Chapter 8 - The Man Who Chose Me Over His Empire
Marcus fired first.
Not at Richard.
At the man behind him.
The bullet struck the intruder’s shoulder.
Chaos exploded.
I dropped behind the sofa.
Two men entered.
Marcus tackled one.
Richard backed into the hallway.
I grabbed the nearest object.
A lamp.
Apparently, I had learned nothing from the porcelain incident.
A man came around the sofa.
I swung.
The lamp shattered against his face.
He staggered.
I ran.
Barefoot this time.
No porcelain.
Progress.
The hallway was dark.
Emergency lights flickered at the far end.
Richard grabbed my arm.
“Stop.”
I drove my knee into him.
He swore.
His grip loosened.
I ran toward the stairwell.
A gunshot cracked behind me.
Then another.
I pushed through the fire door.
Forty-two floors above the street.
Wonderful.
I started down.
Three flights later, footsteps followed.
“Olivia!”
Richard.
I ran faster.
My injured heel screamed.
The stairwell door below suddenly opened.
I stopped.
A man came through.
Tall.
Dark hair.
No coat.
Ethan.
For one second, my brain refused to understand.
Then he saw me.
“Liv.”
It was the first time he had ever called me that.
He ran upward.
Richard appeared behind me.
Ethan moved past me like violence given human shape.
He hit Richard once.
Hard.
Richard fell against the railing.
Ethan grabbed his jacket.
“You went near her.”
Richard laughed through blood.
“You always were sentimental.”
Ethan hit him again.
“Ethan!”
He stopped.
Barely.
Police flooded the stairwell from below.
Marcus had triggered a silent alarm before the hotel system went down.
Richard was arrested.
So were three men working for him.
In the lobby, paramedics examined me.
Ethan stood ten feet away.
Not touching.
Waiting.
I looked at him.
“How did you know?”
“Marcus’s emergency beacon.”
“You came yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His expression almost made the question ridiculous.
“Right.”
I looked down.
He approached slowly.
“Can I?”
I nodded.
He touched my face.
His hand shook.
Again.
Always when I was hurt.
“I thought—”
“I know.”
His forehead touched mine.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I whispered, “You gave me your voting proxy.”
“Yes.”
“That was stupid.”
“Probably.”
“I could destroy you.”
“Yes.”
“I could vote you out permanently.”
“Yes.”
“You trust me that much?”
“Yes.”
I pulled back.
“Why?”
His answer was immediate.
“Because your mother was right.”
“About what?”
“That truth matters more than control.”
His eyes held mine.
“And I learned that too late.”
Richard’s arrest did not end the war.
It started it.
His lawyers claimed the hotel incident had been a misunderstanding.
The men were private security.
Richard said he had come to discuss a settlement.
No one believed him.
But belief and prosecution were different things.
We needed evidence connecting him to my mother’s death.
The flash drive proved fraud.
It did not prove murder.
Then Daniel Brooks disappeared.
Federal agents went to his apartment.
Empty.
Airport records showed nothing.
Marcus believed he had help.
I believed Richard was terrified Daniel would talk.
For the next week, I worked from Carter Technologies headquarters.
Employees treated me differently.
Some respectfully.
Some nervously.
Some resentfully.
No one asked me for coffee.
Ethan stayed away.
His lawyers recommended it.
The board investigation continued.
Every night, we spoke by phone.
We did not discuss us.
We discussed evidence.
Board votes.
Investigators.
My father’s recovery.
Safe topics.
Then one night, I asked:
“Do you still love me?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
“You answered quickly.”
“I’ve had three years to practice.”
My heart hurt.
“Why didn’t you say it?”
“Because love doesn’t repair what I did.”
“No.”
“It doesn’t make secrecy acceptable.”
“No.”
“It doesn’t mean you owe me another chance.”
“No.”
He paused.
“But yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“I love you too.”
The silence became enormous.
Then Ethan exhaled shakily.
“Olivia.”
“That doesn’t mean I forgive everything.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t mean I’m coming back tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“It means I’m tired of pretending the truth is less complicated than it is.”
His voice became rough.
