Chapter 1 - The Trail of Crimson
The silver locket felt like a block of ice in my hand, the metal digging into my palm as Claire’s words hung in the air.
Blood on the lobby doors.
"Claire, close the door," I commanded, my voice dropping into that lethal, quiet frequency I used when a billion-dollar deal was about to turn into a corporate war. "Lock it from the inside. Do not let anyone—not security, not the board members, not the media—step into this executive suite."
Claire nodded frantically, her face pale as she snapped the heavy glass lock into place.
I looked back at the twins. Liam was holding a half-eaten pancake, his ice-blue eyes fixed on me with a maturity that made my chest ache. Lucas had stopped lining up his blueberries; his small hands were clutching the straps of his worn backpack so tightly his knuckles were white. They knew what blood meant. They had seen something before they arrived at Emerald Tower at dawn.
"Liam, Lucas," I said, dropping to my knees so I was at eye level with them, deliberately softening the harsh posture I had spent fifteen years perfecting. "I need you to listen to me very carefully. You are completely safe here. No one can get through that door. Claire is going to take you into my private lounge—there’s a big TV, soft couches, and all the sweets you want. Can you do that for me?"
Liam looked at his brother, then back at me. "Is Mommy coming?"
The question cut through my corporate armor like a serrated blade. Five years ago, I had broken Emma’s heart, telling her that an investment heir couldn't be weighed down by a girl from a working-class Brooklyn family. I had chosen the steel and glass of Emerald Tower, completely unaware that she was carrying the true wealth of my existence.
"I am going to go find her right now," I promised, looking directly into his eyes. "I give you my word."
Once Claire led the boys into the adjoining executive lounge, I pulled up the Emerald Tower master security interface on my tablet. As the CEO of Miller Meridian, I owned the building's infrastructure. I bypassed the standard security guards and pulled up the raw, unedited footage from the street-level entrance between 4:00 AM and 5:00 AM.
The screen flickered. Rain was pouring down on the Manhattan pavement. At exactly 4:42 AM, a battered gray sedan slammed to a halt against the curb. The driver's side door flung open, and a figure in a heavy, dark raincoat stumbled out. It was Emma. Even with the rain blurring the lens, I recognized the desperate grace of her movement.
She was lifting the twins out of the backseat, her body shielding them from the downpour. But as she hurried them toward the rotating glass doors of my lobby, I noticed the heavy, uneven hitch in her stride. She was holding her side. When she pushed the twins through the glass doors and handed the security guard the note, her hand left a sickening, dark smear of crimson against the pristine glass handle.
Suddenly, a pair of bright high-beams illuminated the security camera. A blacked-out SUV pulled up violently behind her sedan. Two men in dark tactical jackets stepped out.
Emma didn't run back to her car. She looked directly at the security guard inside, pointed at the twins, and then turned toward the SUV, deliberately drawing the men away from the building. The last frame showed her being forced into the back of the SUV before the vehicle tore away into the Manhattan traffic, disappearing toward the Lincoln Tunnel.
My phone buzzed violently in my hand. It was an unlisted, restricted number.
May you like
I swiped the screen, my grip tightening until the glass groaned. "Who is this?"
"Jason Miller," a smooth, chillingly familiar voice chuckled through the receiver. It was Victor Sterling—the ruthless hedge-fund billionaire and my primary rival for the upcoming acquisition of the Manhattan Transit Terminal. "I see you received the delivery my associates left on your doorstep. Beautiful boys, Jason. They have your eyes. It’s a shame their mother didn't know how to keep a secret."
