Chapter 2 - The Iron Gate of Carter Towers
The black sedan swept through a pair of towering wrought-iron gates that parted automatically as they approached, sliding silently into a subterranean parking garage beneath a monolithic glass-and-steel skyscraper in downtown Seattle. Carter Towers pierced the stormy night sky like an obsidian monolith, its upper floors lost in the swirling gray clouds.
When the car came to a smooth halt, Ethan stepped out immediately and opened the rear door.
Emily hesitated, looking down at her torn silver dress, which was stained with mud and grass, and her bare, bruised feet. “I... I can’t go in looking like this. I’ll ruin your car, I’ll ruin your floors—”
“Stop worrying about the floor,” Matthew interrupted, cutting across her anxious protests.
Before Emily could process what was happening, Matthew unbuckled his seatbelt, leaned over, and scooped her up into his arms with effortless strength. Emily gasped, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck to keep from falling. Up close, he smelled of cedarwood, expensive rain, and a faint hint of dark espresso.
“Matthew, put me down! I can walk—”
“Your feet are bleeding, Emily,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate as he carried her out of the garage and into a private, high-speed elevator accessed only by a retinal scanner. “And in my building, guests do not walk on concrete with bare feet.”
The private elevator rocketed upward with a smooth, silent hum, the digital floor numbers climbing past forty, fifty, and sixty in mere seconds. Emily pressed her face slightly against his shoulder, her heart hammering against her ribs—not from fear of him, but from the dizzying vertigo of her new reality. Just two hours ago, she was locked in an upstairs bedroom, terrified of an old man with predatory eyes. Now, she was being carried into the penthouse of a man who owned half the skyline.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a sprawling, minimalist penthouse loft flooded with the cool blue light of city monitors and floor-to-ceiling glass walls that offered a panoramic view of the storm-swept Seattle harbor.
Matthew carried her across the polished concrete and hardwood floors directly toward a massive master suite, gently setting her down on the edge of a king-sized bed draped in crisp charcoal linens.
“Wait here,” Matthew instructed, turning toward a sleek glass-walled bathroom. “There’s a deep soaking tub inside. Draw a hot bath, wash off the mud, and use the plush robe hanging on the back of the door. I’ll have my housekeeper bring up a medical kit and a change of clothes.”
Before Emily could reply, he turned and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.
Trembling slightly, Emily stood up on her tender feet and limped into the bathroom. The room was larger than her entire bedroom back at the Vance estate, outfitted with Italian marble and gold fixtures. She turned on the oversized brass faucets, watching steam billow up into the cool air as the tub filled with steaming water.
She stripped off the ruined silver dress—the dress Diane had forced her to wear for the engagement trap—and stepped into the hot water. The heat stung the raw scrapes on her legs and the angry red bruise on her cheek, but as the warmth seeped into her aching muscles, she felt the icy knot of terror in her chest begin to loosen.
Twenty minutes later, wrapped in a heavy white cashmere robe that swallowed her frame, she stepped back out into the bedroom.
A knock sounded at the heavy double doors, and a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and silver hair entered, carrying a tray with a medical kit, a steaming bowl of chicken soup, and a pair of soft wool slippers.
“Good evening, Miss Vance,” the woman said with a warm, reassuring smile. “My name is Mrs. Gable. Mr. Carter asked me to tend to your cuts and see that you ate something warm.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gable,” Emily whispered, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed.
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As Mrs. Gable gently cleaned the cuts on Emily’s feet with antiseptic and applied sterile bandages, Emily couldn't help but ask, “Where is Matthew?”
“In his private study down the hall,” Mrs. Gable replied, her hands steady and gentle. “He’s holding a conference call with his corporate legal team. From what I overheard through the intercom... your stepmother’s company is currently experiencing a very hostile morning.”
