Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII: SHADOWS OF ST. JUDE’S
The heart monitor’s steady rhythm spiked into a frantic, high-pitched frenzy: beep-beep-beep-beep.
Emily’s chest heaved as cold sweat broke out across her forehead. Her vision swam in blurriness, the harsh fluorescent lights of the ICU burning her eyes. The anonymous message on the burner phone screen blinked once more before the display went pitch black, wiping itself clean.
He's taking you to hide what you really are.
The words echoed in her ears like a death sentence. She tried to sit up, but a sharp, excruciating pain shot through her abdomen, forcing a choked scream from her throat.
The heavy oak doors of the private ICU suite burst open. A nurse rushed in, followed closely by two towering security guards clad in tactical gear—Jonathan’s private forces.
“Mrs. Vance—no, Mrs. Mercer! Please, lie down!” the nurse urged, quickly adjusting the IV line. “You’ve suffered severe trauma. The baby… the baby is stable for now, but any stress could be fatal!”
Emily grabbed the nurse’s wrist with surprising strength, her knuckles turning chalk-white. “Where is he?” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Where is Jonathan?”
“Mr. Mercer is handling… matters,” the head guard replied coldly, his hand resting near his sidearm. “Our orders are absolute, ma’am. No one enters this floor. No one leaves. For your own safety.”
Emily looked into the guard's dead, unblinking eyes and felt a chill deeper than the storm raging outside. For your own safety. Or was it an imprisonment?
Meanwhile, forty floors above the heart of the financial district, the rain beat relentlessly against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Vance Tower penthouse.
An old man with silver hair and a face carved from granite stood staring down at the glowing grid of the city. Marcus Vance, patriarch of the Vance dynasty and Emily’s father, casually swirled a glass of fifty-year-old scotch.
The double doors to his office slammed open with enough force to shatter the lock.
Jonathan walked in. Rain dripped from his black trench coat, leaving a trail of dark water on the priceless Persian rug. His eyes were hollow, burning with an unholy fire. Behind him, three of Vance’s personal bodyguards lay groaning in the hallway.
Marcus didn't even turn around. He took a slow sip of his drink.
“You always did lack refinement, Jonathan,” Marcus said smoothly. “Breaking into my sanctuary like a common street thug.”
“Protocol Omega has been initiated,” Jonathan said, his voice flat, dangerously devoid of any emotion. “By 8:00 AM, every bank in Zurich will freeze your accounts. By 9:00 AM, the federal authorities will issue warrants for your entire board. The Vance dynasty ends today, Marcus.”
Marcus turned slowly, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across his weathered face. He set his glass down on the mahogany desk and leaned forward.
“You think this was about money? Or corporate dominance?” Marcus chuckled softly, a sound that made the hair on the back of Jonathan’s neck stand up. “You poor, blind fool. You spent five years believing you rescued my daughter from me. You really have no idea who Emily actually is, do you?”
Jonathan’s posture stiffened, his jaw clenching tightly. “Do not speak her name.”
May you like
Marcus pulled a faded, yellowed file from his desk drawer and tossed it across the polished wood. It slid to a stop right at Jonathan’s feet.
“Open it,” Marcus whispered. “And see the bloodline you brought into your home.”
