Chapter 5 - The Master’s StudyThe interior of the Morrow estate smelled faintly of aged leather, expensive bourbon, and burning sandalwood incense—a scent Adrian had always favored to mask his coldness.
We moved silently up the curving marble staircase, stepping onto the plush Persian runners that muffled our footsteps entirely. Every hallway, every towering oil painting of past Morrow patriarchs, and every bronze statue seemed to mock the years I had spent tiptoeing through these halls like a ghost in my own home.
We reached the heavy double mahogany doors of Adrian’s private study on the second floor.
A thin strip of warm yellow light gleamed from beneath the door frame. From inside, the low, muffled sound of a man’s voice speaking on a telephone drifted out into the hallway.
“...I don't care how you do it, just ensure the signature matches the probate filing,” Adrian’s voice rang out, cold and clipped. “Once the probate court approves the estate transfer tomorrow morning, the property reverts entirely to my name. By tomorrow night, she’ll be legally declared a missing person who abandoned her residency, and the authorities won't ask any inconvenient questions.”
My stomach tightened into a knot of pure ice, but my hands remained steady.
Marcus gave me a sharp, questioning look, tapping his watch. We had three minutes before the roving interior patrol guard finished his sweep of the west wing.
I nodded, stepping forward. I didn't wait for Marcus to pick the lock. Instead, I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the master brass skeleton key that my father-in-law had given me on my wedding day—a key Adrian thought he had confiscated months ago—and slipped it silently into the keyhole.
The heavy brass tumblers clicked into place with a satisfying, muffled thump.
I pushed the door open.
Adrian stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch in one hand and a secure satellite phone in the other. He wore a dark silk robe over his trousers, his dark hair slightly disheveled.
He turned around at the sound of the door opening, expecting his butler, or perhaps his terrified new mistress.
Instead, he saw me standing in the doorway, water dripping from the hem of my coat, illuminated by the cold dawn light breaking through the stormy clouds outside.
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And standing right behind me was Marcus Vance, holding a professional-grade federal data-extraction device wired directly to the encrypted wall safe behind the mahogany bookshelf.
Adrian’s face drained of every drop of color. The crystal glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the Persian rug, amber liquid splashing across the fabric like blood.
