Chapter 9 - THE STANDOFF IN THE PENTHOUSE
Martin Bell stood up slowly,
placing his body between the documents on the table and Grant’s advancing security guards.
“Mr. Ashford,”
Martin said,
his voice remarkably steady given the two towering men blocking the exit.
“You are currently in direct violation of a temporary restraining order issued thirty minutes ago by Judge Sterling.”
Grant didn’t even glance at Martin.
His eyes remained fixed on me as I stepped back toward the nursery hallway where Noah was sleeping.
“Claire,”
Grant said,
his voice chillingly soft.
“Put the papers down.”
“You’re running,
Grant,”
I said,
my hand resting firmly on the doorknob of the nursery.
“You’re running to Zurich because you know the name on your birth certificate doesn't match the name on your corporate empire.”
One of the security contractors took a half-step forward,
but Grant raised his hand,
stopping him instantly.
“You think you’ve uncovered some grand conspiracy,”
Grant said,
taking another slow step toward me.
“You think my father’s mistakes define who I am.”
“Your father’s mistakes bought your first million-dollar portfolio,”
I countered,
raising my voice so it echoed off the marble walls.
“And you spent the last ten years burying anyone who got close to the truth—
including the woman who helped you set up those offshore accounts in two thousand and fourteen.”
Grant’s expression flickered for a fraction of a second—
just long enough for me to know Vanessa’s intelligence was completely accurate.
“Where is she?”
Grant asked,
his voice dropping into a dangerous purr.
“Where is Vanessa?”
“Safe,”
I lied smoothly.
“And by now,
her copies of these files are sitting on the desk of the federal prosecutor for the Southern District of New York.”
Grant stopped walking.
For the first time since I had walked into that law firm eleven days ago,
the untouchable private equity billionaire looked trapped.
“You’re destroying everything we built,”
Grant whispered,
the mask of corporate invulnerability finally cracking completely.
“We built?”
I let out a cold,
sharp laugh.
“Grant,
you built a prison.
I’m just unlocking the doors.”
Before Grant could lunge forward,
May you like
the sharp wail of police sirens echoed from the street below,
followed by the heavy thrumming of law enforcement chopper blades hovering directly outside the penthouse windows.