“I can live with complicated.”
“Good.”
The next morning, Daniel Brooks called me.
Directly.
“Mrs. Carter.”
I sat upright.
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere Richard can’t reach me.”
“Why call me?”
“Because he’s going to kill me.”
“That sounds like motivation to call federal agents.”
“I don’t trust them.”
“You expect me to?”
“I trust Ethan.”
That surprised me.
“You helped destroy him.”
“I was trying to survive Richard.”
“You owned my father’s debt.”
“I managed it.”
“Difference without distinction.”
“Maybe.”
He sounded exhausted.
“I have the evidence you want.”
My pulse changed.
“What evidence?”
“Your mother’s crash.”
I stood.
“What about it?”
“It wasn’t a crash.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who?”
“Richard.”
My knees weakened.
“Can you prove it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I paid the mechanic.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
Daniel continued.
“I was twenty-six. Richard told me Claire was trying to destroy the company. I believed him.”
“You cut her brakes?”
“No.”
“I transferred money to the man who did.”
My hands began shaking.
“You killed my mother.”
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
Rage erased everything.
“You don’t get forgiveness.”
“I’m not asking.”
“What do you want?”
“Protection.”
“From Richard?”
“Yes.”
“Give me the evidence.”
“Meet me.”
“No.”
“Then I disappear again.”
I looked at Marcus.
He was already shaking his head.
I mouthed: Ethan.
Marcus called him.
Forty minutes later, Ethan arrived.
We met Daniel at an abandoned church in Queens.
Very dramatic.
Very Daniel.
Federal agents waited nearby.
Daniel did not know that.
He sat in the second pew.
He looked ten years older than the last time I saw him.
He handed me an envelope.
Bank transfers.
Names.
Photographs.
A mechanic named Harold Vance.
Payment from a Richard-controlled company three days before my mother died.
Then Daniel gave me a recording.
Richard’s voice.
“Claire cannot reach Albany.”
My stomach turned.
Ethan went pale.
Daniel looked at him.
“I’m sorry.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“For which decade?”
Daniel almost laughed.
Then the church doors opened.
Gunfire erupted.
Ethan shoved me down.
A bullet struck the pew.
Agents shouted.
Marcus returned fire.
Daniel screamed.
I looked up.
Blood spread across his shirt.
Ethan dragged me behind stone columns.
“Stay down.”
Men entered through a side door.
Richard had found us.
Of course he had.
The next thirty seconds were noise.
Gunshots.
Shouting.
Glass breaking.
Then silence.
Federal agents arrested two shooters.
A third died.
Daniel survived.
Barely.
In the ambulance, he whispered something to me.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“Penthouse.”
I leaned closer.
“Your mother hid a server key.”
“Where?”
He struggled to breathe.
“Behind the portrait.”
“What portrait?”
“Jonathan.”
The ambulance doors closed.
I turned toward Ethan.
He had heard.
The portrait of Jonathan Carter hung in Ethan’s penthouse study.
For three years, I had dusted it every Wednesday.
A key had been hidden inches from my hands.
We returned that night.
Ethan removed the painting.
Behind it was a narrow cavity.
Inside sat a metal key and a handwritten note.
Jonathan’s handwriting.
ETHAN—IF RICHARD EVER MOVES AGAINST OLIVIA, OPEN SERVER 7.
Ethan stared.
“I never knew.”
“Where is Server 7?”
His face changed.
“Under the penthouse.”
“What?”
“This building used to house Carter’s first Manhattan data center.”
“Of course your apartment has a secret server room.”
“I didn’t know it was secret.”
I looked at him.
“You are ridiculous.”
His mouth moved.
Then the fire alarm began.
Marcus shouted from the hallway.
“Smoke!”
Ethan opened the study door.
Black smoke rolled across the ceiling.
My heart stopped.
Richard was in custody.
Daniel was hospitalized.
Yet someone had set the penthouse on fire.
Ethan looked toward the floor.
Toward the hidden server.
“They’re trying to destroy the evidence.”
Then an explosion shook the building.
May you like
The lights went out.
And somewhere below us, the floor collapsed.
