Chapter 6 - The Iron Gates
The drive north through the midnight rain took less than ninety minutes, but for Dominic Cross, it felt like an eternity of burning rage and crumbling delusions.
When his black Mercedes approached the iron gates of the Whitaker estate, the heavy fog illuminated by his high beams revealed something he had never seen before: four armed security guards standing outside a reinforced checkpoint, tactical vests bearing the emblem of a private defense contractor used by federal intelligence agencies.
Dominic didn't brake. He slammed his car right up to the gate, rolled down his window, and laid on the horn.
A guard stepped forward, shining a high-powered tactical flashlight directly into Dominic’s eyes.
“Turn the vehicle around, Mr. Cross,” the guard said through a comm-unit speaker, his voice flat and completely devoid of human warmth. “You are trespassing on private property.”
Dominic threw open his car door and stepped out into the freezing rain, ignoring the water soaking through his tailored suit.
“I’m Dominic Cross!” he shouted over the roar of the wind. “I want to see my wife! Let me through these gates right now!”
“Mrs. Cross is unavailable,” the guard replied stonily. “And you have no legal standing to enter this property. A restraining order and divorce summons were filed electronically with your corporate counsel ten minutes ago.”
Dominic froze. “A... what?”
“Divorce proceedings have commenced,” the guard repeated. “Furthermore, the board of Cross Harbor Logistics has called an emergency shareholder meeting for 9:00 AM. They are voting to strip you of your CEO title and voting rights.”
The rain poured down Dominic’s face, mixing with the cold sweat on his brow. The world he had built, the power he had worshipped, the name that made men tremble—it was all evaporating in real-time, stripped away with the stroke of a pen by a family that hadn't even bothered to raise their voices.
“Let me talk to Grace!” Dominic yelled, grabbing the iron bars of the gate with his bare hands, shaking them with futile fury. “Grace! GRACE!”
From the darkness behind the security checkpoint, a pair of headlights flickered on. A black Lincoln Navigator rolled silently down the winding drive, stopping ten feet behind the gates.
The rear window rolled down.
May you like
Grace Whitaker sat inside, illuminated by the soft interior light of the vehicle. She looked calm, untouchable, and devastatingly beautiful. Her gray-blue eyes met his through the iron bars without a trace of anger, grief, or hesitation.
Just absolute, chilling indifference.
