Chapter 7 - Locker 214
Adrian didn’t speak for nearly thirty seconds.
The room felt colder than the lobby.
Finally he looked at his father.
“You thought I was trying to steal control of my own child’s trust?”
Victor’s jaw flexed.
“I thought someone was using your credentials.”
“That’s not what she said.”
“I had to consider every possibility.”
“You considered me.”
“Yes.”
The honesty hit harder than denial.
I watched Adrian step away from him.
There were old wounds between those two men.
Older than me.
Older than Cassandra.
Maybe older than the company.
Victor ordered security to retrieve the drive.
Cassandra refused.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You don’t get to refuse.”
“The locker requires the physical key and my fingerprint.”
Adrian said, “Then you’re coming.”
Victor shook his head.
“She stays here.”
Cassandra laughed.
“Afraid I’ll say something else?”
His eyes hardened.
I spoke before they could turn it into another family war.
“I’m going.”
Adrian looked at me.
“No.”
“I’m not sitting in a conference room while everyone else decides what’s happening to my life.”
“You were just drugged.”
“And I’m stable.”
The paramedic, who had been pretending not to listen, cleared her throat.
“Medically, I’d prefer observation.”
I stared at her.
She sighed.
“But if symptoms remain mild, moving by car is not inherently unsafe.”
She shrugged.
“I’m not married to you.”
Me.
Two security officers.
Cassandra sat across from me.
Adrian turned his head.
“That’s a lie.”
“Because you got the version of Adrian I helped build.”
“I was there when he was sleeping three hours a night. When Victor was tearing him apart in board meetings. When he nearly lost the Singapore deal. Then suddenly he meets you and decides balance is important.”
I looked at her.
“Once.”
“No.”
Adrian looked almost offended.
One security officer swore.
Another motorcycle appeared behind us.
The rear window shattered.
Security shouted.
My baby kicked hard.
One of the security officers yelled into his radio.
Then Cassandra looked up and shouted one word.
The SUV swerved toward the Park Avenue underpass.
As we entered the shadow, my phone—returned to me by Victor’s team—lit up.
Unknown caller.
May you like
I answered without thinking.
A distorted voice said, “If you open Locker 214, your husband dies.”
