flash
The glass paperweight had missed Luke’s head by an inch, shattering against the mahogany bookshelf and raining razor-sharp crystal shards across the Persian rug. I sat in my custom, leather-upholstered titanium wheelchair, chest heaving, the phantom pain in my shins flaring like a blowtorch. / Chapter 2 / 20

Chapter 2 - Blood in the Coffee

By week three, the dynamic in the Vance estate had shifted in a way that made my inner circle deeply uneasy. Emma didn't walk on eggshells. When she brought my black coffee at 6:00 AM, she didn't set it on the edge of the desk and scurry away like a frightened rabbit. She slammed the heavy ceramic mug down hard enough to slop dark liquid over the rim.

"Drink it before it gets cold," she said, leaning against my bookshelf. "You look like death warmed over. Did you sleep at all?"

"My sleep schedule is none of your concern, Emma," I said, not looking up from the tablet tracking our shipping ports in the Port of Indiana.

"It is when you're barking orders at Luke at 3:00 AM that make the entire security detail run drills in the rain," she retorted, crossing her arms. "My mother has dementia, Mr. Vance. I know what a declining brain looks like when it's trapped in a body that won't cooperate. Stop punishing yourself. It’s pathetic."

Luke choked on his own breath near the window. I slowly raised my head, locking eyes with her. In the old days, anyone who used the word 'pathetic' within earshot of me would have spent a week tied to a chair in a freezing warehouse.

Instead, I felt a strange twitch in my left quadricep—a phantom spasm, or maybe just pure, unadulterated shock.

"You have a remarkable talent for testing your employment bounds, Ms. Carter," I whispered softly.

"I have rent to pay," she shot back, turning on her heel. "Finish your coffee."

Later that morning, a threat landed on my desk. It wasn't a standard Chicago Syndicate warning; it was a silver bullet wrapped in a Polaroid photo of Emma leaving her mother’s care facility.

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