over me. I looked up into Victor's triumphant, gleaming eyes.
"You know, Victor," I murmured, my voice surprisingly steady. "You always were brilliant at numbers. But you were terrible at human nature."
Victor frowned, his hand freezing over mine. "What are you talking about?"
"You spent two years bugging my house, tracking my movements, buying my guards," I said, a dark, humorless smile touching the corner of my lips. "Did you ever stop to wonder why Clara Vance managed to get a job as my housekeeper so easily?"
Victor’s face went pale. The triumphant smirk faltered. "Clara... she died the night of the kidnapping. We cleared her out."
"People who hide from monsters tend to learn how to change their names," I said softly. "And people who love children learn how to wait."
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the penthouse didn't just open—they blew inward in a deafening crash of splintered wood and shattered titanium locks.
Flashing red and blue lights instantly flooded the room, reflecting off the glass walls. Before Victor’s guards could even draw their weapons, a tactical unit clad in matte black federal gear poured into the penthouse, laser sights painting every surface red.
"Federal anti-corruption division! Drop your weapons!" a voice roared through a megaphone.
Victor scrambled backward, his face twisting in blind panic. "This is private property! You have no warrant—!"
"He doesn't need a warrant," a calm, crisp voice echoed from the elevator vestibule.
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A woman stepped through the smoke and flashing lights. She wore a sharp federal prosecutor's suit, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, holding a glowing tablet in her hand. But it wasn't her presence that made Victor stagger back against the bar—it was the badge hanging from her neck, and the man standing directly behind her.
Clara. And beside her, holding her hand, was a little girl in a teal dress.
