Chapter 3 - The Gathering in the Security SuiteBy 3:30 A.M., the rain lashing against the eastern wing of the estate had turned into a freezing, howling gale.
Inside the glass-walled Estate Security Control Center on the ground floor of the East Wing, forty high-definition surveillance monitors illuminated the dark room with an eerie blue glare.
Ryan Miller sat behind the master console desk, wearing his black security uniform jacket, his boots propped up on the console. He was sipping bourbon from a silver flask, laughing loudly with two of his night-shift guards, completely oblivious to the shadow approaching down the hallway.
"I'm telling you, man," Ryan smirked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, "these new housekeepers think they're special. Little Ivy Carter thought she could walk past the compactors without giving me a smile. I gave her something to remember me by."
"Is her neck really marked up, Ryan?" one of the guards asked nervously, glancing at the door. "What if she goes to old man Thomas or tells Mr. Caldwell?"
Ryan let out a loud, scoffing laugh, waving his hand dismissively. "Tell Caldwell?! Are you out of your mind?! Ivy Carter is a penniless nobody whose mother is dying of cancer in a charity ward. She owes fifty grand to the hospital. She's terrified of losing her minimum-wage job. My uncle Arthur owns ten percent of the corporate shares in Caldwell Logistics! If that little bitch opens her mouth, my uncle will have her fired and blacklisted before sunrise!"
BOOM!
The heavy steel-reinforced double doors of the Security Control Center didn't just open—they were thrown wide with a thunderous, violent force that made the glass monitors rattle in their metal frames.
Ryan’s boots slammed flat onto the floorboards as he jumped out of his leather chair, dropping his silver flask onto the carpet.
"WHAT THE HELL—?!" Ryan barked, his face flushed with arrogant rage as he reached for his sidearm holster.
The words froze in his throat. The color drained from his ears so fast he looked like a corpse standing under the blue lights.
Walking through the doorway, flanked by his chief estate manager, Thomas, and four broad-shouldered corporate security directors in dark suits, was Ethan Caldwell.
Ethan didn't wear a coat. He wore his dark trousers and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing broad, powerful arms lined with veins. His posture was tall, sovereign, and terrifying, his storm-gray eyes locked onto Ryan's face with an absolute, lethal stone.
"Mr... Mr. Caldwell?!" Ryan stammered, his voice cracking into raspy, pathetic squeaks as he backed against the control console. "Sir! What... what are you doing awake at three in the morning?!"
Ethan didn't answer him.
He walked slowly across the room. He didn't rush. Every step was deliberate, heavy, and unhurried—the stride of an executioner arriving at the scaffold.
He stopped two feet from Ryan.
"Thomas," Ethan commanded flatly, his deep baritone dropping the temperature in the room below zero.
"Yes, Mr. Caldwell?" Thomas replied cleanly from the doorway.
"Is the internal camera feed for the rear waste compactor area connected to this console?"
Ryan's eyes bulged out of his head. A cold, sweat-slicked terror erupted across his forehead. "Mr. Caldwell! Listen to me! Whatever that lying little maid told you—!"
May you like
THWACK!
Ethan’s broad right hand shot forward with blinding speed, clamping around Ryan Miller’s throat with an iron, crushing grip that lifted the six-foot security guard two inches off the floorboards.
Related Stories
