Chapter 1 - Protocol 7
The freezing, dirty water still dripped in a slow, rhythmic pattern from the tips of my hair onto the pristine Persian rug beneath my soaked shoes. The shock of the near-freezing temperature had sent a sudden, sharp chill through my body, causing my unborn daughter to kick hard and anxiously inside me, as if she could sense the malice radiating from the people surrounding the dining table.
Diane Morrison, my former mother-in-law, sat back in her upholstered chair with a self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She didn't bother to hide the cruel amusement shining in her eyes. To her, to Brendan, and to Jessica, I was nothing more than an inconvenient charity case—the penniless, pregnant burden they tolerated purely out of social obligation, someone they assumed they could humiliate without consequence.
“Oops,” Diane said, setting the empty galvanized bucket down on the marble floor with a sharp clatter, not pretending for a single second that she was sorry. “Look on the bright side… at least you finally took a bath.”
Brendan let out a loud, mocking burst of laughter, swirling the expensive vintage red wine in his crystal glass. He looked at me not with the lingering warmth of a man who had once whispered vows of marriage, but with the cold, callous detachment of a master inspecting a dirty stray dog that had wandered onto his porch.
Jessica, perched elegantly on the arm of Brendan’s chair in her designer silk dress, covered her mouth with manicured fingers while letting out a high-pitched, childish giggle.
“Someone bring her an old kitchen towel,” Jessica said in a light, mocking voice, glancing down at my soaked shoes. “We don't want that cheap smell ruining the expensive linen. Goodness, Brendan, how long are we expected to entertain your charity cases?”
The water dripped continuously onto the Persian rug.
It was an irony so bitter it tasted like ash in my mouth. That exact rug wasn't just any decor; I had personally approved its purchase three years ago during the master renovation budget meeting for the corporate headquarters of Apex Global—the multi-billion-dollar enterprise where Brendan and Diane held high-ranking executive positions, completely ignorant of the fact that every single stock certificate, patent, and board resolution ultimately answered to me.
I sat there, soaked, shivering, and dripping wet.
They expected me to cry. They expected me to apologize for existing, to cower in terror, or to run out of the dining room humiliated, clutching my swollen belly while tears streamed down my face.
Instead, inside my chest, something went completely, terrifyingly still.
The grief and shock melted away, replaced by an absolute, crystal-clear calm. A profound peace settled over my mind. For months, I had hidden my true identity as the founder and sole majority shareholder of Apex Global simply because I wanted to be loved for who I was, not what I owned. I had endured their insults, their condescension, and their daily degradation for the sake of a marriage that was already dead.
Now, looking at the smug, laughing faces of the Morrison family, I realized my mistake. Mercy was wasted on monsters.
“Who are you calling? A local charity?” Jessica laughed again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s Sunday night, honey. No one is coming to save you.”
“Brendan,” Diane sighed dramatically, pouring more wine into her glass without glancing my way. “Just give her twenty dollars for a cab and make her disappear. My guests will be arriving for dessert soon, and I refuse to have this depressing energy lingering in the foyer.”
I didn't answer her.
My fingers, though shaking slightly from the cold, slid smoothly across the screen of my phone. I ignored the missed notifications and tapped directly on the contact saved near the very top of my encrypted directory: “Arthur – EVP Legal.”
I pressed the call button and held the phone to my ear, waiting.
He answered on the very first ring, his professional voice sharp and alert.
“Cassidy?” Arthur said immediately, the tension unmistakable in his tone. “Are you alright? We’ve been monitoring the security feeds around your perimeter since your vehicle entered the estate.”
I looked Brendan straight in the eyes, holding his mocking gaze across the candlelight.
“No,” I replied clearly, my voice steady and cold. “Execute Protocol 7. Now.”
There was a sudden, heavy silence on the other end of the line.
Arthur knew exactly what that order meant. It was the nuclear option—a total corporate and financial lockdown designed to freeze all executive privileges, recall all corporate-backed assets, audit every familial subsidiary account, and immediately strip the Morrisons of every single share, title, and penny they derived from Apex Global.
“Cassidy… if I activate it,” Arthur said cautiously, hesitation bleeding into his words, “the Morrisons could lose everything overnight. Their entire portfolio, their homes, their accounts—everything is tied to the Apex credit lines.”
“They already lost everything,” I replied softly, my eyes never leaving Brendan’s sneering face. I placed the phone flat on the glass table, turning the speaker on so the digital hum filled the room. “Make it effective immediately.”
Brendan frowned, setting his wine glass down with a sharp clink.
“Protocol 7? What the hell is that?” Brendan mocked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Another one of your pathetic dramas? Who are you talking to, some low-rent divorce lawyer? You think a few empty threats are going to scare us?”
I held his gaze while the dirty water continued to drip from my hair onto the pristine floor.
Then, cutting through the silence of the grand dining room, we heard it from outside the heavy iron gates.
The screech of tires.
May you like
The sound of multiple heavy-duty car doors slamming shut in unison.
And the heavy, rhythmic sound of marching footsteps approaching the front entrance, because when the head of corporate security stepped through those doors and pronounced my real name, Brendan’s laughter died instantly on his lips…
