Chapter 3 - The Confrontation in the Study
The door clicked open, and Greg, the head of security who walked like a bouncer and smiled like a shark, stepped into the room. His eyes narrowed instantly when he saw me standing by the open safe.
"Mrs. Dre," Greg said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register as he blocked the exit. "What are you doing in here? Mr. Dre gave strict instructions that this wing is off-limits tonight."
I didn't flinch. Years of handling volatile, combative patients in the emergency room had taught me how to stare down threats twice my size. I simply smoothed down the front of my emerald-green dress and looked him dead in the eye.
"I think you mean Mr. Dre gave strict instructions to hide his financial crimes, Greg," I shot back, my voice cutting through the silence of the room like a scalpel. "Or did you honestly think I wouldn't notice your name listed as the primary beneficiary on the shell company receiving the illegal kickbacks from the municipal redevelopment contract?"
Greg’s face drained of color, his professional composure cracking instantly. He took a menacing step forward, his hand drifting instinctively toward his jacket pocket where a security radio—or worse—was holstered.
"You shouldn't have been snooping around, Serena," Greg sneered, closing the distance between us. "Matthias warned me that you were becoming a liability. Step away from the safe, hand over whatever you took, and maybe—just maybe—we can work out a quiet little arrangement where you quietly disappear to a clinic upstate."
A clinic upstate. He was threatening me. Threatening my unborn child.
The maternal fury that ignited in my chest was blinding. Before Greg could lunge forward to grab my arms, the heavy mahogany double doors of the office flew open with a deafening crash.
A dozen federal agents in tactical gear, led by Julian Vance himself, flooded the room. Red and blue emergency lights from unmarked SUVs flickered wildly through the tall Victorian windows, casting chaotic shadows across the antique bookshelves.
"Federal agents! Nobody move!" Julian’s commanding voice echoed off the high ceilings.
Greg froze, his hands hovering awkwardly in mid-air as two agents tackled him to the floor, slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists with practiced efficiency.
Julian walked straight past the commotion, his eyes locking onto mine with a mixture of intense relief and lingering adrenaline. He stopped two feet away, noting the cold determination on my face and the heavy outline of the hard drives in my coat pocket.
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"Are you alright, Serena?" Julian asked softly, his usual prosecutor veneer melting into genuine concern.
"Never better, Julian," I replied, pulling the black encrypted hard drives from my pocket and placing them calmly into his outstretched hand. "The patient's vital signs are crashing. I think it's time to pull the plug."
