Chapter 2 - The Trojan Horse in the PenthouseMy hand froze inches from my weapon.
Elizabeth Vance.
The pieces slammed together with terrifying speed. How she had managed to bypass my state-of-the-art background checks. How she had known the exact security blind spots of this penthouse. How she had moved through my fortress like a ghost. She hadn't slipped past my security—she had been invited in. Three weeks ago, an agency had sent her resume over, highlighting pristine references and stellar domestic experience. I had glanced at it for five seconds before signing off.
I had welcomed the viper right into the nursery.
"You're an assassin," I said, my voice dangerously low as I scanned her posture for a hidden blade or a detonator remote. "Or a spy planted by a rival family. What stopped you from ending it tonight while Alex and I were asleep?"
Elizabeth let out a dry, bitter laugh, finally removing her hand from Alex's shoulder and standing up fully. She towered over most women, her frame wiry and athletic beneath the loose cotton shirt.
"An assassin? Please, Andrew. Do you really think I came all this way just for a quick bullet to your chest? That would be too merciful. That’s what you would do. I didn't come to kill you in your sleep. I came to show you what it feels like to watch your entire world burn down to ash while you stand completely helpless—just like I did when Julian lost everything."
"Your brother was a thief and a traitor!" I roared, stepping forward and grabbing her by the collar of her shirt, lifting her slightly off the floor. The force of my rage made the remaining flour dust swirl around our feet like a miniature blizzard. "He betrayed our blood pact! He deserved worse than exile!"
Alex let out a sharp, ear-piercing scream.
The sound shattered the heavy atmosphere. It wasn't the quiet, frightened whimper he had given earlier; it was a shriek of pure terror.
Elizabeth didn't panic. She didn't fight my grip. She simply looked down at my hand clenched around her collar, her eyes burning with an intense, haunting defiance.
"Look at your son, Andrew," she choked out, gasping slightly for air. "You're doing to him right now... exactly what Julian did to me. Violence. Screaming. Total control through fear."
My fingers loosened.
The words struck me like a physical blow to the chest. I looked down. Alex was curled into a tight fetal ball on the kitchen floor, his hands clamped over his ears, trembling violently. The brief moment of joy—the laughter that had sounded like music after nine endless weeks of agonizing silence—was gone, snuffed out by my own violent outburst.
I dropped my hand, stumbling backward.
"Alex..." I whispered, dropping to my knees a few feet away, reaching out a hesitant hand. "Buddy, I'm sorry. Daddy's sorry."
May you like
Alex didn't look at me. He rolled away, crawling frantically across the flour-covered tiles straight into Elizabeth’s open arms. She scooped him up effortlessly, murmuring soft, unintelligible lullabies into his hair.
My own son—the heir to everything I owned, the only piece of Emma I had left—chose his enemy over me.
