Chapter 6 - The Final ThreatTwo months later, Carter Press was thriving. With an injection of fresh capital, modernized equipment, and a multi-year exclusive manufacturing contract with Whitmore Development, the company was safer than it had ever been in its history. The sixty-three employees had received profit-sharing bonuses, and the print shop floors rang with laughter and steady work.
Emily and Grant had moved past the phantom boundaries of their contract, turning the Manhattan penthouse into a real home filled with warmth, shared dinners, and late-night conversations that stretched until dawn.
However, corporate warfare is a jealous beast, and enemies do not surrender easily.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday evening. Grant was delayed at a regional board meeting in Boston, leaving Emily alone in the penthouse while her security detail—two discreet operatives hired by Grant—monitored the lobby downstairs.
The private elevator chime pinged.
Emily looked up from her laptop at the kitchen island, expecting the delivery of organic groceries she had ordered.
Instead, the elevator doors slid open, and Julian Vance stepped out.
He looked disheveled. His tie was gone, his suit jacket was unbuttoned, and his eyes were wild, bloodshot, and gleaming with a desperate, manic rage. In his right hand, he clutched a heavy, silver-plated paperweight from the foyer table.
Emily’s heart seized. She backed away from the kitchen island, her hand instinctively searching for her phone.
“Julian? How did you get up here?” Emily demanded, her voice shaking but fiercely controlled. “Where is building security?”
“Your precious husband’s little security guards are currently unconscious in the basement service corridor,” Julian laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He advanced toward her, his face twisted with malice. “My father’s firm collapsed today. Whitmore’s federal audit wiped us out completely. My family is ruined, Emily. And it’s all because my idiot sister ran her mouth at a museum gala and gave your husband the excuse he needed to destroy us.”
Emily edged toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, her hand closing around her phone in her pocket. She dialed 911 blindly with her thumb, hoping the automated locator would reach the authorities.
“Julian, put the paperweight down,” Emily said, holding out a hand to keep him at a distance. “You’re talking about federal prison. Let’s talk about this—lawyers can help—!”
“Lawyers can’t fix this!” Julian roared, lunging forward with terrifying speed.
Emily screamed, dodging to the side, but Julian grabbed her wrist, slamming her against the glass window. The impact knocked the wind out of her lungs, and her phone clattered across the hardwood floor.
Julian raised the heavy silver paperweight high above his head, his face contorted into a mask of pure fury. “If I’m going down, I’m taking Grant’s most precious prize with me!”
Before the heavy metal could descend, the private elevator chime pinged a second time with deafening clarity.
The elevator doors flew open.
Grant stood in the doorway. He had flown back on an emergency private chopper the moment his security system alerted him to a perimeter breach.
His eyes locked onto Julian holding Emily against the glass.
In that fraction of a second, the cool, calculating billionaire vanished entirely, replaced by a primal, terrifying wrath that made Julian Vance freeze in his tracks.
“Julian,” Grant growled. The single word sounded like the snarl of a cornered wolf.
Before Julian could swing the paperweight, Grant crossed the expansive living room with blinding, explosive speed. He slammed into Julian like a freight train, tackling him away from Emily and sending both men crashing hard onto the hardwood floor.
Grant rained blow after furious blow down onto Julian’s face, his knuckles cracking against bone with a brutal, relentless efficiency born of pure protective fury.
“Don’t you ever,” Grant snarled, his voice vibrating with murder, “touch my wife!”
Julian didn't even have a chance to defend himself. Within seconds, federal security agents—having revived from the gas attack in the basement—burst into the penthouse, pulling Grant off the unconscious, bloodied corporate heir and pinning Julian to the floor in heavy zip-ties.
Grant stood up, breathing heavily, his tie ripped off, his knuckles bleeding. He didn't look at Julian. His eyes snapped instantly to Emily.
“Emily!” he shouted, rushing across the room.
He swept her into his arms, pulling her against his chest so hard it felt as though he wanted to fuse their bodies together to protect her from the rest of the world.
“Are you hurt? Did he touch you? Tell me,” Grant demanded frantically, his hands trembling as he checked her face, her arms, her wrists.
Emily buried her face in his shoulder, tears of relief spilling over her lashes. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.
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“I’m okay,” she choked out, smiling through her tears. “I’m completely okay. You got here.”
Grant held her tighter, burying his face in her dark hair, whispering fervent, broken prayers of thanks against her skin while the police sirens began to wail far below on the rainy Manhattan streets.
