Chapter 2 - The Security Chief’s Trap
The air in the master bedroom felt instantly depleted of oxygen. I kept my posture rigid, sliding my phone behind the folds of my silk dress while my heart hammered violently against my ribs.
Miles Carter stood blocking the exit. He wore a tailored black security suit, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his shaved head catching the dim light of the bedside lamp. His expression was completely devoid of the warm, polite charm he had worn at our dinner table for nearly a decade.
“I asked you a question, Claire,” Miles repeated, his voice dangerously low. “Who were you texting?”
“My mother,” I lied smoothly, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the cold panic clawing at my throat. “She wanted to know if we were cutting the cake yet.”
Miles didn't blink. He took another slow step toward me, his heavy leather shoes making no sound against the thick Persian rug. “Your mother lives in London, Claire. And it’s past midnight. People in London aren't asking about wedding cake at midnight.”
He knew. There was no mistaking the chilling certainty in his posture. Rebecca’s warning had arrived mere seconds too late. Miles had either intercepted my digital communication logs or discovered the missing data packets on the private server weeks ago, waiting for the right moment to eliminate the liability.
“You’ve been very busy the last six weeks, haven't you?” Miles murmured, slipping his right hand inside his jacket pocket. I knew instinctively what rested in that pocket: a suppressed 9mm Walther PPK, the exact weapon he carried on every detail for Adrian’s protection. “Snooping through corporate folders. Downloading encrypted ledgers. Contacting boutique attorneys in Boston. Did you really think Adrian’s security chief wouldn't notice a data breach on the main server?”
“If Adrian finds out you’ve been stealing his companies and feeding them to Warren Pike, he’ll have you killed before sunrise, Miles,” I shot back, gambling my life on a desperate bluff.
A dark, humorless smirk touched the corners of Miles’s mouth. “Adrian won't find out anything, Claire. Because by tomorrow morning, the official police report will state that Mrs. Claire Cole, distraught over her husband’s engagement to another woman, tragically locked herself in the master suite, consumed a fatal mix of prescription sedatives, and suffered cardiac arrest.”
My blood turned to ice. He wasn't just planning to steal an empire; he was staging a murder disguised as a tragic suicide.
“And my baby?” I whispered, my hand instinctively pressing flat against my swollen stomach to shield my daughter.
“Collateral damage,” Miles replied flatly, withdrawing his hand from his jacket. The matte-black barrel of the suppressed pistol caught the dim light. “A tragedy for the papers. Adrian will mourn for a month, marry Brooke, and sign over the remaining shell companies to Pike under my supervision within six months. Clean, efficient, and permanent.”
He raised the weapon, leveling the sights directly at my chest.
Every instinct of survival screamed at me to move, but my pregnant body felt heavy and uncooperative. I needed to stall him. I needed seconds—just enough time for Rebecca Shaw to realize I hadn't called back and trigger her emergency protocol with federal authorities.
“You’re making a massive mistake, Miles,” I said, keeping my tone razor-sharp and defiant. “You think Warren Pike is going to reward you? Men like Pike don't share empires. The moment you kill me and eliminate Adrian, Pike will cut your throat to tie up loose ends.”
Miles hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing as my words hit their mark. That micro-second of doubt was all I needed.
Instead of freezing, I grabbed the heavy glass carafe of ice water from the bedside table and hurled it with every ounce of my remaining strength straight at his face.
Crash!
The heavy glass shattered against his shoulder, sending ice cubes and water spraying across his suit. Reflexively, Miles flinched and ducked his head, his shot going wild, punching a smoking hole through the antique plaster ceiling.
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I didn't wait to see where he aimed next. I spun around, bolted past the foot of the king-sized bed, threw open the door to the adjoining walk-in dressing room, and slammed the heavy oak door shut behind me, locking the deadbolt with a frantic click.
Behind the wood, I heard Miles’s muffled roar of fury, followed immediately by a deafening thud as his shoulder slammed into the door panel, splintering the frame.
