Chapter 5 - THE LOBBY SHOWDOWNThe grand marble lobby of the Harrington Tower was packed to the gills. Shareholders, reporters with boom mics, and high-society elites mingled nervously, buzzing with whispers about the morning’s breaking headlines.
When the revolving glass doors pushed open and Nathan Harrington walked in, the entire lobby went dead silent.
It was as if a ghost had materialized out of the New York smog.
Flashbulbs immediately began to pop in rapid succession, blindingly bright. Reporters surged forward like a tidal wave, shouting over one another, thrusting microphones into his face.
“Mr. Harrington! Are the embezzlement charges true?”
“Where are your children, sir?”
“Did you lock your wife in the basement?”
Nathan didn’t say a word. He walked with slow, deliberate, unhurried strides, his shoulders back, his eyes fixed dead ahead on the private executive elevator bank at the far end of the lobby.
Before he could take three steps past the security gates, four towering, black-suited private security guards—men hired personally by Victoria’s security firm—stepped directly into his path, blocking his way.
"Mr. Harrington," the head guard, a scarred ex-mercenary named Thorne, said coldly, resting his hand casually near his belt holster. "You are trespassing. Mrs. Harrington’s explicit orders are that you are not to enter the premises. Turn around and leave, or we remove you by force."
Nathan stopped. He looked at Thorne, then at the ring of security guards surrounding him, and finally at the dozens of cameras broadcasting his every move to millions of homes across the country.
"You think a few rented thugs are going to stop me from seeing my wife?" Nathan’s voice cut through the ambient noise of the lobby like a razor blade.
"Last warning, Harrington," Thorne growled, stepping closer, his massive frame towering over Nathan. He reached out to grab Nathan’s shoulder.
Before Thorne’s hand could even touch his lapel, Nathan moved with terrifying speed.
Years ago, before he was a billionaire behind a desk, Nathan had trained in Krav Maga during his early days in international private equity. He ducked under Thorne’s heavy arm, slammed the heel of his palm upward into the guard’s jaw, swept his leg out, and sent the massive man crashing onto the polished marble floor with a bone-rattling thud.
The three remaining guards surged forward simultaneously.
What followed wasn't a fair fight; it was a masterclass in controlled violence. Nathan dodged a wild punch, grabbed the second guard’s arm, twisted it behind his back with a sharp crack, and used him as a human shield against the third. Within thirty seconds, all four elite security guards were sprawled across the marble floor, moaning in pain.
The lobby erupted into gasps and chaotic shouting. Camera shutters clicked frantically.
Nathan didn't even break a sweat. He stepped casually over Thorne’s twitching leg, walked up to the private elevator, pulled a small black master key card from his pocket—a card Victoria didn't know he possessed—and swiped it against the reader.
The elevator doors slid open instantly.
Nathan stepped inside, turned to face the stunned crowd of reporters and cameras, and pressed the button for the 80th floor.
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As the heavy steel doors slowly closed, Nathan stared directly into the lens of the nearest live-broadcast camera, offering a grim, cold smile.
"See you soon, Victoria."
