Chapter 3 - The Safe Room in Beacon Hill
Screams tore through the darkness as shards of crystal rained down across the marble floor like hail.
Before I could react, Graham threw his body over mine, driving us both behind a reinforced marble pillar.
The scent of gunsmoke and expensive cologne filled my nose as another burst of silenced gunfire chewed through the stone wall inches above our heads.
"Keep your head down!" Graham commanded, pulling his customized Sig Sauer from his jacket.
He leaned around the pillar, firing three rapid, deafening shots into the shadows near the gallery archway.
A heavy body dropped to the floor with a dull thud, followed by the clatter of an automatic weapon.
"Move! Now!" Graham ordered, grabbing my hand and dragging me through the emergency service corridor.
Two of his personal security men met us at the service exit, assault rifles raised as they bundled us into an armored black SUV.
The driver slammed on the gas, tires shrieking against the wet asphalt as we tore through the streets toward Beacon Hill.
I looked down at my emerald gown; the hem was shredded, stained with soot and grease from the service hallway.
Beside me, Graham was rapidly typing orders into an encrypted phone, his breathing completely steady despite the chaos.
"It wasn't a robbery, was it?" I asked, my voice trembling as the adrenaline began to wear off.
Graham lowered the phone and looked at me, his eyes dark with fierce intensity.
"Everett brought in contract shooters from Montreal," Graham replied coldly. "He wanted to take us both out before the shareholder meeting next week."
"Why me?" I whispered, pulling my knees toward my chest. "I'm just a temporary pawn in your grandfather's trust."
Graham turned toward me, his hand reaching out instinctively before he caught himself and pulled it back.
"You aren't a pawn anymore, Audrey," he said quietly. "If you die while we're married, your father's voting shares revert back to the open market, and Everett buys them for pennies on the dollar."
We pulled into the reinforced underground garage of the brownstone, the heavy steel security gates clanging shut behind us.
Graham led me up the private elevator directly into his third-floor master suite—a space I had never been permitted to enter.
The room was vast, lined with towering mahogany bookshelves, a massive leather desk, and an unmade king-sized bed.
"You're sleeping in here tonight," Graham commanded, setting his gun on the nightstand with a definitive click.
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"What about separate bedrooms?" I asked, trying to steady the tremor in my voice.
"The second floor doesn't have ballistic steel shutters," he said, walking to the adjoining bathroom and tossing me a clean white dress shirt. "Change out of that dress. You're staying where I can see you."
