Chapter 3 - The Fortress on Lakeshore DriveBy 11:30 PM, the armored Maybach glided through the iron security gates of the Kaine Estate perched on Lakeshore Drive overlooking Lake Michigan.
The estate was a stone fortress surrounded by high security walls, infrared cameras, and broad-shouldered men in dark suits carrying concealed weapons.
When the vehicle stopped outside the grand mahogany front doors, Dorian stepped out first, extending his hand to help Ren down.
Ren held his charcoal coat wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her worn shoes stepping onto the polished granite steps.
Inside, the grand foyer was warm, firelit, and filled with the scent of old leather, cedar, and fresh white lilies. A sweeping marble staircase rose to the upper suites, while a roaring stone fireplace warmed the central hall.
Dorian’s chief housekeeper, Mrs. Vance—a silver-haired woman with kind, sharp eyes—stepped forward with a silver tray holding hot tea and warm towels.
"Don Dorian," Mrs. Vance bowed respectfully, taking in the pale-blue dress and the charcoal coat draped over Ren's shoulders. "The master guest suite on the second floor is prepared."
"Thank you, Mrs. Vance," Dorian replied smoothly, untying his silk tie, setting his jacket over a leather chair. "Bring Dr. Aris to inspect Miss Ren's wrist. Her sister left a bruise."
Ren looked down at her right arm, where four dark red marks were already forming where Vivian’s nails had dug through her dress.
"I'm fine, Dorian," Ren spoke softly, her hazel eyes searching his face. "I've had worse bruises from shifting heavy ledger boxes in my father's warehouse."
Dorian stopped dead in his tracks.
He walked back across the Persian rug until he stood two inches from her. He reached out, his broad, warm hand gently lifting her chin, forcing her to look into his dark gray eyes.
"No one touches you again, Ren," Dorian swore into the quiet hall, his baritone thick with an absolute, unshakeable authority. "Not your father, not your sister, and not any man in this city. You are in my house now."
A quiet knock sounded at the front entrance.
Marco—Dorian’s chief intelligence officer—stepped inside holding an encrypted tablet.
"Boss," Marco reported cleanly. "Gerald Daly and Vivian Daly are currently sitting outside our security gate in a hired taxi. Gerald is demanding to speak with you regarding the twenty-two million dollar debt enforcement."
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Dorian didn't blink. He reached for his cup of tea, taking a slow sip.
"Tell them to wait in the rain, Marco," Dorian ordered flatly. "And tell my legal team to file the bankruptcy attachments for Daly Maritime at 8:00 AM tomorrow."
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